33. Chapter 33
Sterling came awake before the sun burned past the horizon. Shadowed stillness filled the guest chamber, punctuated ever-so-slightly by Annabelle’s rhythmic, steady breaths as she half-sprawled atop him, head resting on his shoulder, one arm across his chest, one leg curled around his hip.
With care, he lifted his head from the pillow to contemplate his wife and how best to disentangle himself from the soft, supple woman without disturbing her.
The diminutive size of the bed they shared struck him as almost comical.
Once back in London, he would see that both his and his wife’s chambers—their adjoining chambers—boasted king-sized beds.
Relaxing back onto the pillow, he silently admitted he relished sleeping with Annabelle. Having her draped over him as she used his body as a human pillow or blanket, depending, was thoroughly addictive.
He’d kept mistresses in the past on the rare occasion a particular woman caught his fancy for more than a passing fling. But never, not once, had he found himself the least bit tempted to spend the whole night through with a mistress, however enjoyable their interludes.
It went without saying he’d never contemplated marrying anyone. No one before Annabelle.
One minute, he was accusing her of plotting to entrap him, the next, she was his wife at his insistence. His wife, to have and to hold, forever more. His wife, his lover, and one day, God willing, the mother of his children.
What a fool he’d been not to see the shimmering beauty beneath her glossy veneer. Caroline had seen it. Hell—even Babette had recognized the kindness in his wife, buried under years of neglect and torment.
Her brother—how he wished he weren’t dead so he could knock his pearly-white teeth from his patently false smile.
Imagining her growing up with Gaston, subjected to his casual cruelty, was nothing short of harrowing.
She’d been a mere child when the bastard had left her in the cruise ship’s engine room—and no one but the governess had noticed.
Her parents had much to answer for—and favoring their worthless son only added to their culpability.
He’d yet to decide how to deal with them.
Oh, but he would. He would. That damned letter in his desk assured that and had his blood hammering in his veins anew, rousing him ‘til he could no longer lie still.
With care, he eased out from under Annabelle and off the bed, then set about donning the bare essentials of clothing necessary to make it to his chambers without scandalizing Babette should she be loitering about awaiting her mistress.
As he dressed, he studied Annabelle. He couldn’t not. She drew his focus like a beacon of light and he a damned moth.
She’d rolled to her back, and her mass of tumbled gold hair framed her delicate face. She wore a tiny smile as if she dreamt of something pleasant, which made his own mouth curve in a no-doubt goofy grin. She was…incredibly beautiful. Almost too beautiful to behold.
His hands fisted at his sides as something constricted in his chest. The feeling was alien, nearly painful, and yet…he couldn’t look away. He didn’t want to.
What he wanted to do was strip and climb back into bed with her. To kiss her awake. To make love with her, yes, but also to…hold her. Coax more stories of her past from her. Tease more artless smiles out of her.
Blood of the saints.
He was in serious danger of finding himself wrapped around her little pinkie. Stifling a self-deprecating groan, he rammed both hands through his hair—at the exact moment her eyes fluttered open.
She jolted upright in the bed, tugging the bedcovers with her, to his extreme disappointment. “Oh, no. You’re leaving? What time is it?”
He grinned, pleased by her obvious dismay. Unable to resist the compulsion, he strolled forward, edged a hip onto the mattress, and smoothed a hand down her bare back. Her skin was warm and so very soft.
He leaned forward and nuzzled her neck, breathing in her sweet, fresh scent while trying to avoid scraping her tender flesh with his morning beard. “It’s early. Barely sunrise. I came awake and decided to start my day. So much to do before we depart.”
Her arms twined around his neck. “But are you going down to breakfast?”
He huffed out a laugh and wondered if she was, in fact, dreaming. He hadn’t given breakfast an ounce of thought. “Eventually.”
She pressed a kiss to the underside of his jaw. “Wait. I’ll join you. I won’t be a minute.”
He shook his head, as much to clear it as to answer her. At this rate, he’d be harder pressed to resist rejoining her in her bed. Good God. What she did to him. “Go back to sleep. I’ll wait ‘til you get up. I have plenty to occupy me until then.”
