10. Chapter 10
Later that evening, Annabelle swallowed one last bite of the poached whitefish.
She could not make herself eat more. She did, however, take another dainty sip of the dry white wine that accompanied her repast, congratulating herself on her aplomb—not that anyone was looking.
For the entirety of the meal, she’d had only herself for company in the dining room, excepting when Nell or the young footman came to add or clear a dish or refill her wine goblet.
Without a word of explanation, Lord Randall had abandoned her to her own devices for the remainder of the day following the unsettling finale to their conversation. The audacity of the man. The gall.
She’d done nothing wrong. Indeed, she’d answered his question. She’d proven she wasn’t out to entrap him. And still he’d treated her like this. The man he claimed not to like, Lord Vane, had received greater hospitality from him.
She sniffed, lifted her glass, and drained it dry.
It was her second—which was probably a mistake.
She rarely indulged beyond one. But she was edgy, angry, restless.
She’d wanted to see Lord Randall tonight.
Wanted to experience that exhilarating sense of aliveness once more before she departed, as she surely would on the ‘morrow.
The storm had ceased, the snow had stopped falling, and Lord Randall would see her gone with the changing tide.
Curse the man. How dare he cause her blood to sing, then leave her alone to ponder the moment the two of them stood face to face and he’d…he’d wanted to kiss her. Or, had she imagined his interest? Had it all been nothing but wishful thinking on her part—again?
She would never know. She was leaving tomorrow, and that would be that.
She closed her eyes, briefly, stomach clenching as the true disaster she’d wrought flooded her awareness.
She was leaving tomorrow with nothing to show for her fool’s errand—beyond proving she really wasn’t much of a daughter.
She’d had such noble intent, to wrangle a confession out of Lord Randall, and barring that, drag him back to London.
All she’d managed to do was make a cake of herself in his eyes. Again. That was why he’d run from the chamber.
The coming Season loomed before her, terrifying and inescapable. How long would she last on the marriage mart before one of the men on Gaston’s list won her father’s approval for her hand? A day? A week?
Movement out of the corner of her eye alerted her to Babette entering the dining hall, clutching that damned feather duster. Casting furtive glances behind her, she dashed on tiptoes toward Annabelle.
“Coffee for milady? Cheese?” she asked, raising her voice so that it carried, then she lowered her mouth to Annabelle’s ear. “Milord is on the roof, playing with his apparatus.”
Annabelle’s brows shot up. “His…apparatus?” she aped, keeping her voice low.
Babette giggled. “The master is certainly playing sardines with you, but you won’t let him win.” She straightened, eyes widening with sudden alarm, then hastened toward the archway, jamming to a halt to narrowly avoid a collision as Nell entered.
“There you are, Babette. You know very well you’re not to disturb Lady Montrose,” Nell scolded, albeit without any real heat.
Babette turned to Annabelle, wide-eyed. “I beg your pardon, milady.”
Annabelle didn’t hesitate to maintain Babette’s ruse. “Never fear, Nell, Babette merely offered coffee, which I declined.”
Nell sighed in evident relief. “Very good, ma’am.” She moved forward and began clearing the used dishes from the table while Babette hovered in the corridor, wearing a small, mischievous grin.
“In fact, I prefer an after-dinner drink. Brandy, I think. Kindly deliver it to me upstairs,” Annabelle added smoothly, pushing back from the table.
“Of course, ma’am. You’ll enjoy your toddy in your bedchamber,” Nell agreed equably.
“No. I refer to the rooftop. Babette, fetch my cloak.”
***
Sterling lowered his grandfather’s old telescope and turned up the collar of his greatcoat, hunching against another icy gust of wind that seared every scrap of his exposed skin. It wasn’t exactly a night made for stargazing.
On a positive note, the winter storm had finally passed, leaving the skies clear.
Stars glinted above him like a sea of glittering beach glass, as far as the eye could see.
He reached into the pocket of his coat for the flask he’d brought and thumbed off the cork.
Then he took a long draw and relished the burn.
Despite the discomfort owing to the temperature, he’d made the right call, avoiding the chit, he told himself again.
He had no business letting her get to him, letting her crawl under his skin ’til he itched for the sight and smell and taste of her.
’Til his insides screamed for one touch of her unblemished, satiny-looking skin.
