30. Chapter 30
“Ibeg your pardon?” Annabelle asked.
Sterling moved in close, his superior height causing her to tilt her head back to keep his face in sight.
Outside, the sun had nearly sunk, and the grate had not yet been tended, leaving only a few meager candles to light the space. Long shadows shrouded the chamber and the man. Still, she could not miss the hard set to his face.
“You went out with my sister. Alone. On foot. You didn’t bother to tell anyone where you were going…”
That was not precisely true, but she did not think now was a good time to comment.
“…have you forgotten the armed robbers who accosted you days ago? Have you forgotten Lucy’s fate?”
“B-but you said you thought the man responsible was gone.” She hated that she’d stammered. That she’d shown weakness in the face of this…this…She couldn’t precisely say what this was.
Only that he was angry. And why? Because she’d endangered Caroline?
Yes. That’s what he’d said. She’d gone out with his sister.
The bubble of joy Annabelle had floated in since the morning of her wedding abruptly burst. Pain, swift, devastating, and unforeseen, shafted through her and marked her as a fool.
She should have seen this coming. No, she had seen this coming. She knew the extent to which people could be trusted—not as far as you could throw them.
They got you where they wanted you, hanging on the threads of their affections, taking what they wanted, and then dropped you like a hot coal, laughing as you hit the earth.
She’d known this. And yet she had not been at all prepared. Fool.
“I said it was likely him. What if it wasn’t? What if we do not have the first clue as to why she was killed? What if you brought more trouble on yourself—and by extension, as my wife— me and mine?”
Me and mine, he’d said. Me and mine. Was she included in that grouping? It would seem not.
She lifted her chin and ordered herself not to cry. Crying did no good. Crying afforded the weak no respite. If anything, it only brought on more punishment.
“You never said we were not to leave the manse. Are we prisoners, then? Or is it just that you wish Lady Caroline to have an armed escort and neglected to mention it to me?”
“Lady Caroline,” he muttered and scrubbed a hand over his jaw. “Did you hear nothing I said? Are you being deliberately daft?”
“I heard you perfectly well,” she snapped. “There is nothing wrong with my hearing or my brain. Now, if you’ve quite finished…” She sidestepped him, intending to sweep from the room.
With the agility of a cat, he blocked her egress. Then he grasped both her shoulders. His palms were hot, searing her skin through the puffed caps of her long-sleeved gown.
“Where were you? Where did you go? Why not take a horse, Annabelle?”
She blinked. Something in his expression, a gruffness in his tone she couldn’t interpret, tempted her to soften toward him. To admit to him, considering all his many kindnesses toward her, she’d only wanted to do something for him.
With all her might, she stifled the urge. He would only use her admission as a weapon against her a second time.
“I wanted to walk. I meant no harm. Next time, I’ll go alone without your sister. Does that suit you better?”
His expression grew stony. “No. To date, on Holy Island, trouble seems to find you like a powerful magnet drawing steel shards. Hear me, Annabelle. Until we return to London, if you wish to take a walk, you will do so with me, or in the company of Chip or Mr. Cogsworth.”
Confusion warred with her anger and hurt. Had he been worried for her welfare, after all? If so, then why hadn’t he simply led with that?
“And…what of Lady Caroline?” she asked in a small voice that betrayed the hope within her.
Jamming both of his hands in his hair, he spun away from her. “You’re going to drive me insane, aren't you? I will deal with my sister separately.”
“Of course,” she said, her voice dripping ice. Much better. “Will there be anything else, my lord?”
He glared at her over his shoulder. “No.” He stalked for the door and opened it.
She blinked, shocked despite herself. He was dismissing her. Calling on all her pride, she squared her shoulders and strode from the room.
***
That had not gone well, Sterling decided. Not well at all. Though he couldn’t say at precisely which point in the conversation he’d erred.
So, he’d been harsh. He’d needed to impress upon her the seriousness of the matter. Of course, he’d been worried. He had every right. Every damned right in the world. Everything he’d said had been true.
He paced, stopped before the credenza, unearthed the bottle of cognac his grandfather had kept there for especially chilly nights. He was contemplating the merits of pouring himself a glass when he sensed someone’s presence.
