Chapter 22
Sterling replayed Annabelle’s question, her perfectly reasonable question demanding to know why, earlier today, he’d rejected her offer to return to London. His response at the time had been swift, decisive, and rational.
The notion of her traveling cross-country armed with nothing more than a flimsy disguise was ludicrous and a recipe for scandal.
But that had not been his sole reason for keeping her here. Not that he’d admitted as much to himself, even in the privacy of his own thoughts.
The truth was, already this morning, it had been far too late for her to leave the castle as if nothing untoward had occurred.
Regardless of the fact no one, aside from the two of them, had witnessed their folly, things had progressed too far.
Things that, if he discovered had occurred between a gentleman and his sister, would have him demanding an offer of marriage from the gentleman involved.
He could not escape the certainty that Annabelle deserved no less.
The passionate embrace on the rooftop they’d shared had compromised her. Period. Kissing her in the kiln today only cemented an already clear-cut situation.
The bottom line was, his decision was made. All that was left now was for him to work out how best to proceed, and, of course, to inform Annabelle.
He gazed down into her liquid eyes of bottomless blue. Eyes currently filled with intelligence and curiosity and…something else. Something he could not discern with any degree of certainty.
Conspicuously absent—for the moment, at any rate—was the pomposity he’d previously attributed as her hallmark.
His sister had been right all along. There was more to her. Arrogant, overly confident, and ignorant about several social matters she might be. She was also kind, inquisitive, and fair. In short, he’d been wrong to pigeonhole her.
“Lord Randall, are you going to gape at me all day, or do you intend to answer my simple question?”
He snorted. Simple, indeed.
“The question is moot, Annabelle. Until I know who killed Lucy, and why, your safety is not assured. You will not go haring off across the country alone, period.”
“Sir, allow me to point out that you do not have the right to tell me what I will or will not do. You are neither my husband nor my parent.”
He shrugged. “Nevertheless, you are under my purview, and my statement stands.”
She glared at him. “I demand you answer my question.”
“Fine. As to why you cannot travel without a chaperone, you know very well that doing so would invite scandal, which could easily land on my doorstep, and I will not allow it.”
“I see.”
He would swear he saw disappointment, maybe even hurt, in her eyes before she lowered her lashes.
What had she expected him to say, if not that? Mayhap, clever as she was, she had worked out the same realization he had.
Still. He was reluctant to open Pandora’s box. He’d all but accused her of attempting to entrap him when she’d arrived. Now he wouldn’t put it past her to argue against what must be done.
“I will take care of you, Annabelle. You’re my…responsibility now,” he settled for saying. It was one way of putting it. His bloody obsession was another.
She gave him a sullen look. “Yes. Your responsibility. Just like Lady Caroline and your younger brother are, no doubt.”
“I beg your pardon? What on earth is that supposed to mean?”
She sniffed. “If you don’t mind, it has been a long day. I would like to retire to my guest chamber before supper.”
He frowned and weighed the benefits of pressing her for an explanation.
In the end, he decided it behooved him to let the matter drop—for now.
“Very well. I have business off the island as it happens.” He hesitated, then added, “I’d take it as a personal favor if you refrain from leaving the castle in my absence. ”
She nodded and started for the exit.
He had the sure feeling he’d misstepped. But exactly how, he couldn’t say.
From nowhere, a vague recollection came to him of laughing at his friend, Zeke, as Lady Kitty, prior to their recent marriage, led him about in a merry chase. For the first time, he felt a degree of sympathy for the man.
***
The following morning, shortly past dawn, bleary-eyed from lack of sleep, Sterling entered the castle. He removed his greatcoat, hung it on the rack, and trudged for the stairs.
He had every right to his exhaustion considering the last twenty-four hours he’d endured, starting with having Lucy’s body deposited on his doorstep.
Yet, as he climbed the spiral staircase, a distinct feeling of satisfaction over yesterday’s accomplishments pervaded his bones.
He grinned to himself, imagining what this day would bring—after he’d had a chance to sleep an hour or two, of course.
Without a doubt, the trajectory of his life, and that of Annabelle’s, would be forever altered.
If just last week someone had prophesied what his future would hold, he’d have laughed.
Nearing the first-floor landing, he lifted his gaze to find Annabelle bearing down on him. She did not look pleased.
