Chapter 6
His uninvited guest stood in the center of the chamber, braced like a warrior, and wearing nothing but the flimsy night shift of his sister’s which he’d asked Nell to deliver last night for her use.
“What am I doing?” she demanded, blue eyes flashing fire.
“Yes, I believe that's what I asked,” he said in a deliberately cool tone while trying to un-notice her state of dishabille.
She started toward him like a queen prepared to set down one of her subjects.
“I awoke to find your daft servant, or whatever she is, pilfering through my things. She had her grubby little fingers all over my dress.” Without looking, she pointed behind her to the floor near the wardrobe at a pile of blue, which he took to be the garment she’d arrived wearing yesterday.
“And?” he asked, mostly just to annoy her, because she was definitely annoying him, standing there, her long blond hair hanging in gleaming tangles over her shoulders and down her back, no sleeping cap in sight. Probably because he hadn’t thought to provide one.
Someone--Babette, undoubtedly, likely to enable her to see her way around the chamber as she stole through it--had folded back one of the shutters, and early morning, diffuse sunlight illuminated Annabelle’s delicate, impossibly perfect features—and hinted at the outline of her body beneath the thin lawn of his sister’s night shift.
He hadn’t meant to notice. God knew he didn’t want to notice. But certain parts of her, parts he was almost certain were coin-sized and rose in color, were reacting to the chill in the air. He made a mental note to send Nell to tend the grate.
“And?” she mocked, with evident exasperation, then threw her hands wide, drawing the thin fabric even tighter across those parts. “This is a self-explanatory complaint. Unless you sanction your servants skulking about, fingering your guest’s clothing.”
Finally, an excuse to look at something other than her. He stalked to the item in question lying in a crumpled blue ball on the floor, and pinched it between his index finger and thumb as if it were a dirty rag—mostly just to vex her—and held it out for inspection.
The same, herbal scent he’d noted yesterday still clung faintly to the garment. But it looked new, pristine, definitely not as if Annabelle had worn it braving a winter storm while charging across a marshy tidal pathway on horseback.
The harridan moved to stand beside him, ready to continue her rant, no doubt. But then, he heard her sharply indrawn breath.
“It’s been pressed,” she whispered, “and mended.”
The herbal concoction he’d smelled on her yesterday now filled his nostrils. Clean, elegant, fresh, womanly.
His cock twitched. Damnation.
She reached one graceful hand to trace a strip of trim—blue velvet, dotted with pearlescent flowers—as if in reverence. “She added this and removed the torn piece. Why? What would behoove her to do so?”
Dropping her hand to her side, she fixed him with a wide-eyed stare. For once, she did not look like a spoiled debutante, preening for an audience, nor like a justice, holding him in contempt. She looked bemused. She looked heart-warmed.
She looked heavenly.
“Babette likes pretty things,” he said, his voice gruff to his own ears.
Her berry-colored lips parted, and everything in him went hot and tight. Awareness of her, her nearness, her state of dress, her femininity surged through him.
In self-defense, he thrust the gown toward her, stalking for the door the moment she accepted the offering. “Perhaps you ought to have asked her before you sent her fleeing in tears.”
Once safely over the threshold, he turned to face her.
“I told you last night she’d been hurt. I thought you would glean that she is also quite fragile in her way.
My mistake. I would consider it a personal favor—” he huffed out a humorless chuckle, as it dawned on him Lady Annabelle would have no inclination to do him any particular kindness, but went on anyway—“if you would refrain from shouting at the poor girl. Considering what she did for you, you might even wish to apologize.”
“Apologize…” Her aghast tone told him what she thought of his suggestion.
He eyed the domed, stone ceiling and decided no reply was necessary. She simply had no compassion. Exactly like her worthless brother. He turned to leave.
“Wait,” she called. “The storm. Has it passed?”
“Look for yourself,” he said, not bothering to hide his disgust. “Coming down in a blanket of white. You’ll not be leaving today, barring a miracle.”
