He’d claimed otherwise when she’d broached the subject the night of her arrival—something she now wished she hadn’t done.
“What did Lady Constance do?” Annabelle asked, creeping higher up his chest, to bring their faces even. He blinked and tilted his head to look at her as if surprised to see her there. “After.”
A muscle in his jaw twitched. “She married the blackguard.”
Annabelle rested her chin on his shoulder and stroked his bare chest, trying to communicate her sorrow for his loss through her touch. “I suppose a case could be made that she was not a worthy bride for your friend.”
He glared at her. “A case? It’s plain as the nose on your face.”
Annabelle dropped her gaze. Then she lifted it again and said softly, “There are not a lot of avenues open to women, other than marriage, Sterling.”
“I cannot argue your point,” he muttered, though his stormy expression belied his statement. “But I still say the fact she married the one responsible for her intended’s death revealed her low character.”
She nodded and searched his face. She wanted to know this man she’d married. Wanted to be privy to his inner world. “Sterling?”
A wary light glinted in his eyes. “Yes?”
She traced his collar bone. “Why does Lady Caroline think you feel responsible for what happened?”
His jaw tensed. “I don’t.”
She waited.
“I don’t,” he insisted with more vehemence.
Dancing her fingertips over his Adam’s apple, the hollow at his throat, she waited, sensing more would come.
“I was one of his seconds.”
She nodded and slowly reached to smooth his hair back from his forehead. He seemed to draw away for a moment, but then tilted his head into her touch. His skin was supple and warm, smooth under her fingers.
“I was there the day he challenged Biddington. He told me and the others present—Zeke, Jeremy, and one or two more—what he intended to do.
“Zeke said, ‘I hear tell Biddington’s a crack shot,’ and, ‘Sorry mate, but Lady Constance did agree to the dance.’ Then he suggested Dillon turn his attentions elsewhere. ‘No use getting your head blown off over a fickle female.’” Sterling’s Adam’s Apple bobbed as he swallowed, hard.
“And what did you say?” she asked gently.
He met her gaze. “I said, ‘Honor demands it. Call him out.’”
“You were only a boy.”
“I was a man.”
“Barely. You said so yourself. And you did not issue the challenge. That was on him.”
“I egged him on,” he argued.
Deep understanding laced with sadness swamped Annabelle. How much weight her husband carried on his broad shoulders. Little wonder he had embraced his role as the “overprotective” big brother. He’d seen, firsthand, the consequences of ill-conceived action.
But in his grief, he’d confused one crucial element. “He would have done so no matter what you advised.”
“You do not know that.”
“He was the ringleader, Sterling, and older than you. The responsibility and the choice were both his. He did what he wanted to do.”
He looked past her, brows furrowing, and she could see him considering her words. But then his gaze hardened, as his demons refused to cede ground. “When he died, when he drew his last breath, I suddenly comprehended the fragility of life. In that instant, I learned that no woman is worth a bullet in the chest. Especially not a feckless, flighty hoyden with looks to spare and not a genuine bone in her body.”
“I know,” she said. “Like me.”
