Chapter 5
He had been staring at her mouth.
She’d noticed, mortified, sure she had somehow wound up with a morsel of food on her chin.
But then he’d noticed her noticing, and the subsequent ruddy flush that splashed over his face, coupled with his near-panicky expression, told her he’d eyed her for another reason entirely.
He did think her pretty. Or at the very least, he enjoyed the sight of her mouth. The knowledge made her almost giddy.
The maid, Nell, he’d called her, accompanied not by the odd Babette, but a man dressed in butler's attire, chose that inopportune moment to enter the dining room, cutting her triumph short.
The two set about clearing dishes, then offered after-dinner drinks and dessert.
Milk chocolate pudding. She loved chocolate, though she knew better than to express such a gauche sentiment.
Not to mention Mother always warned her of the dangers of eating excessive sweets.
Bad for the waistline, she always said. And the teeth. A pretty smile could accomplish much.
On the other hand, she also held that most men preferred a woman with some substance. Not all bone and no flesh, she’d murmured with a sniff when Annabelle lost too much weight for her liking.
Surely a small pot of chocolate couldn’t hurt?
Her host started to decline on both their behalves, the ungracious cur. At the last minute, however, he recanted.
“You know, scratch that. I rather fancy a sweet tonight. Please bring it in and then take yourselves off to bed. I can deliver the dirties to the kitchen.”
He’d served them dinner and now meant to clear the plates himself? Just so long as he did not expect her to wait on him.
The dessert arrived, filling the air with the rich scent of cocoa.
Sighing with pleasure, she picked up her spoon and dipped it into the thick, still-steaming chocolate.
She slipped a dollop into her mouth and nearly moaned.
Dinner had been acceptable. Nothing to rave over. But this? She spooned up another bite.
She probably ought to ask about their departure tomorrow. She set her spoon aside and then contemplated the bowl. It was actually a tiny portion. She might as well finish it off.
Moments later, scraping the spoon along the dish’s edge, she chanced to glance his way—and found his amused, dark gaze fixed on her.
She set the cutlery aside with as much dignity as she could muster. “Lord Randall, as to our travel plans on the ‘morrow—”
“Your travel plans,” he corrected.
She considered the merits of challenging him, and decided against it—for now. He had just furnished her with chocolate, after all.
“What I wish to know is, at what time will the tide recede enough for us to cross back to the mainland tomorrow?” She picked up the spoon and slid it into her mouth, licking off the final remnant. Heavenly.
He leaned back in his chair, openly contemplating her. “The tides follow the usual semidiurnal pattern.” He paused as if he expected her not to understand.
Of course, she understood.
“Thus,” he went on, “high tide will arrive at roughly eleven o’clock this evening, after which the ocean will recede again, starting in the wee hours of the morning.”
The infernal man could not help himself. “Thank you,” she said dryly. “However, might I have understood the concept of high tide and low tide without your tutelage?”
The corners of his dark eyes crinkled, and his broad mouth twitched.
With effort, she resisted the urge to grin in return.
“What I assume you really wish to know is when the tidal flats will be, once again, passable.”
She nodded with approval. “Precisely, sir.”
“As to that, I can say with near certainty the weather will not break in time for a dawn crossing. No, I’m sorry to say, your next chance to leave the island will occur tomorrow evening, and I can’t stress this enough: that possibility is entirely dependent upon Mother Nature’s cooperation.”
Before she could think of a response, he shoved back from the table and stood. “Shall we? Nell will have stoked the fire in your grate and added a stone to the foot of your bed. Beyond that, you’ll have to make do on your own as we haven’t any spare ladies’ maids on hand.”
“I see. I suppose I will manage,” she muttered, “somehow.” In truth, she’d already deduced as much, thanks to his earlier warning concerning the meager staff.
The inconvenience was entirely Lucy’s fault. She would have words with the maid tomorrow.
***
True to his word, she found her guest chamber toasty warm, with a cheerful fire burning in the grate, her bedcovers turned down, and another delicious stone tucked at the foot of the mattress.
One of the servants, apparently, had also refilled her water pitcher and, alongside the brush and comb she’d been provided earlier, powder and a brush for cleaning her teeth now sat.
