Humor glinted in his dark eyes. “I had originally intended my stay here to be brief and saw no reason to hire a full complement.”
“And yet, here you are.”
Linking his hands behind his back, he started across the chamber, his gait unhurried. “So I am.” When he reached her, he paused to hover behind her chair.
As if he’d run a finger up her spine, gooseflesh sprouted over her limbs. It was all she could do not to crane around to keep him in her view.
“Lady Annabelle, if you don’t mind joining me in the library once you’ve eaten?” he asked, his voice a delicious rumble in her ear.
She shook her head, breathless for no discernible reason.
“Good. Mr. Cogsworth will show you the way. I have a few questions.”
She picked up her fork. But the idea he’d gotten the last word niggled at her. “A quid pro quo, then.”
He neither slowed nor uttered a reply upon exiting, but she could swear she heard his husky chuckle from the corridor.
Chapter 7
Sterling leaned back in his leather desk chair, arms folded under his head, and eyed the smooth stone ceiling as he contemplated Lady Annabelle’s account of the robbers.
Two men, lying in wait, at the juncture where the mainland met the tidal flats. Two grown men, not youths, riding fine-looking horses. Successful robbers, then.
And since when did Holy Island have highwaymen?
Since that woman arrived. The one currently occupying his dining hall, eating his food, sleeping under his roof. The utterly shallow, thoroughly conceited woman, who had his insides in a vice grip and his cock in a maddening state of semi-arousal.
Perhaps he ought to subject himself to another bout of wood chopping in the snow,sansgreatcoat or waistcoat.
It had taken some time, longer than he’d anticipated when he’d stalked outside intent on dousing his ardor for the most ill-matched woman on earth—for him at any rate—for his heated blood to cool. Then he’d taken one look at her, standing beforehis sideboard, and desire rose up inside him like the flames licking at the tinder in the grate.
With a growl, he straightened in his chair and propelled himself to his feet. He huffed out a self-derisive laugh and paced to the window, where he pressed his forehead to the icy pane of glass.
He’d thought that first time, at the garden party, celebrating his dear sister’s ill-fated choice for a husband, had been an apparition. He’d just arrived in town from Derby, where he’d spent an enjoyable fortnight witnessing his childhood mate, Lord Zeke Thurgood, fight a losing battle to keep his heart from ceding ownership to one Lady Kitty Hastings—now, his wife.
He’d likely have stayed longer if not for the news concerning his sister’s betrothal. He’d come home to see what, if anything, could be done to rectify matters. Her intended, Gaston, had a nasty reputation, and Sterling cursed his own inattentiveness that had allowed the courtship to proceed in the first place.
He’d been fully prepared for his enmity toward the man.
But it had been Gaston’s sister who caused his blood to simmer on sight. One look at Lady Annabelle Montrose and he’d taken an unequivocal, instant dislike to her. More than was normal, even for him, who had long recoiled from women of her ilk. Spoiled. Entitled. Thoroughly grating with their superficial values, lack of empathy for anyone below their station, and equal loathing for anyone above it.
Unfortunately, he’d experienced an equally powerful attraction to the chit. From his first glimpse of her, she…fascinated him. Held him in utter thrall, though he fought it for all he was worth.
And the maddening part was he couldn’t put his finger on why—especially in light of the fact that he found her so bloody disagreeable.
Certainly, she was beautiful. Stunningly so. But he’d never been one to bow to a woman’s charms. For him, character trumped all.
Except in the case of Annabelle Montrose.
That day, he’d done everything he could to quash the lust crawling through his veins whenever she was in sniffing distance—which was often, thanks to her apparent inability to leave him alone. This, in spite of his determination to avoid her. He’d finally opted to leave.
After several trying weeks—weeks—he’d managed to banish her from his thoughts.
Until yesterday, when she’d turned up on his doorstep.
A face hewn by the angels, skin that caught the light like she wore a fine dusting of diamond powder, and which promised to be both silky smooth and supple to the touch. A golden halo of long, lustrous hair, and a body that made him ache—andthatwas before he’d had the misfortune of glimpsing its outline while she stood before him in nothing more than his sister’s night shift.
“Lady Annabelle, sir,” came Cogsworth’s announcement.
