Chapter 5 #2
“But if it makes you feel better, most of your guests will think nothing of my departure. The few, discerning members of the crowd, however, already think the same thing I do, even if good manners prevent them from saying so.”
“Which is?”
“Which is, Caroline, my darling sister, that you’re dazzled by the man’s outward appearance, by the glitz of his angelic face and manly build, and his oh-so-public pursuit of you that has titillated the ton so that his exploits reached me as far as Derby.”
“That is most grossly unfair. The ton is enthralled because Gaston loves me. Papa thinks Gaston a fine suitor for me.”
“Papa sees the best in everyone. He would try not to hold it against the man that he comes from a fairly newly ennobled, newly wealthy line—and if that were all, I wouldn’t care a fig, myself.
But there’s more, so much more, some of which I can’t in good conscience discuss with you, and some of which you barely have to scratch the surface to see, my naive little sister. ”
“What do you mean? What can’t you discuss with me? I insist you speak plainly.”
Annabelle agreed wholeheartedly. She wanted every detail.
“The point is, they’re a pretentious lot,” he replied with a condescending tone, “going so far as to name their son ‘Gaston’ to match their French-sounding, nascent title, no doubt. Here’s a French term for you, darling. Nouveau rich.”
“Sterling,” she’d admonished, clearly scandalized.
That made two of them.
But he wasn’t through besmirching Annabelle’s family.
“The way they speak, and walk, and dress. The people they deem acceptable, and the ones they don’t—just look at the guest list, those who made the cut and those who didn’t.
Mark me, there’s selfish ambition, even cruelty, behind their motives. Even in the case of the girl.”
Annabelle stiffened. The girl? He couldn’t mean her?
“Sterling, please. You go too far, surely? Annabelle is still young. Barely in her debut. You can’t blame her for her face.”
“How about her inflated view of herself, then? And I did take her youth into account, which is why I did my best to ignore her rather obvious attempts to throw herself at me for the entirety of this party. The one meant to celebrate you, I might add.”
“She has a crush,” she admonished, “and why wouldn’t she? You’re the most dashing man alive—if the most mule-headed.”
He snorted with derision. “No, thank you. She’s a Montrose, with the signature looks to prove it, and she’s used to men fawning over her. I’d wager it never occurred to her I might find her repellent.”
That stung, especially because he was right.
“Who’s being cruel, now?”
“You know how I feel about women like her,” he said in a low, embittered voice. “If you cared for the chit, you might’ve headed her off.”
“Who says I didn’t? I’m well aware that business with Dillon all those years ago left you scarred. You need to let that go, once and for all. Until you do, no woman alive will meet your exacting standards.”
“One has nothing to do with the other, Caroline. Although now you mention it, Dillon’s intended was remarkably like Lady Annabelle.”
“I see. But one has nothing to do with the other?” she asked, dryly.
He made no reply.
After a taut silence, Caroline spoke again. “It was a terrible affair, and perhaps the lady in question did not deserve your friend’s sacrifice—”
“She did not. She married the cur who killed him.”
“As you say. But I still say you are judging Lady Annabelle too harshly through no fault of her own. There is more to her—and Gaston, as well.”
“They are a pair of superficial, grasping climbers, Caroline.“
“Enough,” Lady Caroline said with finality. “You’ve made your opinion abundantly clear. You think I’m silly and naive and blinded by love.”
“Blinded by something,” he muttered.
“Once I’m married and happy, you’ll see.”
“If you insist on going through with this marriage, I pray you are correct.”
The moment the front door had opened, Annabelle had fled to the grand staircase and run up, as fast as her feet would carry her.
She’d hidden in her chambers, mortified and hostile and vowing that one day she would make Lord Sterling Randall rue the day he’d looked down his aristocratic nose at her and her family.
And coming here to confront him had seemed the perfect opportunity to do so.
She’d long since concluded Lord Randall was jealous. Because her family, her father, mother, brother, and yes, she, herself, were renowned for their looks, for their polish, their parties. Everyone wanted to know them. Everyone wanted to be them.
The hole in her theory was that he was also exceedingly attractive, not to mention rich, titled, and in line for a subsequent title on par with her father’s.
But what else could account for his vehement opposition to Gaston and Caroline’s marriage?
And being that he was so opposed, so openly uncharitable toward her brother, his presence at Gaston’s apartments the night he’d died—to aid him, he now contended—raised serious flags.
That thought settled her nerves as nothing else could have.
So she nursed a tiny, infinitesimal grudge against the viscount. That did not alter the fact that she had a purpose much larger than herself for forging into this rustic wasteland.
Despite Annabelle’s best efforts, the detectives who’d investigated Gaston’s demise made it clear they were content to leave their findings as death by misadventure, claiming that after a night of carousing, Gaston had tripped getting out of bed, bashing his head, and then bleeding out.
Her parents, too, wished the matter dropped, going so far as to accuse Annabelle of prolonging her mother’s suffering with her suspicions, which was the very opposite of what she was trying to do.
She could not dismiss the coincidence of Lord Randall’s uncharacteristic altruism where Gaston was concerned. While her parents were away, she would get to the bottom of his involvement, and in so doing, ease her mother’s grief.
And maybe, just maybe, change her own life’s trajectory for the better.
***
A soft sound, the whisper of fabric, of footfalls on carpet, pulled Annabelle from a restless sleep.
She’d barely opened her eyes to take in the unfamiliar surroundings when the creak of a hinge had her sitting bolt upright to see the maid, Babette, standing before the wardrobe—Annabelle’s dress cradled in her arms.
“You, there. What are you doing?” Annabelle shrieked.
Babette chirped in alarm, spinning to face the bed, eyes wide with fright. She hugged Annabelle’s gown to her chest like a shield.
“How dare you paw at my gown. Let go of it at once.”
Babette’s face crumpled. As ordered, she released the garment, and it toppled to the floor in a mound of blue silk.
Outraged, Annabelle leapt from the bed and onto her feet. “What were you planning to do with it? Steal it? Answer me. Answer me this second, or I swear I’ll have you tossed out on your ear.”
Babette’s hand flew to her ear as if imagining Annabelle dropping her onto the appendage, literally. On a sob, she darted toward the door, which Annabelle now saw stood open, and flew out into the still-dark corridor.
Glaring at the empty doorway, she stomped for the bell pull—not that she had high hopes anyone in this mismanaged castle would answer her call.
Before she reached it, however, Lord Randall, dressed for the day, clean-shaven, and looking thunderous, crossed the threshold. Thick brows furrowed, he aimed a ferocious scowl at her, as if she, and not his stupefied maid, had committed a faux pas.
“What in bloody hell are you raving about, madam?”