Relief swept through him. Annabelle had returned. To apologize, no doubt. He tucked the bottle back into the cabinet and turned, fixing a pleasant expression on his face—and found Caroline in the doorway, arms crossed over her chest and a very unpleasant expression fixed on her face.
He dropped his placid veneer. “Yes?” he demanded, curtly.
“What was that about?”
“What was what about?”
“What on earth led you to talk to Annabelle in such a…brusque manner?” Caroline sputtered, spreading her arms wide.
Sterling considered telling her to mind her own business. But perhaps if he explained the situation, she would help smooth things with Annabelle. He meandered toward her, hands clasped behind him. “The two of you had no business wandering about in the dark, without protection.”
“In the dark? The sun still shone in the sky when we walked in the front door to find you scowling like an ogre. And protection?” She snorted in evident disgust. “Since when do we need that here, in this sleepy village?”
“Since a woman was killed and dumped in the channel.”
She blinked. After a moment’s consideration, her expression softened. “You were worried.”
“Obviously.”
“Not quite. You seemed more a snarling dictator than a worried spouse.”
He huffed out a derisive laugh. “Annabelle has been held at gunpoint. Her maid was murdered. Someone trapped her in the kilns. Need I go on?”
She gave him a long look—one that was part amusement, part pity. He did not care for her look at all.
“Well, then? How did you leave things with Annabelle?"
“I told her she wasn’t to—” He broke off, slashing a dismissive hand through the air. “That’s not important. What I want to know is, where did you go? Cogsworth said you meant to return before I got back.”
Something else was bothering him, he realized. Cogsworth himself had seemed reticent to inform him of their absence. Most vexing.
“I see,” Caroline murmured. “You upset her.”
“I did no such thing. The two of you made an unwise decision. I merely pointed that out.” And she had not answered his question.
“Dearest,” she began in a measured tone, “I am accustomed to being lectured by you, the all-knowing, all-wise big brother. I learned long ago from whence such condescension truly springs—”
“I beg your pardon?”
“You don’t mean to talk down to me, or Harrison, or Father, for that matter. You simply do not want anything to happen to us under your watch, as it did to your friend.”
Dillon. He stared at her, feeling poleaxed.
“The fact that you are so often right only makes your supercilious attitude that much more annoying to us lesser humans. You do make wise decisions—most of the time. You do look ahead and see danger where others miss its lurking presence. Case in point, Gaston. Still. Annabelle…” She shook her head, as if searching for words.
“Sterling, I think she’s been hurt in her life.
I think using such strong-arm tactics with her might do more harm than good. ”
Damn it. As his sister spoke, the rightness of what she was saying hit him square in the gut. Annabelle did respond to kindness. To gentleness. To sound logic.
But, in his experience, she dug in when faced with brute force.
He sent his sister a crooked smile. “How did you get so wise?”
She chuckled. “I had a good teacher.”
“All joking aside, Annabelle did seem…er…displeased. What do you recommend I do now, oh sage one?”
“Admission is half the battle. You’ll figure it out.”
She started to leave. Then stopped when she seemed to recall something. “Sterling, Annabelle said something to me today about her parents.”
He arched a brow.
“It seems she has not heard from them since you sent word of your marriage.”
“No?”
She gave him a chiding look. “Sterling, did I, or did I not see a sealed letter on the salver yesterday, addressed to you, from Lord Montrose?”
He flicked a glance toward his desk, where said letter was safely tucked. “Did you tell her of the correspondence?”
She shook her head. “I assumed you would, but that you had some reason for delaying.”
He nodded once. “Quite right, and I would appreciate it if you leave the matter of Annabelle’s parents to me.”
“But, Sterling—”
He held up his hand to stop her tirade. “Please. You must trust me.”
“Very well.” With a concerned frown, she turned to leave.
“Wait.”
She glanced at him over her shoulder.
“Are you going to tell me where you went?”
Her eyes widened. The picture of innocence. “For a walk.” She all but ran from the room.
He made to follow, intending to…hell. He didn’t know.
Seek out Annabelle, he supposed. But then what?
He’d already tried telling her what had bothered him—albeit in a less than conciliatory manner—and she’d gone all stiff on him.
He feared reiterating why her absence had vexed him would only make things worse.