His last glimpse of her had nearly done him in. There she’d stood, gazing up at him with undisguised longing in her liquid blue eyes. That had not helped matters. Not one iota. He still couldn’t say whether she’d been aware of the enticing sight she made.
Blood of the saints. He should never have allowed her past the front door. But what else could he have done? Sent her to the inn, half-frozen, to be leered at by the likes of Vane?
His lip curled into a reflexive sneer, imagining that affront to nature.
No. He’d made the best decision he could, given the choices he’d had. Just like choosing to subject himself to the freezing winds to avoid her had been as the lesser of two evils.
He wondered how long it had taken her to realize he wasn’t planning to join her for dinner. On the other hand, she might not have blinked a sooty eyelash over his absence.
Unlike himself.
He took a long draw of whiskey. If he drank enough, and he planned to, he’d pass out the moment his head hit the pillow and skip the nocturnal obsessing over his pretty, enigmatic houseguest who had kept him awake through the wee hours last night.
Every time he’d closed his eyes, he’d seen her golden locks spilling over the white pillow, felt the warmth of her body luxuriating under the bed sheets.
On that torturous thought, he slugged more whiskey.
In the morning, he’d suffer through breakfast with her long enough to share the arrangements he’d made this afternoon for her transport off the island tomorrow.
Once she was safely out of his hair, he would finally do what he’d been putting off for far too long, for no discernible reason. He would wrap things up here on the island and go home.
Annabelle had asked him today why he’d come. To grieve his grandfather had been his reply.
His answer was only partially true. He’d come because he needed to leave London. He’d stayed to grieve his grandfather—and for reasons beyond that, which even now he couldn’t precisely put into words.
Freedom, perhaps? From the self-imposed strictures he placed on himself to look after his siblings? But could he ever really let go of the reins? He doubted it.
He’d embraced his role as big brother from as early as his Eton days, when his mother’s health suddenly declined, leaving her bedridden much of the time.
Naturally, his father became preoccupied with her care.
It was all a matter of course, and Sterling never blamed either of his parents, needs must.
Still, he’d recognized that neither was paying enough attention to rearing Caroline and their younger brother, Harrison—at least, as far as he was concerned—and that left him to do it. The role stuck.
His father had seemed pleased with the arrangement, even if his two siblings sometimes grumbled.
Not so, his grandfather. The marquess had lectured Sterling on numerous occasions about his tendency to “parent”—as he termed it—Caroline and Harrison.
“Allow your brother and sister to make their own mistakes as you did, m’boy. You’ve your own life to live, and your own lessons to learn, something you and my son both seem to have forgotten,” he said the last time the two of them had spoken on the matter.
“Oh? And look what a stellar job my father did overseeing Caroline’s suitors during the Season I had the misfortune to be elsewhere. You’re aware she’s engaged to that Montrose peacock.”
“Yes, and something will need to be done about that,” he’d replied darkly, then looked him in the eye. “But enough about that. Let’s talk about you. It’s time for you to marry, Sterling.”
“I know,” he’d assured the marquess. “I will.”
“You will?” Spoken in that tone that said he didn’t believe a word.
“Yes. I just said so, didn’t I?”
The marquess had smiled his cagey smile. “Who?"
“A woman?” Sterling had suggested, blandly.
His grandfather had snorted. “You’ve ruled all of them out, as far as I can tell.”
“I’ll know her when I see her,” Sterling had assured him.
And then, following his death, he’d proceeded to hie off to Holy Island to rusticate like a hermit.
Now, he snorted. Annabelle called it “hiding.” In truth, he didn’t know what it was.
Yes, his return to London was long past due.
Already feeling the effects of the strong spirits—his cheeks felt numb to the cold—he corked the whiskey, tucked it into his coat pocket, and contemplated what was next for him.
Mayhap it was time to take a wife. Mayhap it wouldn’t be so bad. Zeke, his oldest friend, had recently married, and he seemed happy with the arrangement. Certainly, Sterling’s parents would be pleased.
Yet the thought of weeding through the marriageable ladies of the ton made his head ache.
He laughed. Mayhap he’d finally stumbled on the reason he’d dragged his feet about returning. If his vexing reaction to Annabelle told him anything, it was at least past time for him to see to his physical needs. Mayhap a mistress, then.
The creak of door hinges on the far side of the stair tower announced Cogsworth or Chip’s arrival.