11. Chapter 11
Annabelle pressed her lips to his, lips so soft and ripe and searching there was no question but that he kiss her back.
After that, Sterling’s ability to think, to reason, vaporized. The desire he’d kept at bay through sheer will exploded within him, infusing every inch of his body, to leave him hot and weak and desperate—to taste. To plunder. To revel in every last exquisite morsel of her.
As if they had a will of their own, his hands hauled her closer—but not nearly close enough.
She wriggled in his grasp and for a heart-stopping moment he feared she meant to push him away. Then her arms twined around his neck, locking him to her.
A thrumming need to bring more of her into contact with more of him drove out all other consideration.
Cupping the crown of her head to anchor her mouth to his, he wrapped one arm around her slender waist, lifted her off her feet and pressed forward ’til he crashed their straining bodies into the immovable parapet.
Heaven. Even separated by the thick layers of clothing, her body fitted with his in absolute perfection.
A shudder rolling through him, he deepened the kiss, sliding his tongue over the seam of her lush lips.
With no hesitation she parted for him, and he slid into her moist heat, reveling in the slick underside of her lips.
The taste of her, sweet wine and exotic female and unspeakable mystery, intoxicated his senses.
A groan sounded in his throat, half pleasure, half frustration.
She was soft and supple, warm and inviting, and he longed to divest her of her many layers to run his hands over her pristine flesh, to explore every womanly curve, every hollow.
He was on the verge of peeling off a glove when a creak sounded behind him. The door to the stair tower opening.
Hell’s teeth. He had lost his bloody mind.
Releasing her, he tore his mouth from hers, then took one massive step back.
Not that the distance he’d placed between them would fool anyone as to what they’d been about in the preceding moments, thanks to the combined cacophony of their harsh breaths.
Disgust with himself and his pathetic lapse of control hollowed out his insides.
He turned in time to see Babette round the stair tower.
She was bundled in a cloak and scarves, wore thick gloves, and carried a small tray boasting what appeared at a glance to be a single glass of port.
Huddled behind the voluminous folds of clothing, he couldn’t make out her expression, but a certain rigidity to her movements communicated her displeasure, all directed at him.
Bloody hell. All he needed now to compound his guilt was for Babette to come unhinged by what she perceived as having happened. By what she rightly perceived.
“My port,” Annabelle said from behind him, aplomb restored as if the two of them had not been locked in a passionate embrace seconds before.
She glided past him, skirts billowing, and took up a position between Sterling and Babette, before swiping up the glass from the tray.
If he didn’t know better, he’d say she was attempting to shield him from the maid’s censure.
As if gracing a parlor, the woman took a dainty sip.
“Thank you, Babette. You may await me in my bedchamber.”
He nearly snorted. Apparently she was now the mistress of Stoneford Castle, and he the guest.
Babette did not depart. Instead, she leaned her head to look past Annabelle toward Sterling, and though he couldn’t be sure, seemed to aim a glare at him. “I am happy to await you here, milady, and see you safely down the stairs when you are ready.”
He blinked at the young maid’s composure. She sounded almost like any other maid. Not at all like the Babette he’d experienced thus far.
“Nonsense. Go now,” Annabelle said, her words brooking no dissension.
Enough.
“It grows late. I propose we all turn in,” Sterling ordered, trying to regain some semblance of control.
Babette nodded as if in approval.
Annabelle, however, stiffened, and for a moment he anticipated an argument. Blasted woman.
Instead, she brought the small crystal glass to her mouth for another sip, then she held the unfinished glass toward Babette.
A moment later the two women filed into the stair tower with Annabelle sparing him one parting but unreadable glance before she disappeared inside.
Bloody, bloody hell. He raked a hand through his hair. What had he done? Given into temptation, that’s what, despite all his careful plotting to avoid said temptation. He peeled off his coat and slammed it onto the ground, hoping the frigid air might cool his overheated body. Fool.
Not for one minute had he thought she’d follow him up onto the roof.
But she had, she and that damned fresh scent that surrounded her like a taunting lure.
Still, if that was all, he could have resisted her.
But there was today, seeing her with Babette, then the vision she made in the moonlight, and her awe at glimpsing her first shooting star.
And what difference did any of that make?
