Only when he set the cart’s brake did his dark gaze meet hers. He arched one brow. “I understand you have the headache. I took the liberty of having Cook prepare two meals in the hopes of joining you—if you do not mind.”
She lifted her chin and fought the inane compulsion to grin like an idiot—or cry. “And if I do?”
His mouth curved downward. “If you do, I shall say what I came to say, and leave you in peace.”
Chapter 31
Annabelle’s expression in the candlelit room didn’t give Sterling much to go on as far as gauging her receptivity to him. On the other hand, she hadn’t summarily ordered him out.
He took that as a good sign.
She folded her elegant hands in her lap and regarded him in silence.
By the saints, she was lovely, and seemed to grow more so by the minute, especially in repose, as she was now. Her face—angel-hewn. Her long tresses, unbound from her coiffure, hung loose and gleamed like gold silk.
Having made up her mind not to leave her chamber tonight, she’d eschewed formal evening attire in favor of a soft linen gown of deep blue under which, he’d bet his last farthing, she wore no undergarments.
He swallowed as his groin tightened. Best not to think about that.
Clasping his hands behind his back like a recalcitrant schoolboy called to task, he made the split-second decision toemploy his sister’s terminology. “I wanted to apologize for my brusque tone, earlier.”
“I see.”
“I spoke harshly,” he admitted. “In retrospect, too harshly.”
He waited for her response, anticipating she would second his motion if not pile on additional criticism.
She said nothing.
Hell’s teeth.
Scratching his temple, he stammered on. “Do you want…er…I beg your pardon. I shall take my meal and leave you to yours, as promised.” He reached for one of the domed plates.
“No,” she said in a rush that sent a spray of gooseflesh over his skin.
Sterling stilled and waited.
In a more reserved tone, with the posture of a queen, she added, “You may stay to eat your dinner. No sense allowing your meal to grow cold.”
His initial relief faded. She sounded…off. Not angry, per se, but neither was her affect one of triumph or playfulness. Certainly, it was a far cry from mollified.
“Good. Shall we eat, then?” he asked, striving to inject a cheerful note into the words.
“Mm,” came her non-committal reply.
He removed the domes to reveal two steaming plates of lamb stew, then splashed a large portion of red wine into the two empty goblets. Afterward, he nearly sat. He could reach his wine, his cutlery, his dish.
Instead, he dragged the second armchair close to his wife’s. Close enough, he could smell her fresh scent. Could touch her, if he so chose.
If she allowed him to do so.
Out of the corner of his eye, he saw her watching, a stillness about her. It was as if she had something she contemplated saying, but hadn’t yet decided if she would.
He picked up his cutlery—something she’d neglected to do thus far—and sent her a speculative look. “You aren’t hungry?”
A patently false smile curved her mouth, and she picked up her fork and knife.
Sterling bypassed his own plate in favor of hers and forked up a large bite of potato in sauce, then leaned toward her, fork aloft.
