31. Chapter 31
Annabelle’s expression in the candlelit room didn’t give Sterling much to go on as far as gauging her receptivity to him. On the other hand, she hadn’t summarily ordered him out.
He took that as a good sign.
She folded her elegant hands in her lap and regarded him in silence.
By the saints, she was lovely, and seemed to grow more so by the minute, especially in repose, as she was now. Her face—angel-hewn. Her long tresses, unbound from her coiffure, hung loose and gleamed like gold silk.
Having made up her mind not to leave her chamber tonight, she’d eschewed formal evening attire in favor of a soft linen gown of deep blue under which, he’d bet his last farthing, she wore no undergarments.
He swallowed as his groin tightened. Best not to think about that.
Clasping his hands behind his back like a recalcitrant schoolboy called to task, he made the split-second decision to employ his sister’s terminology. “I wanted to apologize for my brusque tone, earlier.”
“I see.”
“I spoke harshly,” he admitted. “In retrospect, too harshly.”
He waited for her response, anticipating she would second his motion if not pile on additional criticism.
She said nothing.
Hell’s teeth.
Scratching his temple, he stammered on. “Do you want…er…I beg your pardon. I shall take my meal and leave you to yours, as promised.” He reached for one of the domed plates.
“No,” she said in a rush that sent a spray of gooseflesh over his skin.
Sterling stilled and waited.
In a more reserved tone, with the posture of a queen, she added, “You may stay to eat your dinner. No sense allowing your meal to grow cold.”
His initial relief faded. She sounded…off. Not angry, per se, but neither was her affect one of triumph or playfulness. Certainly, it was a far cry from mollified.
“Good. Shall we eat, then?” he asked, striving to inject a cheerful note into the words.
“Mm,” came her non-committal reply.
He removed the domes to reveal two steaming plates of lamb stew, then splashed a large portion of red wine into the two empty goblets. Afterward, he nearly sat. He could reach his wine, his cutlery, his dish.
Instead, he dragged the second armchair close to his wife’s. Close enough, he could smell her fresh scent. Could touch her, if he so chose.
If she allowed him to do so.
Out of the corner of his eye, he saw her watching, a stillness about her. It was as if she had something she contemplated saying, but hadn’t yet decided if she would.
He picked up his cutlery—something she’d neglected to do thus far—and sent her a speculative look. “You aren’t hungry?”
A patently false smile curved her mouth, and she picked up her fork and knife.
Sterling bypassed his own plate in favor of hers and forked up a large bite of potato in sauce, then leaned toward her, fork aloft.
“I don’t know if you’ve had this particular dish of Cook’s. It’s simple, but mouthwateringly delicious.”
Looking somewhat taken aback, she nevertheless opened her mouth, accepting the offering.
Propping his elbow on the armrest and his chin on his fist, he stared at her, making no pretense of the fact.
She chewed, swallowed, and a pink blush crawled up her cheeks. When she went to employ her own cutlery, he brushed her hands aside, cut a succulent morsel of the tender meat, and held it toward her.
This time, she frowned, searching his face as if trying to ascertain what game he was playing. “Aren’t you hungry?”
“Yes,” he said in all honesty—in more ways than one. “I simply enjoy watching my wife eat.”
Her blue eyes widened. Her lips parted, then closed over the fork.
Next, he scooped up her wine and handed it to her.
A bemused smile curving her mouth, she took it and sipped.
Only then did he begin his own meal.
They ate in companionable silence for the next several minutes. Then, very deliberately, she set down her fork. “I don’t entirely blame you, you know.”
He slid her a look. “No? For which part am I not to blame, if you don’t mind my asking?”
She picked up her wine, sipped. “Earlier, I did not want to give your accusations credence, but, upon reflection, I should have considered Caroline’s safety when we made the decision to go out so late in the day.”
“Caroline’s safety,” he echoed, nonplussed.
She picked up her fork and toyed with the food on her plate. He was glad to see she had made a dent. Earlier, he’d asked Cook to make this special—for her. To tempt her. Because he’d detected a pattern with Annabelle. It seemed when his wife had something on her mind, she lost her taste for food.
But she could be lured into eating. He smiled to himself.
“I know how much your sister means to you. As it happens,” she said, huffing out an embarrassed laugh, “she means quite a lot to me, as well. I would never put her in danger. Not for anything in the world.”
His momentary triumph faded. “I see. So you thought, what? That my anger stemmed from worry over my sister?”
She nodded. “Of course. I know how very protective of her you are. Of your entire family.”
“That is entirely true,” he admitted. He reached across and forked up a portion of peas in gravy from her plate, then held it to her.
“Sterling, you really do not need to—”
“Humor me,” he murmured.
She acquiesced.
Then he spoke. “My sister paid me a visit—following our…er…discussion.”
She swallowed. “Did she?”
“Yes.” He fed her a bite of potato. “She told me in no uncertain terms I’d been a brute, and that she understood what lies behind my less-than-stellar attitude.”
“Of course. She would,” she said. She lowered her gaze to her lap, but not before he’d glimpsed what he had been too dense to see before. Hurt.
Not because he’d snapped at her. But because of why—in her skewed opinion—he’d done so.
Which left him a choice. To leave her with her mistaken assumption, or bare a part of himself that he had never let into the light.
He could easily do the former. After all, she no longer fumed with anger. But for some reason, he did not want to take the easy way out.
“I have been accused on more than one occasion of employing dictatorial methods when the welfare of those for whom I care is in question.” He took a large swallow of wine in preparation for admitting to the rest.
