“Open this one first,” Caroline said, a smile in her voice.
He did, all the while willing away a pervasive discomfort at being the focus of their attention. It was just a birthday.
“What could this possibly be?” he mused and glanced toward Caroline.
Her laughing eyes told him what he’d already guessed, and he grinned as he untied the ribbon and unfolded the fabric. Then he laughed. “A needlepoint of Zeus. It’s just…well.” He peered at the tangle of stitches. Still, his horse was visible. She’d captured the proud way he held his head and the prick of his ears. “It’s probably your best one yet.”
She leaned in and kissed him on the cheek.
“Now mine,” Annabelle said softly, picking up the small package and handing it to him.
He met her gaze as he took it. For God’s sake, his hands were sweating. He hadn’t felt this awkward since…he couldn’t remember. Never, he realized.
“Very pretty,” he mumbled, tugging at the ribbon, unfolding the fabric.
“Babette worked her magic, of course,” Annabelle said, inching closer. Close enough, he could smell her sweet scent.“But I…It’s nothing really. Just some bobs and bits I…never mind.”
He beheld her gift—a white, lace-edged handkerchief in the local custom, stitched with the letter S. She’d folded it around a fragrant sprig of herbs, bound with white ribbon.
“It’s for your drawer. A sachet.”
Standing on his other side, his sister kicked his shin while Annabelle stammered on. “You…er…said you like the way that I…” Her words drifted off, and he slid his gaze to her.
She was no longer looking at him, but at the table, her cheeks flaming scarlet.
He held the small bunch to his nose and, with his other hand, touched her shoulder to draw her attention back to him. “It’s wonderful.”
He inhaled, detecting thyme and mint and lavender, more touched by her gesture than he could express through words. “I’ll bring it back to London with us, and keep it in the bedside drawer.”
Her blue eyes shone with such…joyat his pronouncement, he found it momentarily hard to breathe. It was as if, by expressing gratitude for her gift, he’d given her one.
A timeless moment passed, then he heard a faint, watery sniffle.
Caroline.Good God. He’d all but forgotten her presence.
Annabelle coughed into her fist. “Well, then,” she said. “Who’d like cake?”
***
Later that day, Sterling sat behind his desk reviewing Stoneford’s estate ledgers in preparation for handing off the reins to his steward. He’d noted all upcoming deliveries, necessary maintenance, and scheduled repairs.
He was in a fine mood. A very fine mood. Before Annabelle’s arrival, he’d been dreading returning to the city to face the myriad responsibilities attached to both his title and his place in the family. Now, however, he found himself looking forward to going home—with Annabelle.
With her, everything would be new. He imagined her entering his familial home on Hanover Square—her new home—for the first time. What changes would she wrought, he wondered? No doubt Caroline and Babette would play advisory roles in her decision-making. It would be his pleasure to indulge her every whim—and watch her bloom.
Their first interaction with his parents would certainly be interesting. He’d informed them of the wedding, of course, but they’d have questions. Scratch that.Motherwould have questions, whereas Father would welcome her on sight. Hell, he’d adore her for her horse acumen alone.
He leaned back in his chair, arms folded under his head, and smiled up at the stone ceiling. His mother…she would not know what to make of Annabelle. At first glance, she would see the same glossy debutante she’d met when Caroline had been tied to that piece of garbage, Annabelle’s brother. As he recalled, she’d paid Annabelle very little heed, more or less dismissing her as he’d tried without much success to do.
However, given the circumstances, and based upon the Montrose family alone, she’d probably conclude Annabelle had landed on her son’s doorstep with the express hope of catching herself an aristocratic, blue-blooded husband—as he’d first accused her of doing.
He came by his suspicious mind honestly. His grandfather always said he was his mother’s son in that regard, which, to his mind, typically stood him well.
But, unlike him, his mother would set aside her bias and accept what was done, was done. For the sake of her family,she’d take Annabelle under her wing—and then, as he had, and as Caroline had from the start—she’d see past his wife’s stunning exterior to the warm, surprisingly innocent, endearingly anxious-to-please soul beneath.
And that brought to mind Annabelle’s own poor excuse for a clan. If he could convince his wife to cut all ties from them and pretend they did not exist, he would, with pleasure.
He straightened in his chair and slid open the top drawer of his desk to contemplate the correspondence he’d neglected to mention to Annabelle. Addressed to Sterling and signed by her father, the marquess, the letter outlined his demands for what he felt he was owed in exchange for Annabelle’s hand in marriage. The bastard thought to leverage his daughter outright, threatening her very reputation if necessary, to achieve a long-desired end.