“Promise?” she asked, unresisting as he pulled her arms from him and pressed her back into the pillows, her eyelids already fluttering shut.
“I promise, Sweetheart.”
Within an hour, he’d washed, shaved, re-dressed, and availed himself of enough coffee to manage a short ride on Zeus over the estate grounds to give the sleek horse some much-needed exercise—and clear his own befuddled head.
Too, for no reason he could put into words, he wished to inspect the work he’d overseen the previous day, sealing the kilns.
He found the heavy doors as he’d left them—securely shut, hinges and locks untampered with.
A quick search of the grounds showed no evidence of anyone having ventured near the keyholes the night before.
Satisfied, he returned to the castle.
Upon entering the foyer, Cogsworth greeted him.
“I trust you had an enjoyable ride, milord?” the butler said with a placid smile. “The ladies bid you join them in the dining hall.”
He washed and did as requested.
In the open archway, he froze. Annabelle and Caroline both stood beside the table, beaming.
Bouquets comprised mostly of greenery but also containing colorful, dried flowers adorned the sideboard.
A platter of fruit preserves and another bearing an elaborately decorated dense cake topped with a thick candied glaze sat in the table’s center, and the sideboard spilled with a plethora of breakfast foods.
And at the head of the table were two elaborately wrapped gifts.
“Happy birthday,” Caroline and Annabelle called in unison.
His birthday. He’d forgotten. Evidently, Caroline hadn’t, and she’d made sure his wife knew, as well. Suddenly, Annabelle’s desire for him to await breakfast until she could join him made perfect sense—as did her and his sister’s venture into town yesterday.
And he’d railed at the two of them like a grumpy curmudgeon.
Cheeks thrumming with heat, he clasped his hands behind his back and made his way toward the table. “Thank you. This is a surprise. I take it these are for me?”
Caroline and Annabelle each took up a position on either side of him.
“Open this one first,” Caroline said, a smile in her voice.
He did, all the while willing away a pervasive discomfort at being the focus of their attention. It was just a birthday.
“What could this possibly be?” he mused and glanced toward Caroline.
Her laughing eyes told him what he’d already guessed, and he grinned as he untied the ribbon and unfolded the fabric.
Then he laughed. “A needlepoint of Zeus. It’s just…
well.” He peered at the tangle of stitches.
Still, his horse was visible. She’d captured the proud way he held his head and the prick of his ears. “It’s probably your best one yet.”
She leaned in and kissed him on the cheek.
“Now mine,” Annabelle said softly, picking up the small package and handing it to him.
He met her gaze as he took it. For God’s sake, his hands were sweating. He hadn’t felt this awkward since…he couldn’t remember. Never, he realized.
“Very pretty,” he mumbled, tugging at the ribbon, unfolding the fabric.
“Babette worked her magic, of course,” Annabelle said, inching closer. Close enough, he could smell her sweet scent. “But I…It’s nothing really. Just some bobs and bits I…never mind.”
He beheld her gift—a white, lace-edged handkerchief in the local custom, stitched with the letter S. She’d folded it around a fragrant sprig of herbs, bound with white ribbon.
“It’s for your drawer. A sachet.”
Standing on his other side, his sister kicked his shin while Annabelle stammered on. “You…er…said you like the way that I…” Her words drifted off, and he slid his gaze to her.
She was no longer looking at him, but at the table, her cheeks flaming scarlet.
He held the small bunch to his nose and, with his other hand, touched her shoulder to draw her attention back to him. “It’s wonderful.”
He inhaled, detecting thyme and mint and lavender, more touched by her gesture than he could express through words. “I’ll bring it back to London with us, and keep it in the bedside drawer.”
Her blue eyes shone with such…joy at his pronouncement, he found it momentarily hard to breathe. It was as if, by expressing gratitude for her gift, he’d given her one.
A timeless moment passed, then he heard a faint, watery sniffle.
Caroline. Good God. He’d all but forgotten her presence.
Annabelle coughed into her fist. “Well, then,” she said. “Who’d like cake?”
***
Later that day, Sterling sat behind his desk reviewing Stoneford’s estate ledgers in preparation for handing off the reins to his steward. He’d noted all upcoming deliveries, necessary maintenance, and scheduled repairs.
