Page 78 of The Iron Earl

Evalyn searched her face. The woman obviously didn’t like her, but she also didn’t seem overly distraught at the thought of losing Lachlan. “Forgive me, Lady Inverton, but you do not seem overly distressed that Lachlan has broken the engagement.”

“No?”

Evalyn shook her head.

“I suppose I’m not.” Karta sighed. “I have been shuffled from one betrothal to another, and now I get the slightest hope that maybe—for once—I can have some say as to who I marry, and you, an uppity Englishwoman of all things, steal it from me, just as you stole Lachlan.”

“Wait.” Evalyn’s hand lifted, palm to her. “You didn’t want to marry Lachlan?”

“No.” Her eyes lifted upward. “Nor his brother. That was my first betrothal that I was duty bound to. Something you would not understand.” Her gaze dropped to Evalyn, the side of her mouth pulling back. “What I am distressed at is the fact that you seem to think you can lay claim on all the finest men here at Vinehill. It is poor form.”

“I—what?”

Karta’s arms crossed over the line of gold buttons lining her crisp garnet-hued jacket. “Domnall.”

“Domnall? What about Domnall?”

“You can’t take all the men—and having Domnall swear to marry you should anything befall Lachlan goes too far.”

Picking up her skirts, Karta tried to step around her, but Evalyn threw out her arm, stopping Karta before she could pass. “Wait, please. What do you mean, Domnall is to marry me?”

She shrugged. “Lachlan asked him for the oath on it and now Domnall is duty-bound to it.”

“But—but I have no intention of marrying Domnall.”

Karta’s left eyebrow lifted. “Yes, and you had no intention of marrying Lachlan, either. I understand exactly how you work, Lady Dunhaven.” Her hand forceful, she pushed down on Evalyn’s outstretched arm, then passed, moving quickly along the corridor and disappearing at the split at the end of the hallway.

Her footsteps drifted to silence as Evalyn stayed rooted to the spot, working through what Karta had just told her.

Lachlan. The bloody fool.

How dare he?

She spun, retracing her steps down to the conservatory, then veered to the left, searching for the study that she knew was on the main level of the castle, but couldn’t quite remember the exact location of.

She flung open the doors of four rooms before the fifth door revealed the study.

Lachlan was sitting behind a wide walnut desk, papers and ledgers strewn across it. Mr. Simmons, the solicitor of the estate she’d been introduced to two days ago, sat perched opposite him. The man had oddly white hair, for how young his face looked, and she hadn’t been able to decide if the man was older with a young face or younger with old hair.

Both looked up as the door she flung open slammed into the wall.

“Evalyn?”

She stepped into the room, stomped halfway to the desk and then stopped, her feet rooted in place, her arms lifting to clasp just below her breasts. “Lachlan.”

His name seethed from her chest—from the pit of indignation that simmered into a boil the moment she stepped into the room.

His brow crinkled, his bottom lip jutting up for a moment before his look shifted to Mr. Simmons. “Would you excuse us?”

“Of course, my lord.” Mr. Simmons quickly gathered up the three ledgers in front of him, stacking them on top of one another, and he stood, turning to the door.

With a kind smile that held not a hint of judgement, Mr. Simmons made his way past Evalyn.

“Close the door on your way.” Lachlan’s gruff voice instantly spiked her ire and drew her attention back to him.

The door gently clicked closed.

“How could you?” Before he could utter a sound, she pounced, stalking over to the desk, slamming her hands on the edge of the smooth walnut.

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