He departed before she could lambast him for his inability to control the weather.
***
Only once she faced an empty doorway did it occur to her that she had been carrying on a conversation with the high-and-mighty Lord Sterling Randall while wearing a night rail—one likely belonging to his paramour. She stomped to the door to slam it shut.
Then she considered her gown. This Babette had snuck into her chamber, undoubtedly in the wee hours of the night, to filch, press, and mend it. Furthermore, the embellishments she’d added had wrought the dress even more fetching than it had been in its original state.
“She likes pretty things,” Lord Randall had said.
A shiver of pleasure danced up her spine, recalling the moment. Because there’d been an undercurrent in his tone when he’d said it, that told her he referred not only to her dress, but to her.
With care, she closed the door, walked to the bell pull, and tugged.
A brusque knock sounded, all too soon.
She crept back to the door and cracked it open to find a scowling Lord Randall standing in the corridor, arms folded over his broad chest.
“What is it now?”
She huffed. “I was hoping for a small pot of tea to be delivered and…I would also appreciate an opportunity to speak with Babette.”
His brows furrowed.
“To apologize to the girl,” she said between her clenched teeth. Really. The man made it entirely too difficult to keep a civil tongue in his presence.
He slanted her a dubious look. “Very well. I’ll request your tea and see that Babette delivers it.” He made no move to leave, however.
“Thank you,” she said, and would have closed the door, but he spoke again.
“I remind you, Lady Annabelle, she’s suffered a trial and has not fully recovered.”
“Yes, so you’ve told me, repeatedly.”
His broad mouth firmed. “Nevertheless. You strike me as one possessing a particularly strong streak of curiosity.”
As she’d heard the sentiment on multiple occasions over the years, and as she saw nothing wrong with the tendency, she merely stared down her nose at him.
A muscle in his jaw ticked. “I warn you not to indulge your inquisitiveness as far as the girl is concerned. The results can be trying in the extreme.”
She sniffed. “Yes, well, thank you for the lecture. I’m sure I can manage one simple apology without undue difficulty.”
He snorted and left before she could punctuate her words by closing the door in his face.
A timid knock sounded minutes later.
“Enter,” Annabelle, seated atop her bed, called.
Babette crossed into the chamber, tray in hand, capped head downcast. “You wished to see me, milady?” she asked, approaching the bedside table.
“Babette, isn’t it?” she asked, striving for an amicable tone.
The maid placed the tray. “Yes, milady.” The girl’s gaze darted to the open wardrobe where Annabelle’s gown once again hung, then down to her boot tips.
Annabelle cleared her throat. She wasn’t accustomed to apologizing, especially not to household staff. But needs must and all that. “Babette, I wanted to say, that is, I am…er…sorry if I startled you earlier.”
Babette’s head came up, and her honey-colored eyes went wide with apparent surprise.
This was easier than she’d expected, Annabelle decided. “In my defense, I was asleep, and you startled me, equally.”
The girl’s expression began to darken.
Oh, dear.
“None of that now,” she said in a no-nonsense manner. “Babette, I noticed you made some rather pleasing changes to my gown.”
The change of topic worked like a tonic. A shy smile curved the maid’s mouth. “Pretty. Like milady.”
Satisfaction welled up inside her. So much for Lord Randall’s dire warnings concerning Annabelle’s ability to manage the temperamental maid.
“Would you like to help me into it, and then aid me with my toilette?”
Her eyes gleamed. “I shall make milady’s hair shine like gold.”
***
An hour later, feeling much more like herself, Annabelle descended the spiral staircase, shivering against the too-regular icy drafts that rushed over whatever there was of her exposed skin.
How could anyone wish to live in this frozen wasteland?
She prayed a hardy fire burned in the dining hall’s hearth.
She also looked forward to informing Lord Randall of how unnecessary his dire warnings concerning her dealings with Babette had been. Annabelle had merely allowed the girl to do what came naturally to her.
