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Chapter One
Ofalltheearlsto hold the Weston title, Ezra was certain he was the most imbecilic of them all.
He’d called one of the women he danced with at the ball last night “pretty enough,” and to her mother, he’d said, “I’d as soon dance with you as your daughter.” In the moment, he’d of course meant it as a compliment. But as soon as the words left his mouth, he’d been instantly, painfully aware of how awkward and...easy to misunderstand they had been.
Ezra took another sip of port and leaned back in the comfortable wingback, the one that was worn in all the right places and held him just so. At least here, in his own house, sitting behind his own desk, he rarely caused insult or offense. It was rather a pity he couldn’t attend balls from this position. Here, he was himself. Here, the words that left his mouth made sense and pieced themselves together without much fuss. But one step beyond these walls, it was a whole different matter.
“Hiding again?” Frances swept into the room without a knock or greeting.
Ezra eyed his sister, eight years younger than he. Her hair was perfectly set in curls and tied with ribbons, her dress had cost him heaven knew how much, and still, she didn’t smile.
“Don’t tell me you intend to confine me to the house all day again,” she demanded more than asked.
“If you have some place else to go, I will not stop you.” Though Ezra loved Frances dearly, when he’d agreed to take her and Mother to London for the Season, he hadn’t realized that meant he’d actually agreed to host party after party and accept every invitation to a ball or musicale or dinner party that came their way.
Frances pursed her lips, folded her arms, and scowled at him. “You’re just upset because Lady Martha preferred dancing with Lord Beckstead.”
Ezra didn’t dignify her comment with a response.
“It’s your own fault,” she continued, taking the seat across from his desk. “You just have to relax a bit while among society.”
Ezra let out a snort. She had no idea how impossible that was.
Frances cast him an exasperated glare. “If you’re going to give up on society, at least have the decency to do soafterI’ve caught a husband.”
Ezra leaned forward, placing his forearms against the desk. “I’m not giving up. I just...I don’t find it easy to converse with strangers.”
She blinked at him, no compassion in her eyes. “So improve.”
He intertwined his fingers atop the desk. He hadn’t truly expected her to understand.
Frances smoothed her skirt. “I believe this is the part where Father would have said, ‘Of course, dearest; anything you want.’”
“Is that so?” This was how it always went. If Ezra showed any inkling of not giving Frances everything she wanted, his sister always insisted Father would have had he not passed so many years ago. As such, Ezra was bound by duty to give in—or so Frances believed.
“Yes,” she continued, her pout only growing. “I’m sure he would have allowed—”
The door opened, and Frances whirled around in her seat, no doubt hoping one of the many friends she’d made in London this past year had come to visit.
Instead, it was only Adam, one of the footmen. “This morning’s post just arrived, my lord.”
“Very good.” Ezra motioned the man forward.
Adam deposited the letters—and there were many of them—in Ezra’s hand and left the room.
“How many are for me?” Frances asked eagerly.
Ezra set the letters down, ready to sort through them. But Frances’s hands were faster. She reached out, spreading the thick stack across the desk, and flipped over several at once.
“Mine,” she said after reading the neat script across the front. She then placed the letter directly in front of her and without caring to open it, continued to grab at another letter. “Mine.” She placed it with the first. “Mine. Mine.”
Ezra leaned back. “Let me know when you’re finished.”
She didn’t bother responding but continued to gather more and more of the letters. Not that Ezra was surprised—it seemed nearly every woman in all of London believed she must write his sister at least once a fortnight or risk being cast from all good society forever.
Finally, Frances unceremoniously shoved the remaining three letters in Ezra’s direction, scooped up the many others, and hurried over toward the window seat. Sitting before the warm July sunlight, she hurriedly flipped through her stack and found one to tear open and read.
Ezra shook his head. At least he’d have peace and quiet for the next few minutes while Frances devoured the letters—read in order of the sender’s place among society, naturally. Frances treated her letters rather like people lining up to go into dinner at an elegant gathering. Those with the highest titles got to go first, and those with lesser connections waited until last.