Babette entered the chamber, feather duster in hand. She glared at him.
He bit back a groan. “Yes?” he asked in weary resignation.
“Milady bid me tell you she has the head ache and will not be joining you for dinner.” She lifted her chin. It was clear she had more to say.
“And?”
“Milady requests her meal be delivered to her chamber.” She gazed at him steadily.
Ah.
“As it happens, I, too, wish to dine in my chamber.” He propped a hip on the corner of his desk and folded his arms over his chest. “Kindly inform Cook to prepare a tray for two persons. I shall collect it and deliver my wife’s myself.”
She stood still, seeming to weigh the merits of his idea, feather duster fluttering slightly in her grasp.
“Thank you, Babette,” he added dryly.
Mouth firming, she nevertheless nodded, then darted from the room.
He decided to make good his escape before Nell, Cogsworth, and Chip made a run at him.
***
Annabelle stared out the window into the inky black night, regretting her rash decision to hide in her chamber.
She had done nothing wrong. Why should she sequester herself?
It might have been better to ignore Sterling over the dinner table while keeping up a lively banter with Caroline, and then disappear to her own bedchamber for the night.
Except…the thought of sleeping without him filled her with a sick foreboding, as if, by choosing to throw down the gauntlet, she’d set a new precedent for the two of them.
What if, when they returned to London, he opted to maintain the distance she’d established between them tonight?
What if he’d already grown tired of her?
Stop making yourself a bloody nuisance, Annabelle. Nobody likes a hanger-oner, Gaston had said under his breath more than once.
She remembered one particular such event, when her family had invited several guests to their country home for the weekend.
She had been fifteen or sixteen years of age.
No longer a child, but not yet a woman. She’d yet to master her hostess skills, and so Gaston informed her when she’d tried to be social and join in the conversation with the young folk.
She’d only meant to be nice. To be accommodating. A proper hostess. To do her parents proud.
And yes, to make friends.
Gaston had thought her…what word had he used? Repellent? No. Repulsive.
All your fawning is repulsive. Go over there and do what you do best, he’d suggested, waggling his fingers toward their papa.
Charm the oldies. Bat your lashes at Lord Trent and Lord Barwick, the two Father wishes to impress.
Who knows? Maybe you’ll tempt one of them to offer for you and make a good connection for the family.
She stomped to her vanity and snatched up her silver brush to drag it through her hair with ruthless strokes.
She didn’t like remembering Gaston in a mood. At the time, she’d felt sure--or almost sure--he’d merely wanted to rid himself of her so he could flirt unobserved with one of the girls she’d befriended.
What if she’d been wrong? What if she was needy to the point of repellent? Shame hollowed out her stomach. She couldn’t bear for Sterling to find her craving for him, for his attention, his affection, repulsive.
She set the brush aside, the argument between them replaying in her mind on a loop.
He’d accused her of being irresponsible. Of putting his sister in danger.
Perhaps she had. Perhaps she should have considered the recent past.
But his tone. He’d been so cold.
As if that is what has your knickers in a knot, Annabelle.
No. It was why he’d been angry that was eating a hold through her insides—because she’d endangered his sister; he’d as much as said so. And for some reason, after the seeming closeness they’d shared, the evidence of where his true affection lie, hurt.
And that made her angry.
A sharp knock sounded at her door, startling her. Babette generally gave a soft scratch.
Perhaps Nell or Chip or Cogsworth were delivering her meal.
She rose and moved toward the side table near the hearth. “Come,” she called.
The door opened as she lowered onto the armchair facing the fire. Then it closed with a bang. Nearly the instant she turned her startled gaze toward the door, her breath caught in her throat.
Sterling, dressed in casual evening clothes, hair damp from a recent wash, cheeks still dewy from a recent shave, looking heart-stoppingly gorgeous, pushed a meal cart into the chamber, acting for all the world like a footman who performed such tasks regularly.
Only when he set the cart’s brake did his dark gaze meet hers. He arched one brow. “I understand you have the headache. I took the liberty of having Cook prepare two meals in the hopes of joining you—if you do not mind.”
She lifted her chin and fought the inane compulsion to grin like an idiot—or cry. “And if I do?”
His mouth curved downward. “If you do, I shall say what I came to say, and leave you in peace.”