***
Sterling lowered his grandfather’s old telescope and turned up the collar of his greatcoat, hunching against another icy gust of wind that seared every scrap of his exposed skin. It wasn’t exactly a night made for stargazing.
On a positive note, the winter storm had finally passed, leaving the skies clear. Stars glinted above him like a sea of glittering beach glass, as far as the eye could see. He reached into the pocket of his coat for the flask he’d brought and thumbed off the cork. Then he took a long draw and relished the burn.
Despite the discomfort owing to the temperature, he’d made the right call, avoiding the chit, he told himself again. He had no business letting her get to him, letting her crawl under his skin ’til he itched for the sight and smell and taste of her. ’Til his insides screamed for one touch of her unblemished, satiny-looking skin.
His last glimpse of her had nearly done him in. There she’d stood, gazing up at him with undisguised longing in her liquid blue eyes. That had not helped matters. Not one iota. He still couldn’t say whether she’d been aware of the enticing sight she made.
Blood of the saints. He should never have allowed her past the front door. But what else could he have done? Sent her to the inn, half-frozen, to be leered at by the likes of Vane?
His lip curled into a reflexive sneer, imagining that affront to nature.
No.He’d made the best decision he could, given the choices he’d had. Just like choosing to subject himself to the freezing winds to avoid her had been as the lesser of two evils.
He wondered how long it had taken her to realize he wasn’t planning to join her for dinner. On the other hand, she might not have blinked a sooty eyelash over his absence.
Unlike himself.
He took a long draw of whiskey. If he drank enough, and he planned to, he’d pass out the moment his head hit the pillow and skip the nocturnal obsessing over his pretty, enigmatic houseguest who had kept him awake through the wee hours last night. Every time he’d closed his eyes, he’d seen her golden locks spilling over the white pillow, felt the warmth of her body luxuriating under the bed sheets.
On that torturous thought, he slugged more whiskey.
In the morning, he’d suffer through breakfast with her long enough to share the arrangements he’d made this afternoon for her transport off the island tomorrow.
Once she was safely out of his hair, he would finally do what he’d been putting off for far too long, for no discernible reason. He would wrap things up here on the island and go home.
Annabelle had asked him today why he’d come. To grieve his grandfather had been his reply.
His answer was only partially true. He’dcomebecause he needed to leave London. He’dstayedto grieve his grandfather—and for reasons beyond that, which even now he couldn’t precisely put into words.
Freedom, perhaps? From the self-imposed strictures he placed on himself to look after his siblings? But could he ever really let go of the reins? He doubted it.
He’d embraced his role as big brother from as early as his Eton days, when his mother’s health suddenly declined, leaving her bedridden much of the time. Naturally, his father became preoccupied with her care. It was all a matter of course, and Sterling never blamed either of his parents, needs must.
Still, he’d recognized that neither was paying enough attention to rearing Caroline and their younger brother, Harrison—at least, as far as he was concerned—and that left him to do it. The role stuck.
His father had seemed pleased with the arrangement, even if his two siblings sometimes grumbled.
Not so, his grandfather. The marquess had lectured Sterling on numerous occasions about his tendency to “parent”—as he termed it—Caroline and Harrison.
“Allow your brother and sister to make their own mistakes as you did, m’boy. You’ve your own life to live, and your own lessons to learn, something you and my son both seem to haveforgotten,” he said the last time the two of them had spoken on the matter.
“Oh? And look what a stellar job my father did overseeing Caroline’s suitors during the Season I had the misfortune to be elsewhere. You’re aware she’s engaged to that Montrose peacock.”
“Yes, and something will need to be done about that,” he’d replied darkly, then looked him in the eye. “But enough about that. Let’s talk about you. It’s time for you to marry, Sterling.”
“I know,” he’d assured the marquess. “I will.”
“You will?” Spoken in that tone that said he didn’t believe a word.
“Yes. I just said so, didn’t I?”
The marquess had smiled his cagey smile. “Who?"
“A woman?” Sterling had suggested, blandly.
His grandfather had snorted. “You’ve ruled all of them out, as far as I can tell.”
