They went wide when he shifted to face her.
She was not accustomed to viewing a fully aroused, naked man. “I’ll…er…slip into my robe.”
She nodded—but did not take her gaze off him. His wife was a curious one, and delightfully uninhibited for one so innocent.
“What now?” she asked.
Facing the open wardrobe, he grabbed his robe and donned it, cinching the tie at his waist. “Now I’ll send for supper for us.”
“And then?”
“I’m not sure what you’re asking.”
“Am I supposed to return to my chamber?”
He studied her. “I beg your pardon?”
“I…er…haven’t anything to put on. And besides that, this isyourchamber. I wasn’t sure if you expected me to…to…That is, my parents maintain separate bedchambers on separate floors. I assume yours do as well?”
He held up one hand, staying her, buying himself a moment to think.
He should not be surprised by this. Hell, she’d come to him with no real notion of what took place in the marital bed. That alone bothered him. Wasn’t explaining such matters a mother’s requisite job?
And now this.
“My parents’ chambers adjoin,” he said. “As far as who sleeps where on a given night, neither of them has ever shared that information with me.”
“I see.” Nibbling on her lush lower lip, she did not appear to see at all. She appeared uncertain.
“I’ll see to that supper—and give you a moment to address any personal needs. When I return, we’ll talk.”
She nodded.
Feeling decidedly uncharitable toward Annabelle’s mother, he moved to the antechamber and shut the adjoining door behind him.
Stalking to the bell pull, he gave it a swift yank.
Perhaps he was judging Lady Montrose too harshly. Sharing information with one’s innocent daughter regarding the sexual act might be something she’d planned to do after an engagement was announced, which normally allowed for a period of months before the wedding during which discussions about expectations for a young woman might occur. He could grant her the benefit of the doubt.
As for Annabelle’s father and brother—for them he could find no leniency. What in bloody hell had they been thinking, considering betrothing Annabelle to the likes of Crowley and Whittinger? The very notion of either man laying a finger on his wife caused the blood in his veins to boil. They were lechers, both.
Noblemen, yes. From old families, sure.
But neither boasted any particular political sway which Montrose might find useful. They did have significant wealth and their fingers in several consortia. Was that the appeal? Perhaps Gaston or Lord Montrose sought entrée into one of their investment circles, and Annabelle was to serve as payment.
No matter the reason, it struck Sterling that there was a measure of cruelty to the suggestion she marry a man of their ilk that sickened him—and filled him with remorse bordering on shame. Far from being the spoiled debutante he’d labeled her,from what he could gather, Annabelle had not been cared for in the least.
Minutes later, he reentered his bed chamber pushing a rolling cart bearing a plate of cold collation and a carafe of wine that had arrived so promptly upon his request, he concluded the staff had been hovering, awaiting his call. He was glad to see the large milk chocolate pudding he’d requested had not been forgotten.
In his absence, Annabelle had obviously helped herself to his brush. She’d tamed her hair and braided her long tresses into one thick plait.
She’d also availed herself of the heavy coverlet, stripping it off the bed and wrapping it around herself like a mantle of sorts. Perched on one of the armchairs near the hearth, wearing the bold brocade colors, her braid resting over one of her shoulders in a glistening gold rope, she looked like a queen awaiting her serf.
He situated the cart between the armchairs where she could easily reach it, then dropped onto the chair opposite hers.
“How are you feeling?” he asked.
“Fine.”
