“Is there a difference?” Kincaid wondered.
“Is there a difference?” Sterling scoffed. “For your information, they’re not even from the same family. Ah, here’s the coffee.”
As he went to the sideboard to fix himself a plate of eggs, roasted red potatoes, and a generous slab of bacon along with a steaming hot cup of coffee stirred through with cream, Weston and Kincaid gazed at each other in astonishment.
“Are you seeing what I’m seeing?” Kincaid asked in a low voice.
Weston nodded slowly. “If you’re seeing that Sterling might actually love someone other than himself, then yes, I am. Who would have ever foreseen that he would ever be brought to heel, let alone by some woman with a squirrel?”
“Not me. But then I didn’t see myself falling for a stubborn red-haired American, either.”
Weston snorted. “No onecould have seen the Thorncrofts coming.”
“What are you ladies gossiping about?” Balancing his food in one hand and holding his mug of coffee in the other, Sterling started back across the drawing room, neatly sidestepping a pedestal with a marble bust of some angel or another sitting on it. He wasn’t a religious man by nature–his faith had abandoned him long ago–but that hadn’t stopped Sarah from buying him the bust as a Christmas present three years ago. He suspected she’d done it as a joke, even though she insisted to this day that it was a serious gift.
“We were discussing your fiancée, Miss Stanhope,” Kincaid supplied.
“And the fact that you’re in love with her,” said Weston.
It was a testament to Sterling’s quick reflexes that when the mug slipped from his hand he managed to catch it before it hit the floor.
“Hell and damnation,” he cursed when coffee sloshed over the edge and burned his fingers. Setting both the mug and plate aside on a table, he rounded on his unwanted guests with a clenched jaw and an uncomfortable tightness in his throat. “Take that back. I don’t love Rosemary, and I don’t want a servant to get the wrong idea and spread a rumor across town. What the devil do you think talk like that would do to my reputation?”
“There are no servants in the room,” Kincaid said mildly. “Even if there were, isn’t it expected that a man should love the woman he is to marry?”
“Some men, yes. But notthisman. I already told you why I am marrying Rosemary. To save her from the sharp teeth of the gossip hounds. There’s nothing more to it than that.”
There couldn’t be, he thought silently as something akin to panic skittered under his skin with tiny, prickling claws.
Love?
He didn’tloveRosemary.
Hadn’t he been careful to tell her as much? Hadn’t he made it clear–because he didn’t want to be accused of misleading her–that they weren’t entering an indissoluble union so much as they were putting pen to paper on a mutually beneficial business arrangement?
She’d get to maintain her good name and become a duchess. He’d get to extricate himself from the marriage mart and trick his peers in Parliament into believing that he was fully reformed. After all, how could a man who married a wallflower be capable of violently murdering his mistress? The two things did not equate. So long as feelings didn’t get in the way, it was an excellent solution to all of their problems. Honestly, he should have thought of it sooner.
“Is Miss Stanhope aware that you claim not to be in love with her?” asked Kincaid.
“I don’tclaimanything. IknowI am not.” Retrieving his coffee, he took a mindless swig. “And yes, she’s very much aware, as I’ve done nothing to indicate otherwise. Rosemary and I have an…understanding.”
Didn’t they?
He was fairly certain they did.
“Then you’ve done this–asked her to marry you to prevent Lady Navessa’s vicious tongue from spewing lies–out of the kindness of your heart,” said Weston, studying him closely.
“I don’t know if I’d saykindness–”
“Good on you, Sterling,” Kincaid cut in. “I’m proud of you.”
“I haven’t done anything,” he said, vaguely alarmed by the unwarranted praise. “People become engaged every day. You’ve both done it.” He pointed at Kincaid. “You’remarried.”
“But it’s different for us.” Weston rose from his chair and went to the sideboard. His back to Sterling, he poured himself a cup of coffee. “I am an earl. Kincaid isn’t even titled. You’ll have much larger expectations placed upon you, as will Miss Stanhope. I am glad to hear you’ve considered all that, and have decided to mend your ways.”
“Sorry?” said Sterling, tapping his ear. “I don’t think I heard you correctly. Mend my what?”
“Your ways,” Weston said with the calm, dangerous pleasantness of a father who was about to give his wayward son a serious ultimatum in regards to his future inheritance. “Your excessive drinking, to begin with. Your gambling. Your fornicating with anything in a bustle. Now that you are engaged to be wed, those…activities will have to stop. Especially since you are to marry my wife’s cousin.”
