Sterling sighed. “I was afraid you were going to say that. Well, come on into the drawing room and I’ll ring for some food and drink. No need to be savages about it. What’s your preference? Wine, whiskey, gin…”
“Coffee. Black,” Weston said as he preceded Sterling into the drawing room and helped himself to a chair. “Which is exactly what you’ll be having, as we need you sober for what we’re about to say.”
“Or at least more sober than you are now,” Kincaid added before he sat down beside Weston, leaving a settee open across from them which Sterling reluctantly took even though it made him feel as if he were a young lad at school again being brought to the headmaster’s office for trying to start a fire in the common area.
“Barely more than a puff of a smoke,” he mumbled under his breath. “No need for so much fuss.”
“What was that?” Weston asked sharply.
“Nothing.” He slumped in his seat and let his head fall back until he was staring at the ornate chandelier hanging from the ceiling. “Get on with it then. The lecture, or whatever it is you’re doing here. I’ve more sleeping to do.”
A long, terse silence, and then…
“You’ve fucked up, Sterling.”
A humorless smile twisted Sterling’s mouth as he lowered his chin to meet Weston’s cool gray eyes. “Tell me something I don’t know. The past six years of my life have been a combination of fuck ups. Which particular one are we discussing this morning?”
Kincaid crossed his arms. “Your proposal to Miss Stanhope.”
Of all the things he’d done, all the sins he’d committed, and they were here to pester him about his onegooddeed? And it was good. He needed to believe that. Needed to believe he’d helped Rosemary more than he’d hurt her. Needed to believe that, for once, just once, he’d chosen the honorable path. The right path. Because of Rosemary.ForRosemary.
“What about my proposal?” he said warily.
“You never should have made it. What the devil were you thinking?” Weston asked.
Sterling scowled. “What does it matter to the two of you who I marry?”
“It wouldn’t,” said Kincaid.
“Except you’ve picked the only woman in all of England directly related to the womenwehave chosen to marry.”
“And?” Sterling pressed.
“And as you are, you’re not fit for marriage.” There was no rancor in Weston’s tone, which almost made it worse. “Miss Stanhope is a naïve innocent. You’re…not. In more ways than one. It isn’t a suitable match.”
“Do you think I don’t know that?” Sterling demanded as he shot to his feet. Outside the windows, a light rain had begun to fall from a gloomy, dismal sky that was rapidly matching his mood. To think he’d actually gone to bed feelinghappyfor once. He should have known it wouldn’t last longer than a few hours. “I am well aware that Rosemary is far better than I. But what else could I have done after Lady Navessa Betram stumbled upon us? You may not be aware, but she’s quite possibly the worst gossip this side of the Thames. Had I not asked Rosemary to marry me, she would have been ruined. Would you rather public exile than marriage to a duke?”
“By God,” Weston exclaimed in disbelief. “Is that what happened? You took the poor girl’s virginity at aball?”
Sterling knew that he was far from perfect. As far as a person could probably get. But it still hurt to realize just how low of an opinion his so-called friends held of him. “No. I didn’t take her virginity at a ball,” he snapped. “Nor anywhere else, for that matter. Not that it’s a damned bit of your concern. But I did kiss her after I tried to rescue her squirrel from a tree and–”
“You did what?” Kincaid asked politely.
“A round of fireworks went off prematurely and scared Sir Reginald. He ran up into a tree and Rosemary was attempting to retrieve him when I found her. Instead of watching her break her neck trying to balance on a bench or fall from a limb, I offered my services. Afterwards we, ah, allowed ourselves to become momentarily distracted.” He stuffed his hands into the deep pockets of the dressing robe he’d thrown on before leaving his bedchamber. “Before we decided to go our separate ways, Lady Navessa spied us from the tents. A marriage proposal was the only thing I could think of in the heat of the moment to save Rosemary’s reputation.”
Another round of silence.
Once again, Weston was the first to break it.
“Miss Stanhope has a pet rat that she’s named Sir Reginald?” he said, his brows knitting in bemusement.
Wasthatall they’d gotten from his long-winded explanation?
Bloody hell.
Why even bother?
“He is a red squirrel, not a rat,” he said, not wanting it to get back round to Rosemary that someone had denigrated her pet and he’d not stood in Sir Reginald’s defense. His bride-to-be did not anger easily–or at all, for that matter–but he knew from firsthand experience that she did bristle whenever anyone dared take aim at her beloved squirrel.