He was in a fine mood. A very fine mood. Before Annabelle’s arrival, he’d been dreading returning to the city to face the myriad responsibilities attached to both his title and his place in the family. Now, however, he found himself looking forward to going home—with Annabelle.
With her, everything would be new. He imagined her entering his familial home on Hanover Square—her new home—for the first time.
What changes would she wrought, he wondered?
No doubt Caroline and Babette would play advisory roles in her decision-making.
It would be his pleasure to indulge her every whim—and watch her bloom.
Their first interaction with his parents would certainly be interesting. He’d informed them of the wedding, of course, but they’d have questions. Scratch that. Mother would have questions, whereas Father would welcome her on sight. Hell, he’d adore her for her horse acumen alone.
He leaned back in his chair, arms folded under his head, and smiled up at the stone ceiling.
His mother…she would not know what to make of Annabelle.
At first glance, she would see the same glossy debutante she’d met when Caroline had been tied to that piece of garbage, Annabelle’s brother.
As he recalled, she’d paid Annabelle very little heed, more or less dismissing her as he’d tried without much success to do.
However, given the circumstances, and based upon the Montrose family alone, she’d probably conclude Annabelle had landed on her son’s doorstep with the express hope of catching herself an aristocratic, blue-blooded husband—as he’d first accused her of doing.
He came by his suspicious mind honestly. His grandfather always said he was his mother’s son in that regard, which, to his mind, typically stood him well.
But, unlike him, his mother would set aside her bias and accept what was done, was done.
For the sake of her family, she’d take Annabelle under her wing—and then, as he had, and as Caroline had from the start—she’d see past his wife’s stunning exterior to the warm, surprisingly innocent, endearingly anxious-to-please soul beneath.
And that brought to mind Annabelle’s own poor excuse for a clan. If he could convince his wife to cut all ties from them and pretend they did not exist, he would, with pleasure.
He straightened in his chair and slid open the top drawer of his desk to contemplate the correspondence he’d neglected to mention to Annabelle.
Addressed to Sterling and signed by her father, the marquess, the letter outlined his demands for what he felt he was owed in exchange for Annabelle’s hand in marriage.
The bastard thought to leverage his daughter outright, threatening her very reputation if necessary, to achieve a long-desired end.
An end that was not going to happen.
A knock sounded at his door, and he slid the drawer closed. “Come.”
A moment later, Cogsworth appeared, a silver salver in his hand. Sterling quashed the flash of disappointment when he found that his visitor was not his wife.
“Two missives have arrived via courier, milord,” Cogsworth said.
He rose, rounded the desk, and crossed the room toward the butler. “Two, you say? One, at least, should be from Mr. Ledbetter, informing me of his arrival—and our imminent departure.”
“May I say, sir, how quiet the castle will be once you and the viscountess and Lady Caroline depart—not to mention Babette.” He chortled.
Sterling returned to the desk, propping one hip on the edge as he flipped through the sealed missives. One was from his steward, Mr. Ledbetter.
“Yes—but only imagine how noisy it would be if we tried to separate Babette from the viscountess.” He thumbed off the seal and unfolded the parchment.
Cogsworth’s mouth twitched. “You make a fair point, sir.”
“Never fear, we’ll be back en masse before you know it.”
He scanned the brief missive. Ledbetter was delayed. It seemed the train he’d anticipated taking had track problems, and he would be forced to travel via coach.
Another knock sounded. A lighter knock.
“Come.”
His sister this time.
He looked past her as she entered. He thought he’d managed the business unobtrusively—until he saw the amused smirk on her face.
“Sorry to disappoint, Sterling. Annabelle is not with me.”
“I have no notion what you mean,” he said, sounding defensive to his own ears. “But as you’ve mentioned her, where is she?”
“Composing a letter to her parents, apparently informing them of her marriage, as she believes they somehow never received word of it.”
“I see.”
“Sterling, I’m sorry, but I must know why you have withheld the news of her parents’ letter from Annabelle? Is this…” She glanced over her shoulder and lowered her voice to a conspiratorial whisper. “Is this to do with Gaston’s death?”