Even clearer that he didnotwant to be mixed up in…whatever it was.
He had enough of his own troubles to deal with, thank you very much. He didn’t need to be sticking his nose into matters that didn’t concern him. Especially when a volatile Scot and his best mate’s sister were involved.
After a quick glance into the hallway to ensure there were no servants lingering about, he went to a cabinet in the corner of the room and removed the bottle of gin he’d stashed there before Brynne made good on her promise to lock away Weston’s best liquor.
Ordinarily, he wouldn’t touch the stuff. But he neededsomethingto take the edge off his nerves. And since he’d been denied access to the Earl of Hawkridge’s exclusive collection of port and whisky, then cheap gin smuggled in from the local village it was.
“Bloody hell,” he gasped, his eyes tearing after he took a swig and the alcohol burned its way down his throat. “How do people drink this shite?”
“Did they make the tea too hot again?” a feminine voice asked. “I hate it when they do that.”
“Bollocks!” Sterling cursed again when he nearly jumped out of his boots and almost lost his grip on the bottle in the process. What a miserythatcould have been. Catching the gin before it could fall, he cradled it against his chest like it was a newborn babe as he crossed the room to scowl at the young woman sitting in the middle of a large sofa. Its high back had hidden her from his view when he’d entered the parlor, leaving him to believe that he was completely alone. But it was apparent from the open book on her lap that the girl had been here the entire time.
“This,” he said, thrusting the bottle out for her inspection, “is definitely not tea.”
“No, I don’t suppose it is.” Carefully marking her page with a piece of blue hair ribbon, she closed the book. “Isn’t it a tad early in the day to be drinking spirits?”
Sterling scowled. First she’d nearly given him an attack of the heart, and now she was judging him?
Just who did this impertinent chit think herself to be?
Gray eyes narrowing, he took a closer look while she smiled at him in an expectant manner, as if she were waiting for him to say something, but he was damned if he knew what it was.
She was pleasing enough to the eye, but there was nothing about her heart-shaped face or plain brown hair that would make her stand out in a crowd of prettier, more exotic beauties. Which probably explained why she was hiding in the parlor with her nose in a book. In Sterling’s experience, wallflowers–which this woman definitely qualified as–were like furniture that no one used.
There was nothingwrongwith the furniture, per se.
But there was a reason it was shuffled to the rear of the room to collect dust while brighter, flashier pieces were displayed out front for everyone to admire.
Tilting the gin to his mouth, he indulged in another sip and immediately regretted his decision. God, but it really was bottom of the barrel, wasn’t it? Which, coincidentally enough, was exactly where he found himself. Shuddering, he set the bottle aside on a table and crossed his arms.
“Have we met?” he asked.
Her smile faded. “Yes, Your Grace. In this very room, in fact.”
“Are you sure?” he said, frowning.
“You asked me to bring you a cup of coffee.”
“Ah, you’re a servant, then.” Which explained that hideous potato sack of a dress she was wearing. The color of a sock that had gotten lost underneath the bed for the better part of a week, it was doing her complexion no favors. Or her curves, for that matter. If she even had any. The tan gown was so ill-fitting and had so many bows stitched onto it that she could have been flat as a board or hiding an elephant underneath her skirts. It was anyone’s guess. “Shouldn’t you be doing”–he gestured around the room–“servanty things?”
“I am not aservant.” Her brows, a tad lighter than the mousy brown of her hair, drew in over her nose.
It was, Sterling noticed with detached interest, a very comely nose. As far as noses went, that is. Straight and delicately shaped, it was centered right above a mouth that was heavier on the top than the bottom and curved in the shape of a cupid’s bow.
“Who are you then?” he asked, his frown deepening as he dragged his gaze up from her lips.
Her fingers curled around the book on her lap. “You really don’t remember?”
Sterling racked his brain. Truth be told, the last few weeks were all a bit of a fog. Too much drinking, too much guilt, and not enough sleep were not a recipe conducive to a clear head and sharp memory.
“No,” he admitted. “But you shouldn’t take it personally.”
“You…you called me a sweetheart,” she said in a hushed, fluttery voice, as if she were admitting to some deep, shameful sin.
His mouth quirked. “Thatdoessound like me.”
“Rosemary. Miss Rosemary Stanhope.” She searched his gaze. “Does that ring a bell?”