She was still the too-beautiful, spoiled daughter of a pompous, socially grasping marquess.
Still the woman who imagined her station and stunning looks entitled her to anything and anyone she wanted.
A girl who the world had taught to snap her fingers and laugh as men fell at her feet or danced to her tune, depending upon her whim at the time.
The ton was full of such superficial creatures that played with men’s lives like pieces on a chessboard.
It was a game he refused to play.
The kiss she’d commenced—not he—was all the reminder he needed, since he seemed to require one.
She did not care in the least what kind of position she’d put him in, didn’t care that his honor was every bit as important to him as her virtue should have been to her.
She simply felt an itch and decided to use him to scratch it.
And he was the idiot who’d obliged her. Who’d reveled in the madness.
Who would now, undoubtedly, lie awake the entire night, instead of just a portion of it, and burn for the last woman on earth whom he should covet because she personified the sort he’d vowed to avoid in the aftermath of Dillon’s tragic death.
Shivering now with cold that had seeped into his bones, he extinguished the lone hanging lamp with fingers clumsy with frost. Finally, he covered the telescope, shrugged into his coat, and exited the roof into the stair tower.
He stood there for a long moment in the dimly lit space, leaning on the heavy wooden door. Body thawing. Ears ringing in the relative silence following the deafening wind that scoured the rooftop.
He fished in his pocket and retrieved the flask for a last, long draw.
That kiss, that interlude, had been a mistake. A terrible mistake. And not solely because he’d all-but compromised Lady Annabelle, nor because—by indulging his carnal desire for the lady—he’d tarnished his own integrity.
But because the feel of Annabelle’s lips under his, of her body nestled into his, had been so unlike anything he’d thus far experienced.
He’d made love to his fair share of beautiful women, with the expected, gratifying results. But now, with this beautiful woman…he could hardly wrap his mind around it. In his wildest imaginings he couldn’t have foreseen the intoxicating, soul-shattering, glorious splendor of it.
He started down the stairs, a creeping dread settling in his chest that he had not begun to grasp where the ultimate repercussions for his reckless indulgence would lead.
***
The following morning, as Babette helped her into her once-favorite travel gown, Annabelle silently vowed to burn it when next she got it off. Despite the embellishments the maid had added to it and the care it had received at her hands, Annabelle was sick to death of wearing it.
Worse, she knew to the core of her being she would never glimpse it again without recalling him and the wonder of being held and kissed and, she would swear, worshipped by him.
Nor would she forget the resounding humiliation she’d suffered when, seconds after bringing her the greatest pleasure she’d ever known, Lord Sterling Randall had cast her away from him like so much rubbish.
Enough. She had spent a long night in a half-sleep state reliving the rooftop scene. She must gather herself before she faced him in the dining room in several minutes. But first, she must say her goodbyes to Babette.
“Babette, I…wanted to thank you for all your help during my stay at the castle. You’ve been…I’ve enjoyed you.” There.
Babette smiled her angelic smile. “Milady needs a pair of slippers to wear inside the castle. Much more comfortable than heavy boots. I shall have a pair ready for you later today.”
Oh, dear. She’d underestimated Babette’s mental deficiencies. At times she seemed so sage, other times… “Babette, that is most thoughtful. But, you understand, I am leaving today, and I am not returning.”
She shook her head. “No. Milady is not leaving today.”
Annabelle blinked. “But I am.”
Babette’s honey-brown eyes welled with tears even as a mulish expression covered her face. In the next instant, she picked up her skirts and ran from the room.
Annabelle stared after her, the backs of her own eyes stinging. For pity’s sake. She didn’t have time for this nonsense. She needed to reserve her mental strength for the real challenge ahead.
Squaring her shoulders, she drew a bracing breath, and exited the guest chamber.
Descending the stairs, dread filled her. How would she ever face Lord Randall this morning? And yet a simultaneous thrill left her almost giddy with anticipation, like a child promised her first pony ride.
She was certainly mad.
Nothing had gone as planned. She’d come here intent on proving Lord Randall’s guilt or complicity in Gaston’s death with no question in her mind that he had played a role. Now she’d questioned him, however, and he’d denied any wrongdoing—repeatedly.
She actually…almost believed him.