11. Chapter 11 #2
Almost, but not quite. There was more to his involvement than he was letting on. There had to be. It could not be a coincidence, him, there, the night Gaston died.
She rounded the stairwell and started down the second flight.
Not that it mattered, anymore. Lord Randall’s guilt or innocence notwithstanding, she would leave today with nothing to show for her efforts save a secret memory to cherish in the coming months while she was paraded before one horrid contender for her hand after another on the marriage mart.
A horse on the auction block. Prime stock.
Step this way, folks and get a good look at her teeth.
Her one chance to prove that her worth lay in more than what her face and figure could garner, to earn her parents’ gratitude if not their affection, had slipped through her fingers like sand.
She had not eked a confession out of Lord Randall, but she had wound up throwing herself at him like the most desperate of creatures. Like the homely, pathetic misfit I was as a child, unworthy of even my family’s affections.
Bitterness twisted her stomach into a hard knot.
She hated thinking of that time, of the poor little girl she’d been before reaching adolescence, so fair and pale as to appear practically hairless, as thin as a waif, and bearing that strange eye affliction which had necessitated the use of a black patch until her two eyes managed to work as one rather than cross.
Wearing the patch, she looked like a child pirate—something Gaston had found exceedingly humiliating and which he complained of to their parents when he thought she wasn’t in hearing range.
She’d have gladly tossed the thing, except that not wearing it left her looking like an imbecile and seeing double.
Of course, her family had wanted to keep her out of sight. Of course they had. They had reputations to build and later, to uphold. Their uncommonly good looks gave them a foothold in society which they desperately needed.
From her debut, Mother, though a commoner, was known for her grace and splendor, and Father, the newly ennobled marquess, for his swoon-worthy appeal. When they’d married, everyone had raved over the handsome pair they made. Then came their first-born son. A golden-haired, blue-eyed boy.
And then came Ugly Annabelle.
But she wasn’t Ugly Annabelle anymore. Her beauty had simply taken its sweet time to metamorphose. And after that, she’d finally known the power of being beautiful.
Maybe she had kissed Lord Randall, but he had kissed her back. Moreover, she was not some common creature, easily cast aside, and she would depart with her head held high.
She reached the dining hall, took a fortifying breath, and crossed the threshold.
Making for the sideboard, she congratulated herself on not so much as blinking at the heart-stopping sight of Lord Sterling Randall seated at the head of the table, the broad scope of his shoulders, squared, his posture erect, his thick, dark hair gleaming in the morning light streaming through the multi-paned glass window.
Reaching for a dish, she saw him push away from the table and rise. “Good morning, Lady Annabelle.”
The rich timbre of his voice tickled her insides, like a feather sliding down her spine, but she only spared him a nonchalant glance. “My lord.”
“Coffee, or tea?” he asked, civilly, as if nothing untoward had happened last night.
“Tea. Thank you.” She helped herself to a warm slice of toast and thick pad of butter. Perusing the array of other offerings—eggs, beans, streaky ham—she decided nothing else appealed. Too many butterflies fluttered inside her belly.
She joined him at the table, pulse spiking when he pulled out the chair for her before resuming his own seat.
Drawing the steaming teacup he’d filled for her to her lips, she felt his dark stare. It pulled at her until she had no choice but to regard him, equally.
He looked different, somehow. Less assured. Faint smudges underscored his eyes as if, like her, he’d slept fitfully.
Perversely, her spirits lifted at the thought. “Are you unwell, my lord?”
A soft snort preceded the smile that played at his mouth. “Why does your question strike me as hopeful sounding, Lady Annabelle?”
She opened her mouth to deny any such thing, but he went on. “In any case, never fear. I am quite well. You may have noticed that the weather is fine today, as I predicted. The ride to the mainland this morning should prove uneventful.”
“This morning? But won’t the tide be high?”
“I’ve hired a coble to take us across.”
A boat. She had not considered he might take her over the sea. She pushed down the fear trying to choke her and focused instead on his use of the word us. “Am I to take it you’ve reconsidered joining me?”
He lifted one thick brow. “To London? No.”
She knifed up a sliver of butter and spread it over a portion of the toast.
Lord Randall eyed her plate dispassionately, then abruptly rose.
Assuming he meant to quit the dining hall and leave her as he had thus far shown a marked propensity to do, she bit into her toast and refused to utter the first word of complaint.
But then, he only made for the sideboard.
She told herself she was not relieved.
He returned to the table, slid aside her small bread plate, and settled a steaming plate of food before her.
She blinked at the food. “What is this?”
He reseated himself. “Breakfast.”
She frowned at him.
He shrugged, not meeting her eye. “It will be several hours before we reach the Pilgrim’s Rest. You should eat something more substantial than toast.”
“I’m not hungry,” she said, sounding like a petulant child even to her own ears.
He slid her a vexed look. “A few bites, then.”
She tried to work out what malicious scheme this was, and for the life of her could not come up with one.
“Did you poison the eggs?” she finally asked.
Laughter erupted from his lips. He had a robust laugh, and very straight, very white teeth. He did not have the uniquely attractive golden hair and peach-complected skin of which her family boasted. Nevertheless, she found him exceedingly handsome. Annoyingly so.
She dropped her gaze to the plate he’d set before her and tried without success to staunch an answering smile.
“Lady Annabelle,” he began, his tone almost gentle, “invited or not, you are a guest in my home, and, believe it or not, my desire for you to eat a fortifying meal before our journey is for your welfare, alone.”
A rush of warmth suffused her at the unexpected kindness. She nodded her thanks and picked up her cutlery. After the first bite of eggs, she realized she was hungry after all.
From the corner of her eye, she saw him nod, as if satisfied.
“Now, then. I have a few things to see to before we depart. Kindly be ready to leave for the landing in an hour.” He rose and started for the exit.
“I…Lord Randall, it seems a lot of trouble to go through, to hire a boat when I have a perfectly good mount.”
“The boat can accommodate horses as well as human passengers, and alleviates the need to await the changing tide. Traveling over the channel, we can get you on your way home much more expeditiously.” With a jaunty grin, he rapped the door jamb and walked out.
She hated boats. But the journey would be brief, surely?
On a positive note, he’d made no mention of last night’s rooftop interlude. Better that than for him to chastise her like a child for her lack of impulse control.
Likely, in retrospect the kiss had been of no real consequence to him. Undoubtedly, he’d kissed many a lady.
For Annabelle, though, that kiss had been beyond anything she could have imagined. Regardless of what happened in future, of who she was forced to marry and what she might endure, she would remember the feel of his arms around her, his mouth on hers and know she had touched the stars.