39. Chapter 39 #2
“To hell with your mother,” he grumbled, before continuing on as if he’d said nothing untoward. “In answer to your question, I do not mind. And I hope that you do not mind hearing from me, likely multiple times a day how much I love you.”
She sucked in a breath. “You do? Truly?”
He smiled. Winced. “I don’t know when it happened.
Perhaps from the moment I laid eyes on you, when I could not seem to look away—and it vexed me.
Then you arrived here and I could not stay away.
The best I could do was arrange a hasty wedding so I could lay claim to you and end the torture of wanting you so badly my insides burned. ”
She tried not to be disappointed by the words. “But that’s not love.”
“Annabelle, I know what love is. I know how truly blessed I am to have you as my wife. You’re ravishing, yes, but you’re so much more. You’re the most brave, most resilient, most enigmatic woman it’s ever been my honor to know and you’re mine. You’re mine.
“When you told me you intended to hie off to Harrogate—”
“That was your idea,” she pointed out on a giddy laugh.
“I know, but you weren’t supposed to like it,” he said, tone sullen, as he pulled out her hair pins, one after the other.
“When you said you intended to spend the entire Season away from me, I had to…had to show you what you’d be missing.
What I should have done, in addition, was tell you how much I adore you. ”
As he spoke, she drank in every word, folding her hands on his chest despite his bruises to prop her chin on her hands. He loved her. Her husband loved her.
“I don’t know why I didn’t, Annabelle. No. That’s not exactly true.” He wove his fingers into her hair, fanning it out.
She shivered in pleasure.
“I didn’t want to admit it to myself. I was…afraid.”
“Afraid?”
He shook his head on his pillow and shrugged one muscular shoulder. “It’s just one more proof that you possess more courage in your little pinkie than I can ever hope to have.”
“That’s just silly,” she said.
“Tell me again that you love me,” he whispered. “I need to hear you say it.”
“I love you. I love you more than I ever knew I could love a person.”
“Good. Now, if you would be so kind…”
“Yes?”
“Remove your clothing and slide under the bedsheets. I wish to make love to my wife.”
“Are you sure you should?” She regarded him dubiously. “Must I remind you that you just took on three grown men in a brawl?”
He batted his thick, spiky lashes at her. “Now that you mention it, you’ll have to do most of the work. Be gentle with me, won’t you?”
A few minutes later, naked, she lifted the bedcovers and glimpsed the profound evidence of her husband’s desire for her. She swung one leg over his hips, straddling him with care.
He groaned, but not in a way that told her she’d hurt him.
“By the way,” he murmured, shifting beneath her in a most delightful manner. “Harrogate’s off. Leastways until we can go together.”
“We’ll see,” she whispered, her lips brushing his—mostly just to tease him. And then, very gently, she kissed him.
***
London, England. One week later…
Bright and early Monday morning, the day after he, his wife, his sister Caroline, and Babette arrived home to London, Sterling banged the knocker at the front door of Montrose House, located at number twenty-two Garland Street, the home of Annabelle’s parents.
He’d come alone, though he’d done so with the blessing of his wife after a frank discussion.
She’d taken some convincing, but in the end, had agreed that, as her father had propositioned Sterling privately, he was well within his rights to clear up the matter on his own. A man-to-man discussion, so to speak.
He’d left only one part out. He had some things to say to Lord Marion Montrose, and he had his doubts about how the man would receive those things. He did not want Annabelle hurt in the crossfire. Her family had done enough damage. That was at an end.
To his credit, the butler who saw him in did not appear overly shocked at his appearance, despite the bruises and scrapes still liberally decorating his face.
He showed Sterling to Montrose’s ostentatious office, and bid him wait.
Sterling took in the overabundance of gilt, too many Grecian statues, and the massive self-portrait Lord Montrose must have commissioned hanging over the mantle.
The marquess joined him in swift order, anxious, no doubt, to hear what Sterling had to say regarding what he viewed as his winning proposition.
“Lord Randall, welcome. I did not know you had arrived to town,” Lord Montrose said immediately upon entering. He closed the double doors behind him before crossing to Sterling.
A startled expression flashed over his handsome features upon his first close look at Sterling’s visage. “Did you have an accident, Lord Randall?”
“No. Someone thought to hurt my wife. I showed him the error of his ways.”
Montrose blinked, but otherwise showed no further reaction. “How fares my daughter? Is Annabelle also in London?”
“She is well. And yes, she accompanied me, and is currently apprising herself of her new home, undoubtedly making a list of changes she’ll wish to see wrought.”
Montrose appeared to take the news in stride. “Can I offer you a brandy, Viscount?”
“No. I won’t be staying that long.”
The marquess’s signature genial smile dimmed. “I see. You wish to get down to business, I take it. To discuss the parameters of our agreement.”
Sterling reached into his waistcoat pocket and withdrew, a soiled and battered piece of parchment that looked as if it had been trampled under a horse’s hoof. “Yes."
He wasn't sure why he had gone to the trouble of looking for the lost missive after the events of a week ago. Perhaps, for just such a moment as this, to show the marquess precisely what he thought of the threat he’d levied.
In no particular hurry, he made his way to the grate, and with a flick of his wrist, tossed the letter into the fire. Then he sent Montrose what he hoped was a feral smile.
Montrose arched a brow, apparently unfazed, and folded his arms over his chest. “You can destroy my letter, but that changes nothing. You have my demands.”
“So I do. Now, I'll tell you mine.”
“I beg your pardon?” Montrose said with a disdainful huff of laughter.
“First, to clarify, I will not now nor ever be recommending you for membership to White’s, or any gentlemen's club in London.”
Montrose’s expression remained placid, though his face bloomed with color.
“I was not bluffing, Randall. I have every intention of spreading, far and wide, the scandalous tale of how my daughter allowed herself to become your whore until you were forced to marry her. I will gain sympathy. Annabelle will be ostracized. Your family will be enmeshed in scandal.”
“I don't think so, Montrose, and I'll tell you why.” Sterling made his way to a massive oriel window overlooking a pristine garden. Everything was just so here, at Montrose House. Everything tidy and glossy and a touch too-much. “You see, I know yours and Lady Montrose's dirty little secrets.”
“I have no notion of what you speak.”