When she’d arrived, he’d wanted answers, and he’d wanted her gone. Barring that, he’d wanted to thwart any devious scheme on her part. He had not doubted for a second she meant to entrap him into either a murder confession or a marriage born of scandal or both.
Since then, however, other aspects of Annabelle had revealed themselves to him, in the way of a flower opening, one petal at a time. She was brave, tenacious, and witty. She was inquisitive, intelligent, and unexpectedly kind. She was sensual. She was innocent. She was bold. She was so many things. And when he’d confronted her with that, what was her response? To claim to be exactly the sort of conniving, superficial woman he’d first accused her of being.
He should believe her. Who would know the woman better than herself?
From now on, he should treat her as the sort of woman she’d just confessed to being—something that would be a lot easier to do if he hadn’t gained the distinct impression she had spoken tonight with his best interest in mind.
With a toss of his head, he emptied the snifter, and stalked inside.
Chapter 18
Sterling snapped the newspaper he held out in front of him and cast a quick glance toward the arched entrance to the dining room.
Earlier that morning, he had ridden out to check the perimeter of the castle estate. Afterward, he’d come here to partake of one of Cook’s hearty breakfasts, washed it down with several cups of coffee, and read half the paper, and still Lady Annabelle had not put in an appearance.
If she thought to skip this morning’s meal, she could think again. He wouldn’t have her return home a half-starved waif.
Why he cared, who could say? Whether or not she chose to eat was her affair.
On the cusp of that thought, she glided into the entryway. She bloodyglidedlike some ethereal creature. He was almost sure she put no conscious thought into her elegant, graceful, and maddeningly captivating affectations.
Vexed at himself for noticing—again—he folded the section of newspaper, cast it onto the table with an impatient flick of his wrist, then rose and inclined his head in greeting.
“Good morning,” she murmured.
Helpless to resist the impulse, his gaze drifted over her. Her blond hair, twisted into a simple chignon today, gleamed in the morning light streaming in from the windows.
She wore another of Caroline’s dresses. A baby blue day dress, slightly paler in color than her eyes, trimmed with white-as-snow eyelet lace. Babette had certainly been busy catering to the lady. By the time Caroline deigned to visit the castle, she’d find herself absent a wardrobe.
Not that he expected her any time soon.Thank God.She’d be horrified to find Lady Annabelle residing here without the benefit of a chaperone. If she knew the two of them had been alone on the rooftop, twice, he’d get an ear lashing he’d never forget, and that would be only for starters. She’d have them engaged before he could make the first excuse.
Plate in hand, Lady Annabelle approached the table.
Sterling assisted her with her chair, then resumed his own seat.
She’d put a few more morsels on her breakfast plate today than she had yesterday—not that he cared. But shehadmissed dinner last night—thanks to him and his inability to school his tongue in her presence.
In truth, he’d considered delivering a light dinner plate to her chamber last night before turning in. He’d refrained because he hadn’t wanted to risk disturbing her at that late hour. Nor had he wanted the vision of her in her nightclothes as she opened her chamber door to be the last thing he saw before bed.
“Did you sleep well?” he asked, slanting her a glance as he picked up the newspaper and opened it to the page where he’d left off.
“To be honest, no.”
“No?” He saw the faint smudges under her eyes, then. “Probably because you went to bed hungry,” he muttered. “I can afford to feed you, you know.”
Her white teeth flashed as she sliced into a small piece of ham, and his pulse kicked up.
Good Lord.He was ridiculous where she was concerned. God help him if she ever figured out how much power she held over him. No woman alive had ever enthralled him the way she did without even trying. Why? She was beautiful, but many women were.
She was also difficult, headstrong, overly confident.
Except when she wasn’t.
He shook his head to clear it. No good would come of meditating on Lady Annabelle’s intriguing blend of attributes.
“I dream here,” she said, before sliding a forkful of food into her mouth. Chewing, her gaze turned contemplative, as if recalling her dreams, right then and there.
He set the paper aside and propped his chin on his hand to study her. “Is that unusual for you? Dreaming?”
