The second, she could easily believe. Sterling was as much of a scoundrel as any she’d ever met. Not to say she’d met very many. Strictly speaking, he was her first.
Her first rogue…and her first kiss. Surely not a coincidence, and the reason her grandmother had shielded her from men like Sterling since her debut. But even though he was most certainly a rake and a ne’er-do-well (amongst other less polite terms), she had difficulty picturing him as amurderer. Or someone who had cheated his way into a title. Mostly because he didn’t seem to enjoy being a duke all that much.
“A footman?” he said dryly. “Now why didn’t I think of that? Oh, that’s right. Because Brynne, interfering busybody that she is, banned them from driving me into the village lest I go there to purchase more spirits and launch myself into a despairing pit of my own making.” He gave a vague wave of his hand. “Or something like that.”
“If Lady Brynne didn’t want you going into town, I don’t think I should take you,” Rosemary said uncertainly. “She’s been very generous in letting me remain at Hawkridge until my grandmother’s health improves, and I wouldn’t want to upset her.”
“Brynne isn’t even here,” he pointed out. “What she doesn’t know won’t hurt her.”
“But I’ll see her once I return to London. What would you have me do?” Rosemary’s brows jutted together in bemusement. “Lie?”
Sterling blinked. “Yes. Of course. What else would you do?”
“Tell the truth?” she ventured.
“The truth.” For some reason, that caused him to laugh. “By God, Renee. You reallyareas innocent and naïve as you seem, aren’t you? What a quaint little mouse you are. Destined for spinsterhood already, I’d gather.”
“It’s Rosemary,” she said through gritted teeth. “And I’m not that innocent.”
Once again, his gaze dropped to her mouth where it lingered long enough to cause her to face to heat all over again. “Aren’t you?” he said in a rough, husky voice that did strange things to her belly.
“No.” In a rare fit of rebellion, she lifted her chin. “To prove it, I will take you into the village. And I won’t tell Lady Brynne about it.”
Probably,she added silently.
I probably won’t. But then, I most likely will.
Sterling clucked his tongue. “Well, well, well.” A glint of approval shone in his eyes. Approval…and something else. Something darker. Something that even Rosemary, in all of her innocence and sexual naiveté, recognized as sensuous. “In that case, I’ll have the phaeton brought round.”
If Sterling hadan honorable bone left in his miserable body, he’d have steered miles clear of Miss Rosemary Stanhope. Sweet and good and kind, she wasn’t for the likes of him. He was a blackguard of the first order. A depraved sinner who, on his best day, wasn’t fit to lick her shoe. And even though the rumors surrounding his mistress’ disappearance were wildly exaggerated (he hadn’t accidentally strangled Eloise to death while they were making love, nor had he chopped up her body in a fit of passionate rage and tossed the pieces of it into the Thames), he was still a killer. Sebastian’s death was proof of that.
An excellent reason why he never should have given in to impulse and kissed Rosemary in the library. And he mostdefinitelyshouldn’t have been sitting within inches of her in a tiny little racing carriage on their way into town. Just the two of them. With nary a proper chaperone in sight. But having sunk this far into depravity, there was nowhere for him to go but further down in the hope that eventually he’d hit the bottom.
If Sebastian could see him now…
Sterling’s hands clenched into fists, nails biting forcefully into the palms of his leather gloves as he cut the thought short. His brother couldn’t see him because his brother couldn’t see anything on account of being dead. Shot in a duel that he’d been goaded into by his own brother. Betrayed by his own blood. And if Sterling found himself trapped in a hell’s cape of misery and darkness, it was no less than what he deserved for what he’d done.
“Why do you need more gin?” asked Rosemary, slanting him a quick sideways peek before her gaze returned promptly to the dirt lane in front of them. Lined with trees, it required a steady hand to navigate the various twists and turns. Especially in a curricle, wheeled conveyances notorious for tipping over if they took a corner at a high rate of speed. But despite those two impediments, Rosemary handled the buggy with ease, enough so that Sterling–who was never impressed by anyone or anything–found himself secretly admiring her from his side of the velvet seat cushion that they both shared.
What a strange little bird Evie Thorncroft’s cousin was.
At first glance, he’d likened the chit to a common brown sparrow. Plain, boring, and ordinary. But upon closer inspection, he’d discovered that she was more like a hawfinch. Still somewhat plain, but with sufficient variation in the feathers to catch the eye.
His mother had loved birds. She used to leave seed for them on the nursery windowsill and point out the different types to him as they flitted in and out in a swirl of changing colors.
“There’s a robin,” she’d say, looping her arms around his scrawny torso and resting her chin on the top of his dark head. “You can tell by the red on its breast. And that one there, that’s a goldfinch. Do you see how yellow it is?”
At seven, Sterling hadn’t had much interest in birds. He’d liked ships and soldiers the best. But he’d loved his mother, and in those quiet times, when it was only the two of them, he had leaned against her and drank in every word with the instinctive knowledge that there’d come a time–fairly soon–when young boys had to grow up and leave the innocence of childhood behind.
If only he’d known how horribly fast that day would arrive.
“What’s that one?” he’d asked once, frowning at an unfamiliar bird with a dusky golden cap on its head and blue on its wings. “It’s different from the others.”
“Well done, Sterling!” his mother had said excitedly, kissing his cheek. “That’s a hawfinch. They usually prefer the countryside, and even then it can be hard to spot them in the dense underbrush. I don’t know if I’ve ever seen one this far south, and never in the city. They were my favorite to look for when I was a girl because they are so difficult to find. Do you see its curved beak? It uses that to crack open cherry stones.”
“Cherry stones! But they’re so hard and the hawfinch is so small.”
“Small things can be strong, too, Sterling. It’s the size of the heart that matters most. Remember that, my darling boy.”
