“Whatever youthinkyou feel, you don’t,” he interrupted. “Not for me, at any rate. Go and find yourself that nice doctor. Good people, doctors. Always helping those less fortunate. Far better than an arrogant titled leech who offers nothing of substance to Society. Plus if the rat gets sick, you’ve a doctor in-house.”
Her nostrils flared. “YourGrace–”
“Off I trot,” he said, a tad frantically now. “Farewell, Roxana.”
As Sterling boltedfrom the room, Rosemary watched him leave in confusion. All she’d wanted to tell him was that she’d lost her jeweled hairpin while she was being ravished (surely there was no other way to describe what had occurred), and would he mind helping her find it, because if she didn’t then her grandmother would notice and ask questions. Questions that she didn’t want to answer, given that she’d already skirted around the truth once. But apparently, he’d had important things to do, given that he hadn’t allowed her to get more than two words out before he had sprinted out of the library. In all the time they’d spent together these past few weeks, she didn’t know if she’d ever seen him move with such speed.
Huffing out a breath, she dropped to her hands and knees, whereupon she quickly found the pin underneath the settee. Using a mirror hanging on the wall beside a portrait of Lord Weston and Lady Brynne from when they were children, she did her best to return her appearance to what she’d looked likebeforeSterling had kissed her…among other things.
He’d touched…he’d touched herbreasts!
Both of them.
At once.
Even she had hardly done that.
And who knew anearwas so directly connected to the warm, pulsing core between her thighs?
It had certainly been an educational experience. She wasn’t even upset that he’d called it–once again–a mistake. When you kissed a wolf, you couldn’t be surprised when it bit you. Whathadsurprised her was how wickedly delightful she’d found his teeth. And how much further she’d wanted to go.
A lady was not supposed to have passionate inclinations.
But then, neither was she supposed to have a pet squirrel.
Having broken one rule…what was wrong with breaking another?
As a shiver of secret delight coursed along her spine, Rosemary wondered if this wasn’t what sent people down the road of sin. The thrill of doing something nefarious…something forbidden…something with ruinous consequences…it had a certain addictive quality. Like dessert.
Kissing the Duke of Hanover was the equivalent of sneaking a second piece of red velvet cake.
And she wanted more.
“Your face is more flushed than usual,” Lady Ellinwood remarked when Rosemary finally emerged from the library to find her grandmother, as she’d feared, impatiently waiting in the foyer. “I hope you’re not ill. I don’t want to listen to you cough all the way to London.”
“I’m fine, Grandmother. Thank you for asking.”
Lady Ellinwood’s mouth thinned. But before she could decide whether her granddaughter was being sarcastic or not–she was, but only a tad–Rosemary wrapped a supportive arm around her grandmother’s waist and accompanied her out to their waiting carriage.
A footman helped boost Lady Ellinwood into her seat (earning a rap on his knuckles for his trouble), Rosemary sat beside her, and in a swirl of stone dust and the creak of wood and leather, they set out for London, leaving Hawkridge Manor…and Sterling…behind.
Chapter Four
Sterling drank forthe next three days straight. The bottom of a bottle of gin didn’t provide him with any lasting solutions to the demons that gnawed at his bones, but it dulled the pain from all those sharp, slicing fangs.
Mostly.
On the fourth day he received a letter from Sarah, which he resolutely ignored. Engaged to be married to Lord Hamlin, a viscount of impeccable reputation who had Sterling’s grudging approval, his sister had spent the summer at Hanover Park planning for a Christmas wedding.
How nauseatingly romantic.
As for Sterling, he hadn’t set foot on the ducal estate since they buried Sebastian in the family mausoleum. An hour’s ride to the east, Hanover Park sat high on a hill with some of the best views in all of England. Bestowed upon the first Duke of Hanover by King Edward III as a reward for protecting his son’s flank during the Battle of Crecy where the British army slaughtered over twelve thousand French soldiers, the estate had proudly stood for nearly five generations. A wood and stone testament to the bloodlust and political ambition of Sterling’s ancestors.
He’d been born there. Raised there. Had explored the woods, played in the streams, had his first kiss in the massive wine cellar underneath the kitchen there. And his first fuck in the carriage house loft.
There were too many rooms to count and enough turrets to officially make it a castle. The gardens alone were larger than most towns, and the stable, of which Sterling’s grandfather, a renowned equestrian, had been particularly proud, was almost an estate unto itself. Ancient oaks lined the long, winding drive. Fountains sprayed water into the heavens. Peacocks strolled the rolling lawns and wandered along the granite paths edged in Italian marble.
And that was just the exterior grounds.
