Glaring at the empty doorway, she stomped for the bell pull—not that she had high hopes anyone in this mismanaged castle would answer her call.
Before she reached it, however, Lord Randall, dressed for the day, clean-shaven, and looking thunderous, crossed the threshold. Thick brows furrowed, he aimed a ferocious scowl at her, as ifshe,and not his stupefied maid, had committed afaux pas.
“What in bloody hell are you raving about, madam?”
Chapter 6
His uninvited guest stood in the center of the chamber, braced like a warrior, and wearing nothing but the flimsy night shift of his sister’s which he’d asked Nell to deliver last night for her use.
“What amIdoing?” she demanded, blue eyes flashing fire.
“Yes, I believe that's what I asked,” he said in a deliberately cool tone while trying to un-notice her state of dishabille.
She started toward him like a queen prepared to set down one of her subjects. “I awoke to find your daft servant, or whatever she is, pilfering through my things. She had her grubby little fingers all over my dress.” Without looking, she pointed behind her to the floor near the wardrobe at a pile of blue, which he took to be the garment she’d arrived wearing yesterday.
“And?” he asked, mostly just to annoy her, because she was definitely annoying him, standing there, her long blond hair hanging in gleaming tangles over her shoulders and down her back, no sleeping cap in sight. Probably because he hadn’t thought to provide one.
Someone--Babette, undoubtedly, likely to enable her to see her way around the chamber as she stole through it--had folded back one of the shutters, and early morning, diffuse sunlight illuminated Annabelle’s delicate, impossibly perfect features—and hinted at the outline of her body beneath the thin lawn of his sister’s night shift.
He hadn’t meant to notice. God knew he didn’twantto notice. But certain parts of her, parts he was almost certain were coin-sized and rose in color, were reacting to the chill in the air. He made a mental note to send Nell to tend the grate.
“And?”she mocked, with evident exasperation, then threw her hands wide, drawing the thin fabric even tighter across those parts. “This is a self-explanatory complaint. Unless you sanction your servants skulking about, fingering your guest’s clothing.”
Finally, an excuse to look at something other than her. He stalked to the item in question lying in a crumpled blue ball on the floor, and pinched it between his index finger and thumb as if it were a dirty rag—mostly just to vex her—and held it out for inspection.
The same, herbal scent he’d noted yesterday still clung faintly to the garment. But it looked new, pristine, definitely not as if Annabelle had worn it braving a winter storm while charging across a marshy tidal pathway on horseback.
The harridan moved to stand beside him, ready to continue her rant, no doubt. But then, he heard her sharply indrawn breath.
“It’s been pressed,” she whispered, “and mended.”
The herbal concoction he’d smelled on her yesterday now filled his nostrils. Clean, elegant, fresh, womanly.
His cock twitched.Damnation.
She reached one graceful hand to trace a strip of trim—blue velvet, dotted with pearlescent flowers—as if in reverence.“She added this and removed the torn piece. Why? What would behoove her to do so?”
Dropping her hand to her side, she fixed him with a wide-eyed stare. For once, she did not look like a spoiled debutante, preening for an audience, nor like a justice, holding him in contempt. She looked bemused. She looked heart-warmed.
She looked heavenly.
“Babette likes pretty things,” he said, his voice gruff to his own ears.
Her berry-colored lips parted, and everything in him went hot and tight. Awareness of her, her nearness, her state of dress, her femininity surged through him.
In self-defense, he thrust the gown toward her, stalking for the door the moment she accepted the offering. “Perhaps you ought to have asked her before you sent her fleeing in tears.”
Once safely over the threshold, he turned to face her. “I told you last night she’d been hurt. I thought you would glean that she is also quite fragile in her way. My mistake. I would consider it a personal favor—” he huffed out a humorless chuckle, as it dawned on him Lady Annabelle would have no inclination to do him any particular kindness, but went on anyway—“if you would refrain from shouting at the poor girl. Considering what she did for you, you might even wish to apologize.”
“Apologize…” Her aghast tone told him what she thought of his suggestion.
He eyed the domed, stone ceiling and decided no reply was necessary. She simply had no compassion. Exactly like her worthless brother. He turned to leave.
“Wait,” she called. “The storm. Has it passed?”
“Look for yourself,” he said, not bothering to hide his disgust. “Coming down in a blanket of white. You’ll not be leaving today, barring a miracle.”
He departed before she could lambast him for his inability to control the weather.