“Sir, how dare you stay out all night."
He took in the sight of her, starting with her small, bare feet and working his way up, over the thin night rail and wrapper she wore, cinched at the waist. Her lacy white cap, which no doubt Babette had procured for her, sat atop her head, askew, and accomplishing little as most of her glorious flaxen hair had escaped its confines.
He couldn’t help himself. He smiled. “Why, Annabelle. Never say you missed me.”
The incensed glare she aimed at him told him that was not the desired response.
In the next instant, she flew down the few remaining stairs separating them, grasped the lapels of his riding waistcoat, and made every attempt to give him a good shake.
For some reason, her indignation struck him as rather endearing. He made no effort to disguise the indulgent smile curving his mouth.
“Sir, this is no joking matter. A woman died, a band of jewel thieves entrapped me in the kiln, and you thought it a grand idea to disappear all night with no word as to your safety.”
“Well, when you put it that way…”
She yelped as he scooped her into his arms and continued his ascent. She was soft and warm, and her sweet, fresh scent enveloped him. Despite his desire for sleep, his body reacted to the feel of her, the elusive fragrance she emitted, in the usual way.
“What do you think you’re doing?” she demanded, though, far from attempting to free herself, she clung to him like a second skin.
“I’m very tired. As enthralling as I find this conversation, I fear we must continue it upstairs where I can at least rid myself of my boots.”
A few minutes later, he entered his bed chamber, strode to the center of the room, and deposited her onto her feet. He moved to the hearth, stoking the dying flames to banish the chill—mostly for Annabelle’s sake—before dropping onto one of the armchairs near the mantel.
Her useless cap fell to the floor as she tilted her head back and slowly pivoted to take in her surroundings.
For the first time in a long while, he noted the large wall tapestry with its landscape depiction, the thick Aubusson carpets, the oversized four-poster bed, custom-ordered to accommodate his frame, along with its dark velvet canopy and bed coverings.
The masculine space served to emphasize Annabelle's utter femininity, and had his stomach knotting with desire.
She sniffed—though not in her usual, affronted way.
“Smell something unpleasant?” He resisted the urge to sniff himself. He had been atop his horse quite a bit since leaving the castle.
“The chamber smells like you. Like your aftershave, and the soap you wash with, and faintly, of your shampoo. It smells…nice.” She shot him a defensive look, her face going pink as if she’d realized only then what she’d said.
He bent to tug at the buckle of one of his boots and willed his thickening erection away. Ineffectually, as it happened.
He wedged his first boot free. “I was planning to speak with you later today when we’d both had a chance to sleep—”
“That presupposes one of us has.”
He ignored her interruption. "But since we're both here and awake, we may as well talk now. Would you care to join me for a drink? I could use one.”
His second boot hit the floor.
Arms folded around herself, she moved to the adjacent armchair to his and perched on the cushion. “Perhaps a small one.” She eyed his toes as if never having seen a man’s stocking-clad feet before.
No doubt there were many male parts she’d never glimpsed.
Heaving to his feet, he headed for the wall cabinet, unearthed the brandy he kept there, and two snifters. He splashed a portion of amber liquid into each glass and returned to where she sat, handing her one, before resuming his seat and stretching out his legs before him.
He sighed out his pleasure. ”I'm sorry if my absence disturbed you. In my defense, I did send word through Mr. Cogsworth informing you of my whereabouts, and as you can see, I'm very much alive and well.”
She sipped her brandy before replying. “Nevertheless. Surely, you comprehend my cause for concern. There's a murderer afoot, one who has left you markedly anxious for my safety. Why should your welfare be any more assured than mine?”
Because he was a man and able to defend himself? But something about her earnest expression had him rethinking his flippant response. “You make a fair point.”
His even-handed response appeared to mollify her somewhat. ”Well, sir? Where were you? Aside from off the island?”
He sipped. “First, I visited the diocese in Durham.”
She frowned. “Whatever for? The bishop will hardly wish to handle Lucy’s burial.”
He gave her a long look. “We’ll get to that. As it happens, I went to Fenwick to question the guide you hired, once again. Due to rough seas and the late hour of the day when I finally located his lodgings, I was forced to stay overnight. I returned once the flats were safe to cross.”
“Again?”
“I beg your pardon?”