With much difficulty, she managed to wrestle herself out of her gown, and that only thanks to the hooks and eyes running up the side of her waist, hidden from view, rather than down the length of her back.
A small mercy. The notion of sleeping in the garment after the long day of travel, bound by her stays and corset, did not appeal in the slightest.
She opened the wardrobe to hang her dress and found its cupboard empty aside from a lone night shift she assumed had been left for her use. That took her aback. Lord Randall had made an allowance for her comfort?
No. Surely not. Likely one of the servants had furnished it as a matter of course.
She hung her gown. Only then did she note the extent of the damage the villain with his grasping paw had wrought.
A large section of velvet trim hung askew, and several small pearl embellishments were gone altogether.
She fiddled with the trim, trying to tuck it into the stitching, and only managed to rip it further.
She glared at the dangling ribbon before ripping it free and throwing it to the floor. It landed with an unsatisfying whisper.
Ruined. The blackguard had ruined her gown and made off with the dashing reticule she’d purchased in Paris.
With impatient yanks, she stripped off her undergarments, then snatched the night shift off its hanger and slung it on over her head.
The linen fell over her, butter soft and smelling of fresh laundering and sunshine.
She stood stock still as the ruffled hem settled at her feet.
Whose night shift was it? Lord Randall was unmarried.
Why would a woman’s sleep garment, one that, while not new, was certainly of superior quality, happen to be available for an unexpected guest’s use?
Bother. Whose didn’t bear thinking.
She stomped through the chamber, dousing candles, ridiculously on the verge of tears.
Well, why shouldn’t she cry? She was beyond exhausted after her trying day, and nobody was around to see and admonish her.
Holy Island was proving to be wholly vexing. Venturing here, she’d been set upon by thieves, nearly died crossing the tidal flats, only to be stranded with the insulting Lord Randall, and forced to wear God-knew-whose night shift.
The destruction of her favorite gown and loss of her reticule were the crowning touch.
She threw herself into the bed, jerked the covers up to her nose, and tried to silence an irritating inner voice that sounded suspiciously like her brother’s when he was in a mood, asking why on earth she’d selected the gown and taken that particular reticule on her reconnaissance mission into the uncivilized north.
She glared up at the stone ceiling, watching the dancing shadows cast by the stuttering flames in the grate.
She knew the answer, and it shamed her. It was because of him.
Because, although she had been intent on locating him and dragging him back to London with her to ease her poor mother’s sufferings—and prove her worth as a daughter went beyond her ability to attract an advantageous husband—she’d also seen an opportunity to rub Lord Randall’s nose in the mistake he’d made several months ago.
He'd more than dismissed her as beneath his notice. He’d insulted her, scoffed at her so-called clumsy attempts to attract his attention.
And she had heard him with her own ears.
To make matters worse, Annabelle had to live with the knowledge that she’d trailed after him at the garden party, putting herself in his line of sight, repeatedly.
She’d been so sure he delighted in her antics.
She’d seen him eyeing her. Felt the indefinable spark lancing between them that told her he found her as attractive as she found him.
How wrong she’d been. She should have heeded Caroline’s warning. Should have paid more attention to the actual facts, for that matter, such as his notable disinclination to engage her in conversation.
When he’d disappeared inside the manse with Caroline, looking, for all the world, as if he intended to leave, as if he’d put in his obligatory appearance and had no wish to linger, she’d assumed he’d initiated a ploy to coax her to follow, in the hopes of sequestering her for a private conversation. As any normal would-be suitor might.
Naturally, she’d played along, entering the manse and allowing her ears to guide her to his exact location, which turned out to be the foyer.
Ducking into an alcove out of sight of the entrance hall, she listened, keen to hear any mention of her name, any clue of how this courtship might proceed.
She soon discovered Lord Randall was leaving. And from the sound of things, his sister was no happier with his decision to do so than Annabelle.
“Sterling, you can’t just leave,” Caroline said, plaintively. “What will everyone think?”
“I can, and I am,” he insisted. “And as to the last, I don’t give a damn, and neither should you.”
Affront bubbled up inside of Annabelle. The infernal man had played her for a fool. He had led her in a merry dance in view of everyone and made a laughingstock of her.
Gaston would surely remark on her folly. Worse, he would tell Mother.