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“What do you think you’re doing?”

Elinor gasped, jumping nearly an inch off the sofa, her embroidery hoop falling into her lap as she whirled around to find her unrepentant cousin, Alexander Weston, silhouetted in the narrow drawing-room door, grinning like a loon. Elinor’s right hand clenched on her wool skirt, lest she raise it to shake a finger at him. “Stop sneaking up on me like that.”

She retrieved the fallen sampler upon which she’d stitched a Bible verse surrounded by yellow and red flowers in Henry’s favorite shades. Upon examination, half a verse, and three flowers was a more apt description. At this rate, it would never be finished before Henry returned. She’d so hoped to give it to him at the moment of his securing a living, when he would see her clever handiwork and know at once she was the perfect partner for his future life…

Alexander crossed the room’s gleaming oak floor and came up behind the sofa, his long arms spanning the length of it as he peered over Elinor’s golden head, no doubt noting the crookedness of the last few stitches. Blast, Elinor thought emphatically. She’d just have to unpick it in the carriage. It could never grace Henry’s chamber in such a state! She cast a reproachful look at her looming cousin as if it were Alexander’s fault for intruding.

She’d hoped to spend a little more time alone before herself and half the family—her aunt and uncle along with their son Alexander and daughter Arabella— were to be packed tightly into the hired coach. But it felt impossible to be entirely resentful as Alex’s cedar and clove-scented cologne hit her nostrils. It had been so very long since he’d been home for any length of time, she’d almost forgotten what it was like not to miss his vexatious presence.

From her awkward angle below him, she could see a small patch of yellow hair on his chin, easy to miss unless the light hit it just right. The idea of Alex needing to shave felt almost as ridiculous as the stray hair itself. Even though he was but a month younger than her, at the mature age of almost-twenty, something in his air was still as boyish as ever. With a smile, she pointed and said, “You missed a spot.”

“Did I?” He lifted a large hand to his face and rubbed his chin. “Damn.” But instead of fleeing to his shaving kit, he rounded the sofa and sprawled next to her. This close, it was hard to ignore the family resemblance—golden curls, porcelain skin, a certain slenderness of build. Though Alexander’s striking features looked as if they’d been carved out of stone by Renaissance masters, Elinor felt keenly the softness of her own which more resembled a poorly made doll. And their eyes set them apart, of course. Alex’s were the gentle color of a summer sky just after a storm, and Elinor’s a bright, rather vulgar blue inherited from her equally vulgar father, which she firmly despised. Yet most people—at least initially—mistook her for another Weston child. She liked to think they were all seeing her future.

Which she would soon secure by wedding Henry. The moment he bothered to come home and notice her flawless suitability. That could be any day now, truly. With that thought, she picked up the snips from her basket to free her needle and begin unpicking her last unsightly stitches.

“I’d wondered where you’d gone off to,” Alex said, stretching his long legs out in front of him and crossing his ankles. “Father says it won’t be much longer. As soon as mother sorts Arabella, we will be off.”

“I certainly hope that scolding at breakfast was enough to assure an uneventful journey.” She risked a rueful, sidelong glance before confiding further, “I admit I have been dreading the idea of being trapped in a carriage with her. At least here, there are means of escape.”

“Do not despair, fair cousin. There is enough room in my trunk should you require a respite. Perhaps father will let you trade places with the groom? Assuming I’ve not beaten you to that retreat.” He grinned, sinking down further onto the sofa, and pushed up the cuffs of his white linen shirt to his forearms, ignoring propriety for his own comfort. As usual.

“I know you are only teasing, but the offer is a tempting one.” Laying the sampler into her basket and seeing the needle safely stowed in its case, Elinor turned back to the fireplace and its merry, dancing flames. Alex toyed with the buttons on his waistcoat. She didn’t dare voice how relieved she was that her aunt and uncle decided on going to Merfield House instead of London.

When the invitation from Lady Summersby arrived the previous week, she’d all but wept for joy, but Elinor’s audible relief had proved the starting pistol for Arabella’s choleric temper. As if Elinor’s comfort had been the sole reason for her aunt’s acceptance! Beyond the true honor of such aristocratic friendship, Aunt Charlotte—herself the granddaughter of a ruinously spendthrift baronet—was genuinely fond of the viscountess and would leap to her side without a moment’s hesitation.

Alex patted her hand, seeming to sense where her thoughts had gone. “Don’t fret about Arabella. She will come to understand the value of things beyond her own amusement. Eventually.” Elinor nodded, guilt pinching at her conscience. She’d forgotten how perceptive Alex could be when he wanted. “Besides, you are not the only one glad for the change of plans.”

Elinor’s eyes narrowed. “Truly? I would think you’d rather go to London. Do you not wish to see your sister or brother?” Mary, the eldest daughter of Edward Weston, resided in Grosvenor Square having married Viscount Benjamin Dalton three years prior. Henry had been their guest for the past four months. Only his presence made the possibility of staying in Town bearable.

“Oh, I do miss Mary,” Alex said, arching his back in a lazy stretch. “But she’s busy enough with the new Dalton heir. Besides, father hopes…” He trailed off, adjusting his pale blue cravat. “Hm. It doesn’t matter.”

Elinor straightened up, even as Alex slouched more. “What? Uncle hopes what?”

“Never you mind, cousin. We both have our secrets.” His smirk made her regret setting aside her hoop and depriving herself of the opportunity to prick him with the needle. “But in my case, I’m not sure there’s anything to tell yet. As soon as I am certain, you’ll be one of the first to know.”

She slumped back. “I have not kept secrets from you.”

“You are a terrible liar.”

“No secrets that matter.” Her sulk drew a chuckle.

“If you wish to prove me wrong, tell me what you were really doing in here.”

Elinor let out an exasperated breath and picked up the embroidery hoop. She waved it before him like a matador. “I should think it’s obvious. Honestly. What has become of all the money your father wasted on your education? Did you spend it on books or drink?”

Quick as a cat, Alexander sat up and snatched the linen out of her hand. Eyes wide, brows furrowing, Elinor grabbed at the frame. Alex held it out of reach, using his right arm to fend her off with disgusting ease. Whatever happened to the days when he was a foot shorter? Blasted boys and their blasted growth! “You’ve done about four stitches since this morning, dear cousin. Not even a full letter is added,” he pointed out.

“Eight stitches at least.”

“Hm. So either you are terrible with a needle, or you’re not being honest with me.” He handed the frame back, and she gave him a disgruntled glower.

“Is it so wrong to daydream?” Elinor smoothed her dress. “Having endured a morning of being screamed at by your sister, am I not allowed to escape into my mind?”

“You have been escaping rather frequently. Are you pining?”

She sat up straighter, her jaw clenching. “And what would you rather I be doing, Alexander? Mending your socks? Tending your laundry?”

Alexander groaned. “After seeing your work, I wouldn’t trust you to mend anything, let alone handle my laundry.” His patently skeptical expression said Elinor was being ridiculous. But was she? It wouldn’t be the first time a Weston reminded her that childish behaviors were certain to get her sent home.