25. Chapter 25 #2
Watching her, throughout breakfast and now, he experienced the oddest sensations, some tangible, some less so.
A sort of possessive pride welled up inside him, expanding beneath his ribs so that his chest felt too tight.
His skin thrummed with pulsing heat, while his insides felt positively molten.
His palms insisted upon staying damp despite his having scrubbed them dry repeatedly, and, truth be told, his hands shook.
Almost worse than anything, though, was the smile that kept trying to erupt on his face. Why, for God’s sake? Because he’d said a few words before the vicar? Because his bride had repeated those words? Because he wanted to bed her so badly and soon would?
Maybe the last. Maybe.
Reaching the third landing, he had a sudden thought of his friend, Zeke, again. He remembered how befuddled Zeke’s fiancée had made him, and how amused that had made Sterling. If only he’d known what the man had gone through.
Scratch that. He still would have laughed. He wasn’t laughing now, however.
At his chambers, she paused before the closed door. Sterling reached around her and opened the door.
Then, on instinct, nothing he’d made a conscious plan to do—he scooped Annabelle into his arms. She chirped in surprise and twined her arms around his neck as he stepped over the threshold.
Kicking his booted foot behind him, he closed the door. His bed, massive and inviting, beckoned to him. He wanted nothing more than to deposit his bride onto the plush mattress, rid both of them of their clothing, and make love to her ’til he couldn’t see straight.
In his arms, however, Annabelle was shaking like a leaf. His brave, beautiful, unexpected wife. For some reason, he had not anticipated that this day and what lay ahead would cause her any anxiety. He should have.
Girding himself for the torturous wait, however long it took, he bypassed the bed and strode toward the armchairs near the hearth where a silver salver holding the open bottle of champagne and the two flutes he’d requested awaited them.
He set her on her feet, sent her his most magnanimous smile, and gestured toward one of the chairs. “Madam wife, kindly have a seat.”
After casting a furtive glance toward the bed, she did as he asked, then set about arranging her skirts as he filled the flutes.
He handed her one, plucked up his own, and took the adjacent chair. He sipped, contemplating her for a long moment, and thought about what he might say to make his new wife comfortable. After a moment, a silly parlor game he’d endured at a house party one summer sprang to mind.
“It occurs to me that we do not know each other all that well, Annabelle.”
“No, we certainly do not,” she agreed.
“I propose a game of Speculation.”
“What is this game?” she asked, eyes bright as her innate curiosity rose up within her. Enough to overshadow her wedding jitters? He fervently hoped so.
“We take turns, each making a speculative statement about the other, which must be declared true or false with a brief explanation. If the statement is true, the turn passes to the next player. If false, the speculator pays a forfeit.”
She considered that. “What sort of forfeit?”
“Winner’s choice.”
She studied him as if trying to determine if he plotted against her. Finally, she gave an almost imperceptible nod.
“Ladies first,” he said.
Her eyes narrowed in thought, and she sank her straight white teeth into her lower lip.
He stared unrepentantly. She was, after all, his legally wedded wife in nearly every sense of the word. Nearly.
“I speculate you perfected your look of bold arrogance while a boy, attending Eton.”
Sterling blinked. Then threw his head back, laughing. When he had his humor under control, he gave her a faux-aggrieved look. “I cannot attest to that either way. You shall have to try again—or pay a forfeit, now.”
Her blue eyes danced with humor that should not have aroused him, but caused his groin to tighten with unmistakeable desire, nonetheless. He shifted in his chair, in an ineffectual effort to lessen the effects.
“Very well. I speculate you would rather spend an evening alone with your estate ledgers than one hour at Almack’s.”
Grinning, he lifted his champagne in a silent toast, sipped. “True. I detest Almack’s with its rigorous rules, watered-down lemonade, and wall of terrified debutantes—all in virginal white.”
“And don’t forget the marriage-minded mamas on the lookout for their daughters’ ducal conquests.”
“Never. My turn,” he said. “I suspect your first word was not ‘mama’ or ‘papa’ but ‘pony’.”
Engaged in sipping her champagne at the moment of his pronouncement, she gave every appearance of now shooting said champagne through her nose, thanks to the laughter bursting from her lips. It was apparent she could also not decide whether to smile or glare at him. “My lord—”
“Sterling, while we are alone, at the very least, please.”
She sobered. “Very well. Sterling.” She slanted him a peeved look. “That was not well done of you, Sterling. Of course, I would laugh at that nonsense, and I had just taken a sip.”
“All’s fair,” he murmured. In love and war? And which instance was this, precisely?
“For your information, I cannot possibly know my first word. But if your true intent is to claim that I prefer horses to people, you are correct. My turn.” She squared her shoulders.
“I speculate that if anyone so much as hints at insulting your sister, you would cheerfully call him out for pistols at dawn.”
“Pistols? A fight to the death? Over a slight?” he scoffed, brows arched. “False, madam.”
That obviously surprised her. “But…you are so very protective of both Caroline and your brother—Harrison, isn’t it?”
“Yes,” he replied. "Protective? I suppose I have been accused of that a time or two.” Or ten. “And I do make it my business to guide both of them as needed…”
A sardonic smile curved her mouth. Gawds, but she was beautiful. A face carved by the angels.