16. Chapter 16
Sterling crossed into the parlor, a chamber he rarely had occasion to use as he received few visitors at the castle.
That had changed these past few days. The dark reds, golds, and greens of the furnishings, carpets, and wall hangings glowed in the golden flames of the crackling hearth and stuttering wall tapers, creating a warm, cozy atmosphere.
Annabelle, wearing the soft rose-gold colored gown Babette had refashioned for her, stood with her back to him, gazing out one of the small arched windows. The gown fitted her to perfection, emphasizing the elegant curve of her back, and the slender span of her waist.
Her long hair was partially bound at her crown, leaving the length of it to fall in artful waves down her back. The flaxen strands glinted, reflecting the chamber’s ambient light.
She looked right in the chamber, like she belonged nowhere else. Like a mistress of the manor, preparing to receive her visitors.
Or a wife.
“Good evening.” He eased further into the room.
She shifted ‘round to face him, a tentative smile curving her lush lips. “Good evening.”
“I see Babette once again made excellent use of my sister’s wardrobe.”
Her smile dimmed. “Yes.”
It’s kindness she needs…A compliment wouldn’t go amiss.
“The color suits you,” he blurted. “In point of fact, you look quite fetching.” He waited, anticipating the vainglorious rejoinder that was sure to follow.
None came. Her wide-set blue eyes widened with evident pleasure and, if he wasn’t mistaken, surprise.
That made no sense. Her chamber included a tall looking glass. She knew the captivating sight she presented. He’d read that on her the moment they’d met.
And yet, her expression had softened.
Or perhaps his mind was playing tricks. Perhaps she looked different to him because she’d ceased glaring at him for the moment.
“I hope Lady Caroline will not mind.” As she spoke, her fingertips feathered over the velvet that trimmed the bodice. His gaze dipped to the expanse of creamy skin, the generous swell of breasts, and the enticing line of cleavage above said trim. His groin tightened.
Hell. He ripped his gaze from her chest and strode for the credenza, aware his inconvenient arousal might be less so if he ceased ogling his houseguest. “I daresay my sister would take me to task if I did not avail you of her wardrobe. Join me for a glass of wine before dinner?” Sterling could use one.
“Just a splash.” Linking her hands behind her back, she crossed the room to join him.
Notes of fresh herbs and an indefinable feminine elixir teased his nostrils. He’d come to realize the scent came from the woman herself and not any applied fragrance.
“I liked—like Lady Caroline very much. I always thought her gentle manner…” she hesitated before completing her sentence. “…would do Gaston good.”
He grunted, rather than speak his mind on that front, and splashed a measure of wine into two crystal wine glasses, then turned to hand her one.
“Thank you,” she murmured before sipping. “I had no idea you went out after our return from Fenwick.”
“I hope that means you were enjoying your bath,” he told her with a grin.
She blinked. “I did. Very much. I was not sure who to thank for the consideration.”
“No thanks necessary. I…er…merely thought you might appreciate…that is…” Why in hell was he stammering?
She sent him a beatific smile that did something to his ribs, as if they’d suddenly grown too tight for the space they enclosed.
“It was like freshly prepared hot chocolate and a hard ride on a high-strung horse and a perfect spring day all wrapped into one. It was perfect. Thank you.”
He stared at her, more touched by her unguarded statement than he could say. But he did need to say something. “You’re welcome,” he finally managed.
“You were seeing to your village responsibilities, then? A viscount’s day is never done, it seems.” She sipped more wine.
He chuckled. “Not exactly. I wanted to ask in town after that guide.”
“Mr. Blackwell, you mean? What about him?”
For some reason, he did not want to admit to her that he’d had words with the man.
“I thought it prudent to ask if anyone knew him, and, if so, whether he had any known associates.” He’d also made it clear that the man was not welcome on Holy Island.
If he showed his face, Sterling would hear about it.
“You still believe he worked in cahoots with those dirty criminals?”
“I think it likely.”
“I wish you luck in tracking them down, sir.”
In all likelihood, Annabelle would not be around to see it, however. She’d be enjoying the Season. Racking up suitors. He downed a large portion of his wine.
“Do you know, Babette got it in her head I would return to the castle with you and managed the alteration earlier today? She even found a pair of slippers for me to use.”
“Did she? She gets a lot of ideas.”