Then she beat him to it. “Because of your friend?” she asked, her voice gentle. “Dillon, wasn’t it?”
His stomach tightened into a fist.
That fast. She comprehended what drove him like she’d known him all his life.
He took a moment to school his breathing, then spoke, voice gruff.
“That is Caroline’s theory. I’ve long denied any such thing.
Tonight, however, I realize…” He cleared his throat.
“It has merit. Perhaps, in my zeal to thwart any and every threat of danger to those I care for, I may have a tendency to overstep.”
She sent him a look of such tenderness, he found it momentarily hard to go on. She, his wife, the one he’d accused of being heartless, uppity, shallow.
“Perhaps. But caring deeply for one’s family is not a crime punishable by death.”
Before even he knew what he was about, he shoved the cart aside, nearly toppling it since the brake was locked, and surged to his feet, then shifted to haul her from her chair.
“Annabelle, I…Caroline was not my only concern.”
He’d taken her completely unawares, and she blinked up at him, lashes fluttering rapidly. “I do not understand.”
His hands flexed on her shoulders as he resisted the urge to give her a little shake. Equally difficult, standing this close to her, smelling her intoxicating scent, was fighting the compulsion to drag her into him, weave his fingers into her hair, and cover her mouth with his.
“You are my wife. Do you not think I have some small measure of”—God’s teeth. He thought he’d felt bared before—“of care for you?”
The hollow at her throat trembled with the beat of her heart. “For…me?”
At her dazed expression, he could not stop the charmed smile spreading over his face. “For you. For our…” His words died. His smile died. His hands on her shoulders tightened. “For the babe you may even now carry.”
Her mouth fell open. “A…baby.” She said the word with wonder, as if the thought had never occurred to her. Her eyes welled with tears, and something akin to terror filled him.
He choked out words. “Are you…that is…I’m sorry. I—”
Shaking her head, she placed two fingers against his lips. “Will you kiss me?”
With a groan, he bent, arms enclosing her, and took her mouth with his.
She tasted good. So sweet. A nameless ache filled his chest, and a terrible hunger that had nothing to do with food had him lifting her off her feet and stumbling with her toward her too-small bed.
He tumbled with her in his arms, falling onto his back as his hands roamed over her backside, greedy for every touch.
As he’d suspected, she wore nothing of substance beneath her thin gown, and he could not resist the call of her sweet flesh.
Bunching fistfuls of her skirts, he tugged the garment up until he’d bared her legs and the sweet curve of her bottom.
As always, she made no secret of her own intoxicating need for him, dragging herself closer, wriggling higher up his chest, murmuring incoherent pleadings ‘til his pulse hammered, his cock thrummed, and his seed threatened to erupt.
Then he traced the supple curve of her hip down and around to the apex of her thighs and discovered a fount of pure, dripping nectar. He whimpered. He’d laugh at himself if he wasn’t so lost to her and what she did to him.
He traced over her plump folds, reveling in the feel of her.
Shivering, she parted for him, dropping her knees to either side of his waist, inviting more of his touch.
Then her fingers were between them, struggling with the fly of his trousers.
Calling on all his will, he wedged his free hand between them and grasped her wrist. “Not yet,” he choked out.
Because once his erection was freed, the call of her tight channel would override his will. He wanted to sink into her. Wanted to possess her. Brand her. Wanted to explode into her.
But he wanted something else more. Bringing her to release, witnessing her responsiveness, her passion, her desperation as he drew out her pleasure had become his obsession. His wife was sensuality incarnate, and he did not think he would ever get enough of her.
In one move, he flipped their positions. For a timeless moment, he lay on top of her, pressing her body into the mattress, gazing on her beautiful, passion-dazed face. He kissed her, then, slowly, thoroughly, before drawing his mouth to her ear.
“Do you trust me, Annabelle?” he demanded in guttural tones.
“Yes,” she whispered.
He slithered down her body, shoving her gown up as he traveled.
“What are you—”
“Shh,” he breathed against her soft belly, her curls. He lingered there, nuzzling her, breathing in her feminine musk.
She made a halfhearted attempt to tighten her thighs, but his heavy build made that impossible, and he settled between her legs, pushing them even further apart.
Propping himself on his elbows, he beheld her. Pink and wet and quivering, the sound of his own rasping breaths in his ears.
He glanced up to find her studying him, lips parted, blue eyes heavy-lidded. She did not look anxious. She looked curious. Of course she was. He suppressed a delighted laugh lest she mistake his meaning.
Instead, locking eyes with her, he traced one fingertip over her sensitive bud, then loosed a wicked chuckle when she arched back in carnal delight. And then he dropped his mouth to that bud and suckled.
She nearly levitated off the mattress. “Sterling,” she gasped.
He pleasured her then, with his lips, his tongue, his fingers. Bringing her close, so close, before backing off. Inching her ever nearer the edge, but not allowing her to topple, heightening his own desire as hers soared, as tremors racked her willowy frame until her feminine dew flowed.
“Please,” she begged, fisting her hands in the bed covers, then in his hair.
“Please, what?” he whispered, brushing his lips over her swollen flesh. “What do you need? Do you need me, Annabelle?”
“Y-yes,” she choked.
“Say it,” he demanded.
“I need you. I need you. Please.”
Only then did he relent. He’d needed to hear the words, he realized, in some dim portion of his brain, as he brought her to an intoxicating, violent climax. Needed a sign, some kind of proof that she was marked by him, that she was his. Irrevocably his.