“Where did he go?”
“I have a squirrel pocket,” she explained.
“Why am I not the least bit surprised?” Absently, Sterling’s fingers began to play with a curl that had come loose from Rosemary’s coiffure and was dangling in a tempting spiral of silky brown down the middle of her neck.
Again, he questioned how he’d ever perceived her as plain. Given, she hadn’t the striking, stop-dead-in-your-tracks beauty of her American cousins. Few women did. Nor did she have the alluring, enticing appeal of Eloise. A woman who had exuded sexual arrogance with every long, sweeping pass of her tongue along her bottom lip.
Rosemary wasn’t a shiny red apple, ripe for the plucking.
She was…she was the first taste of warm bread. The kind that Cook used to put out by the window to cool when he was a boy, knowing full well that he’d run by and grab a chunk straight from the middle, burning the tips of his fingers as he sank his teeth into all that delicious, freshly baked dough.
She was the first tug of a fish on his line when he and Sebastian were gangly lads sitting on a flat slab of rock with their bare feet dangling in the water and the sun hot against the nape of their necks.
She was his first sip of whiskey. That initial burn that had made his eyes water and his throat hurt, before it mellowed and he tasted the individual notes of honey, smoke, and brine.
Rosemary was warmth, and goodness, and comfort. She wasn’t beautiful like a rose or a diamond. Those were things. Objects. Pretty in their own right, but what was a rose without its petals or a diamond when it lost its shine? Rosemary’s beauty stemmed from the soil. From the water. From the first ray of sunlight after a storm. Standing in her glow was a reminder of what he’d been, and all that he had hoped to one day become.
When he was with her, his shadows didn’t seem quite so long or the night so dark. And it was selfish of him to borrow her light. To let himself believe, for even more than a moment, that he was worthy of her. That someone as angelic as she could ever be with a devil like him. But whatwasa devil, if not selfish? He was already damned. Why not enjoy the ride on his way down to hell? So long as he didn’t bring Rosemary with him.
“Why aren’t you under the tents dancing?” he asked. “Surely there’s at least a few suitable gentlemen who would be willing to overlook a squirrel pocket.”
She sighed. “If you happen to meet one, please let my grandmother know. She’s started to think that I’ll never find a match.”
“And what do you think?” he said, genuinely curious to hear her response. Was there a lord somewhere out there in the mellow glow of the torchlight that Rosemary was sweet on? If so, he’d like to know the fellow’s name. Not for any purpose, really. Just so that he could pull whoever it was aside and inform him, in no uncertain terms, that if he ever dared to harm a hair on Rosemary’s head then he was a dead man.
“Having already met every person in attendance tonight at some function or another, I can say with confidence that my match is decidedlynotunder the tents. But my grandmother was still insistent that I show my face and make some attempt at socialization. In the hope, I suppose, that an earl might suddenly be struck with amnesia and forget that I am a quaint little mouse destined for spinsterhood.”
Sterling frowned. “Who called you a quaint little mouse destined for spinsterhood?”
I’ll grab them by the cuff and–
“Youdid,” she said pointedly.
“Ah.” Releasing her curl, he scratched sheepishly under his chin. “That does sound like something I’d say.”
She made a humming noise of agreement under her breath, then asked, “Why aren’t you under the tents dancing?”
“Because I’m a quaint little mouse destined for spinsterhood?” he offered, and was rewarded for his cheek when she smiled.
“I am certain there is a long line of ladies waiting for you to sign your name on their cards.”
But I don’t want them,he thought silently.I want…you.
His jaw tightened. What pure, utter romantic rubbish. Clearly when Sir Reginald bit him on the thigh the squirrel had transmitted some kind of horrible disease. The symptoms of which included fawning over a wallflower as if he really were some love-struck schoolboy.
“You are correct,” he said as he surged to his feet. It was apparent now that he was deathly ill, and it was equally apparent that the only antidote was to put as much distance between himself and Rosemary as possible before he did something truly absurd, like kiss her again.
Inadvertently, his gaze fell to her mouth as her smile faded.
“I…I am?” she said.
Wrenching his stare free of those tantalizing plump, perfect lips, he glared instead at a spot halfway up the tree he’d tumbled out of. “Indeed. There are probably dozens, nay, hundreds of women waiting impatiently for me to make my grand arrival. I wouldn’t want to disappoint them.”
Her head tilted to the side. “Does it cause you digestive upset?”
“Does what cause me digestive upset?”
“Having such a high opinion of yourself,” she said innocently.