Milady has been hurt.
“What happened to her?” she asked, eyeing him cautiously. “I won’t say anything to her about it,” she hastened to assure him. “I just…I don’t like the idea of anyone frightening her or causing her harm.”
“Nor do I,” he replied, trying to decide what, if anything, he should tell her. “If you must know, she was accosted while engaged in her work as a lady’s maid.”
Annabelle frowned. “By a footman, you mean?”
“No. By a gentleman, a peer, who happened to be visiting.”
An odd look crossed her face. “I see. She invited it on herself, then? I’d never have thought so.” She shook her head with regret.
He stared at her, fully taken aback. What utter rubbish.
It took her a moment to notice, then whatever she saw in his face had her stepping back. “Why are you looking at me like that?”
“Like what?”
She lifted her chin in defiance. “Like I’m a monster.”
He huffed out a laugh that held no trace of humor. “Because you said something monstrous.”
She blinked several times. “It’s a common enough tale, Lord Randall. Servant girls, trying to rise from their stations by luring gentlemen of the monied class. And poor Babette…Well, anyone can see she’s an innocent. She got more than she bargained for.”
“More than she bargained for,” he echoed. “Are you hearing yourself?”
She had the nerve to look offended at his tone.
“Did it ever occur to you that these servant girls of whom you so flippantly speak might have no say in the matter where certain gentlemen are concerned?”
“I…of course. But then…oh, never mind.” She set her barely sipped wine on the credenza and wrapped her arms around herself.
He finished his in one swallow and closed the distance she’d put between them, setting his empty glass beside hers. “No, I insist. Do go on.”
Her chin wobbled.
Good God. Now she would turn on the tears. He opened his mouth to rescind his demand, but she held up her hand to him, palm out.
“I asked my mother,” she said. “I had…heard of a situation whereby a”—she cleared her throat—“governess, employed by a wealthy family, had been sacked. When I asked my mother about it, she explained that the woman had attempted to lure one of her betters into ‘a compromising position.’”
He said nothing as he absorbed the dastardly implications and formed the obvious conclusion: Annabelle was a mere product of her upbringing, resembling any number of other deluded, upper-crust, cosseted women exactly like her.
In other words, she epitomized the worst of his class.
“Mama said, ‘Annabelle, let this be a lesson. When you manage your own household, you must run a tight ship, keep a constant watch on the maids, weeding out jezebels, and hiring the h-homely ones whenever possible.’” By the time she finished quoting her all-wise mama, her voice was so soft it was almost a whisper.
He saw no reason to belabor the point. She was ignorant and happy to remain so.
“It’s late,” he said, changing the subject. “We should venture into the dining room before Cook refuses to serve us dinner.” He started for the door.
Annabelle made no move to join him. “Are you saying your own mother would allow such shenanigans under her roof, Lord Randall?” she asked, a quaver undermining the confident tone she’d projected.
Standing in the threshold, he folded his arms over his chest. “I believe you’re mistaking the perpetrator of said ‘shenanigans.’ Ask yourself who holds the power. Who has the money and freedom to act with impunity, and who doesn’t?”
A troubled frown puckered her brow, and she hugged herself more tightly. “Are you saying that Babette…that she not only did not encourage this man’s attentions, but that she…that he…?”
Rather than state the obvious for anyone who had half a brain—and he already knew Annabelle possessed more than her share of intelligence—he responded with a question of his own.
“Are you so sure the governess whom you described as having ‘lost’ her post, allegedly because she plied her feminine wiles, was not, after all, the injured party?”
She only stared at him, a bleakness in her eyes he did not care for in the least—as if someone had just explained to her that Father Christmas didn’t exist.
He raked a hand through his hair. Hell’s Teeth. He preferred her disdain to this…this…whatever this was.
“I’ll inform the servants we wish to eat,” he all but growled. “Finish your wine, Lady Annabelle. I’ll return to escort you momentarily.”
When he returned less than five minutes later, he found the room uninhabited. With a sense of foreboding, he strode for the dining room and discovered it empty, as well.
He seated himself at the table, a vague sense of contrition churning his guts.
Though why he should suffer any conscience over their discussion was beyond him.
He’d merely exposed Annabelle to a truth often shrouded by members of their own “upper” class, who chose willful ignorance of their own terrible behavior while casting the guilt of it onto others.