8. Chapter 8 #2
Not waiting for Sterling’s invitation, she sashayed into the parlor, the skirts of her blue travel gown swishing with each sway of her gently rounded hips.
As she neared them, she held one delicate hand out toward Lord Vane, fingers draping gracefully, a delighted smile on her face, as if she beheld the man of her dreams.
Sterling pinched the bridge of his nose. “Lord Vane, may I introduce Lady A—”
“Woodville,” she supplied, cutting him off. “I arrived yesterday. Lord Randall is the cousin of my late husband, God rest his soul.”
Sterling was momentarily struck dumb. She’d held to her phony persona. He had not expected that.
He glanced at Vane, who had not so much as blinked at the fabrication.
But then he was distracted by Annabelle herself.
Sterling rolled his neck ’til it cracked. “Lady Woodville, meet Lord Vane, a frequent visitor to the island who hails from a nearby estate in Beadnell.”
“How do you do, sir?”
“Very well. Very well indeed, madam.”
As Sterling watched, Vane took Annabelle’s proffered hand. He bent over it, slowly. Painstakingly. He all but devoured the woman with his eyes, for the love of the saints, starting with her rapt face, then the graceful column of her neck, then her scooped décolletage.
And there, staring at the prominent swell of Annabelle’s lush breasts, his lips hovering over her knuckles, he remained.
Sterling thought he hadn’t liked the man before.
Now, something more elemental seethed just beneath the surface of his skin, causing his pulse to race, his blood to heat, and his fists to clench.
If Vane did not release Sterling’s so-called late cousin’s widow’s hand in the next instant, he would be made to with a solid blow to his face.
“Well,” Annabelle said, breathless, as she retracted her hand.
Grinning like an idiot, Vane straightened. “Well,” he said, as if in agreement. “A widow. At such a young age. Such a shame.”
Vane’s too-cheery tone earned Sterling’s glare—not that he noticed.
At the reminder of her status, Annabelle affected a somber expression and lowered her gaze. “It was terribly unexpected. Indeed, Lord Randall had no notion until I informed him yesterday that his dear cousin had succumbed to the dreaded weak chest that befalls so many men in Lord Randall’s line.”
Sterling choked back a bark of laughter. The nerve of the chit.
“Most tragic,” Vane murmured. “Will you be staying long enough to visit the priory ruins? I’m happy to offer my guidance. It is quite something.”
She sent Vane a brilliant smile. “Oh, I would enjoy that above all else,” she replied, sable lashes batting.
So much for enacting the mourning widow. Enough was enough.
“My lady, correct me if I’m wrong, but I do not believe you have taken your daily nap,” Sterling said then.
“My…nap?”
He sent her an indulgent smile. “Indeed. You mustn’t let us keep you.
As my dear, departed cousin often noted, with a fond twinkle in his eye, you are never so dismayed than when your tendency to bristle like a woman possessed rears its ugly head as it so frequently does upon missing your prescribed rest.”
She blinked at him, her mouth forming a small o. Then she aimed a hard smile at him. “You are all that is gracious and kind, my lord.”
“Think nothing of it.” With a nod and a finger waggle, he directed her to the exit.
With the aplomb of a queen, she spared one last gracious nod for Vane, then whirled on her heel and stalked from the chamber.
***
Annabelle shot down the length of corridor, heart racing.
The nerve of the man! He had dismissed her like a common servant, again. And yet, instead of the ire she ought to feel, she felt undeniably exhilarated. Animated. Alive.
She had done it. She had taken charge, refusing to be ordered about by the likes of him. What’s more, she’d proven his insulting accusation unjust. She had no need to trick or trap or manipulate anyone into marriage. She could have her pick of husbands.
She was pretty. More than pretty. Everyone said so. She was no pale, tow-headed child with too-large teeth for her mouth, forced to wear a pirate’s patch thanks to having one eye that tended not to work with the other.
Witness Lord Vane. The man wearing too much pomade and an expensive, overly flamboyant waistcoat had clearly been awed by her looks—as every man was. As most women were.
But not Lord Randall. Of course not. He was far too good for the likes of her—or so he thought.
She’d marched halfway up the spiral staircase before she realized what she’d done. She halted in her tracks and drew a shuddering breath.
No. She wouldn’t go haring off into hiding. She had nothing to be ashamed of, and besides, Lord Randall still owed her an answer.
Lifting her chin, she made an about-face and started down the stairs, moving at a pace that belied the blood still pounding in her veins.
