“Ah…”
Rosemary’s sigh was resigned, as if people being unable to recall her name was a regular occurrence. “Evelyn and Joanna Thorncroft’s cousin.”
“Yes!” He snapped his fingers. “That’s it. You’re the cousin.”
While this Miss Rosemary Stanhope only stirred the vaguest of recollections, he knew who Evie was without any prompting. He’d even tried to seduce the stunning American into being his mistress. Or his wife. Whichever she preferred. Admittedly, it hadn’t been his best effort–he was foxed to the gills at the time–and she’d gently turned him down. The last he had overheard, she was engaged to Weston, the lucky sod.
Hard to believe Rosemary and Evie were related. And cousins at that. Then again, potatoes did grow in the same soil as roses.
Nothing wrong with potatoes, he thought generously as he picked up his gin and took another swig. Very sensible, productive vegetable. But no matter how hard a potato tried, it could never be a rose.
“What are you still doing here?” he asked. “I was under the impression that I was the only lingering houseguest.”
“I’ll be leaving soon, once my grandmother is fit for travel. She hasn’t felt well these past few weeks. A flare up of her gout.”
Sterling grimaced.
Bloody hell, but he didn’t want to get old.
He especially didn’t want to get old in a jail cell serving a life sentence for a crime he hadn’t committed. But he wasn’t thinking about that. Which was why he was drinking himself into oblivion every day and night, as it seemed to be the only thing that drowned out those vicious little whispers and worries in the back of his mind. Except when he lifted the bottle to take another drink, he was disappointed to find he’d already finished it off.
“Bollocks,” he muttered.
Rosemary slid to the edge of her seat. “What is wrong?”
He meant to cast her a dismissive glance. Instead, he found himself staring, momentarily transfixed, as he canted his neck to the left and then the right. “Your eyes…rather unusual color, aren’t they? I didn’t notice before, but when the light from the window hits them just so…” Trailing off, he gave a bemused shake of his head.
“You remarked on them before. My eyes.” She nibbled at her bottom lip. “Youreallydon’t remember?”
“It’s the gin,” he said a tad sheepishly as he held the bottle aloft. “Makes the mind foggy.”
“Couldn’t you just…not drink it?” she ventured.
“I suppose, but then I’d remember.”
“Remember what?”
“Everything,” he said darkly.
With that, Sterling quit the room.
Chapter Eleven
Brynne didn’t knowfor how long she rode. When she finally made her way back to the stables, the sun was barely a glimmer in the sky and Lachlan was nowhere to be seen.
He did not make an appearance at dinner, or the next morning at breakfast.
By luncheon, she was tempted to think he’d left Hawkridge Manor altogether. Until she went to the gazebo, paint box in hand, and discovered him lounging over the railing, looking roguishly appealing in a white linen shirt and waistcoat, sans cravat, exposing the golden line of his throat and a hint of the auburn hair that dusted his muscular chest.
Ignoring the hitch of her own breath, she planted her heel in the grass and turned right back around. But before she’d gone more than two steps he called to her, and even though she hated herself for it, she was as helpless to resist the allure of that velvet brogue now as she’d been when they first met.
“Ye are as pretty as a daisy this morning. As bonny a lass as I’ve ever seen.”
Ignoring his flattery, she placed her art supplies on a bench. “What do you want?”
“Tae have a civil discussion without ye running off tae England or galloping away on a horse.” He sat down on the top step of the gazebo and patted the open space beside him. When her mouth flattened, he rolled his eyes. “We’ve shared a home and a bed. Surely we can sit next tae each other on a stair. I willna bite.” His dimple flashed as he grinned. “Not tae hard, that is.”
Wicked Scot,she thought with an uncomfortable surge of familiar affection.