Despite her apparent youth and intellectual deficiencies, Babette had ample skills as a lady’s maid.
With no more than a brush, a few hairpins, and deft fingers, she’d fashioned Annabelle’s golden locks into an intricate weave atop her crown, leaving a good portion to cascade over one shoulder in the Grecian style.
Concerning her gown, Babette had rendered more changes than the trim work which Annabelle had first noticed.
She’d thought the travel dress fit her well before.
Somehow, the maid had gauged both where the garment could do with taking in and letting out, then managed the alterations.
The end result was that it hugged Annabelle’s frame, emphasizing her ample bosom and slender waist in a subtle, yet tantalizing manner.
After fastening Annabelle’s gown, the maid had regarded her, cupping her own cheeks in evident awe. “Very pretty.” Then she’d done the oddest thing, tapping her chest above her heart while saying, “Inside.”
For no reason Annabelle could think of, she had replayed that moment in her mind several times.
She reached the landing and sauntered toward the dining hall, prepared to make an entrance. At a glance, she saw no one else occupied the chamber.
She made for the sideboard, disappointment coursing through her. Not because Lord Randall was absent, she told herself. She had need of neither his company nor his approbation. It was only that the grate was not merrily burning. Indeed, if left unattended much longer, the fire would die completely.
Without much enthusiasm, she plucked up a piece of toast, dropping it onto her plate, added a helping of smoked fish, pickled onion, and creme, and turned for the table only to find Lord Randall in the arched entrance.
He stood stock-still, his expression frozen, as if the sight of her flummoxed him. “Apologies, Lady Annabelle. I intended to stoke the fire before you breakfasted.”
“It must be a monumental task keeping the castle heated,” she said in lieu of acknowledging his meager attempt at civility.
She noted then that his thick, dark hair was mussed as if from a blustery wind, his cheeks glowed with vitality, and he held a stack of firewood in his arms, as if he’d come directly from outdoors where he’d chopped the logs, himself.
For no reason she could conceive, her mouth quivered with the mad urge to grin. Staunching the inane impulse, she sashayed toward the table, plate in hand.
With an indeterminate grunt, he lowered his gaze and strode past her for the hearth, leaving in his wake the scent of warm male skin.
Seating herself, she watched as he crouched before the grate, loaded the firewood in the wood box, then set about adding wood to the coals.
“And have you…er…eaten?” Before she’d fully posed the question, she cursed whatever had inspired her to ask. It almost sounded as if she wanted him to join her. Which she didn’t.
He took his time answering, drawing out her discomfort, his attention seemingly on his task of kindling the flame.
Then he rose, graceful as a cat. “I have, yes.”
“I see,” she said, eyeing him in helpless fascination.
He wore no waistcoat, as if he’d braved the frigid conditions in his shirtsleeves, which were currently rolled up to reveal thick, muscular, hair-dusted forearms.
A funny little flutter tickled her chest. “Were you…er…chopping wood?”
Rolling down his sleeves, he lifted his gaze to meet hers. “Yes. As I told you, the castle has limited household staff.”
“I had no notion your family coffers were so taxed, my lord.” A blatant untruth, as they both knew.
Humor glinted in his dark eyes. “I had originally intended my stay here to be brief and saw no reason to hire a full complement.”
“And yet, here you are.”
Linking his hands behind his back, he started across the chamber, his gait unhurried. “So I am.” When he reached her, he paused to hover behind her chair.
As if he’d run a finger up her spine, gooseflesh sprouted over her limbs. It was all she could do not to crane around to keep him in her view.
“Lady Annabelle, if you don’t mind joining me in the library once you’ve eaten?” he asked, his voice a delicious rumble in her ear.
She shook her head, breathless for no discernible reason.
“Good. Mr. Cogsworth will show you the way. I have a few questions.”
She picked up her fork. But the idea he’d gotten the last word niggled at her. “A quid pro quo, then.”
He neither slowed nor uttered a reply upon exiting, but she could swear she heard his husky chuckle from the corridor.