A rush of wind, as if a door had been opened, swirled over her in a rush, riffling her skirts, chilling her exposed skin, and icing her cheeks. With sudden horror, she realized they were wet. She was crying, and she couldn’t even say why.
It had to be his fault.
Enough. She scrubbed the salty tracks and reminded herself she was a Montrose. One of the beautiful people, the elite, as her mother always reminded her. Tears were for ugly people.
Her composure was firmly in place by the time she reached the office and peered inside, half expecting to see the viscount waiting for her, a look of impatience on his face as he presided behind his desk.
He had yet to return. But the chamber was not vacant. Babette flitted about the space, humming and running her little feather duster over every surface she could reach.
Annabelle entered and approached the nearest bookshelf, intending to peruse the contents for something to read while she awaited the viscount.
Babette gave a sudden yelp, then practically levitated as she spun around to face Annabelle, her honey-golden brown eyes wide as saucers, her cleaning implement held before her like a sword.
Before Annabelle could utter the first word of reassurance, Babette’s expression transformed to one of clear concern—for Annabelle. “Milady is sad?” she asked, inching closer, as one might when approaching a timid animal.
Annabelle frowned. “No, milady is not,” she replied stiffly. She eyed the young maid. “Why did it frighten you so when I came in?”
The maid lowered her gaze and twirled the feather duster in her hand. “Sometimes, people can hide. They can trick you, sneak up behind you. Hurt you.”
Even had Lord Randall not already told her Babette had suffered some kind of trial, she would have no trouble discerning someone had done something frightful to the young woman.
“You needn’t fear me. I won’t hurt you,” she said, then asked herself what on earth had prompted the odd promise. She didn’t owe Babette a thing.
And yet, Babette’s sweet, shy smile in response warmed her. She decided she was glad she’d spoken.
“I know. Milady is pretty.” She tapped her heart as she had earlier. “Inside.”
Just like that, tears pricked Annabelle’s eyes anew. Ridiculous. She blinked them away and headed for the small sitting area before the bookshelf. She dropped onto the sofa.
Babette followed, running the duster over the oval table situated before the sofa. “Milady fancies milord?” she asked.
Annabelle huffed out a laugh. “Milord? Lord Randall, you mean? Heavens, no.”
She lifted her gaze to meet Annabelle’s. “Milord fancies milady,” she said with a knowing grin.
That shocked Annabelle even more than her previous inane question had. “Don’t be absurd. Lord Randall can barely tolerate me.” She sniffed. “He thinks he’s too good for me.”
Babette’s expression grew contemplative. She began moving about the chamber, flicking her duster over furniture, the odd book, the mantel, like a cat, flicking its tail. “Milord does like milady. He…doesn’t want to. He sees prickles. Claws.”
Annabelle stiffened.
Babette paid her no heed, and continued speaking in her oddly sage way. “He doesn’t see milady—inside—past her prickles. Hints, glimpses,” she said, eyes narrowing as if in concentration. “Not her fault. She wants to be good. But…sometimes the ones who shouldn’t can be so mean, and so…prickles.”
Annabelle couldn’t think of the first thing to say.
Ceasing her restless movement, the maid shifted to face Annabelle, a wealth of kindness in her expression. “Milady is very pretty inside. He will see.”
“I think,” Annabelle heard herself whisper as tears, once again, blurred her vision. “I think Babette is pretty, too.”
The girl glowed. And then, she ducked her head. “I was pretty once. Not like milady.”
“Pretty inside,” Annabelle whispered, tapping her chest in the manner Babette had employed. She felt her face heat as she did, knowing she had no business conversing with the silly maid in this way—and yet, she could not seem to help herself.
“Babette, how did you come to be here at Stoneford Castle?” she asked, glancing toward the open door. It would be her bad luck for Lord Randall to suddenly appear and lambast her for poking into Babette’s past.
“A bad man came. A bad man. Wanted to do bad things.”
Annabelle’s gaze shot to Babette. Her manner of speech, rapid and low and dark and not at all reminiscent of the airy manner in which she normally communicated, had gooseflesh sprouting over Annabelle’s limbs.
“He did bad things to you?” she blurted without thinking.
Then, with no warning, Babette began to wail.
“Oh. No. No, no, no, no.” Annabelle sprang to her feet and rushed toward Babette.
Any minute now, Lord Randall would come charging in, accusations flying.
“Stop that. Stop that at once. Nobody wants to be subjected to another’s tears,” Annabelle ordered, employing the same words and authoritative tone her mother might.
To no avail. Good God, the girl’s sobs were growing louder and seemed to spring from somewhere deep inside her.