Sterling nodded in polite acknowledgment and pretended not to comprehend the man’s inference—that if only Sterling would sell Stoneford Castle to him, as well as the land upon which it sat, limestone kilns and all, he would not have to make do with the less than stellar accommodations on the island.
An awkward silence followed. He knew he should offer the man a drink, but he also knew he wasn’t about to—and not simply because he wanted to get rid of him before disaster struck should Annabelle put in an appearance. He did not like the man. He’d made a pest of himself, badgering Sterling to sell the property his grandfather had left him, even after being told, in no uncertain terms, the property was not for sale.
“Was there something you needed? I regret to say I am occupied at the moment with—” His words died when the air at his back stirred, and something behind him drew Vane's attention.
And then his face went slack.
Annabelle.
Crunching sounded in his ears. His own teeth, he realized, and made an effort to relax his jaw.
“Am I interrupting, Lord Randall?” came the lady’s too-sweet query.
In the guise of smiling his welcome, he glared over his shoulder at her.
She hovered in the open doorway, wide-eyed and, for all the world, innocent as a lamb.
So ithadbeen a ploy. She thought to play him for a fool. He wasnotgoing to marry the chit, scandal be damned.
“Oh, you have a guest,” Vane said, sounding awed. “I had no notion.”
“Guests,” Sterling growled. Vane had no need to meet the lady’s chaperone to believe she existed—which she did. Just…not here.
Annabelle glowed under the man’s adoring gaze.
Or perhaps she simply glowed because…because she bloody did.
Not waiting for Sterling’s invitation, she sashayed into the parlor, the skirts of her blue travel gown swishing with each sway of her gently rounded hips. As she neared them, she held one delicate hand out toward Lord Vane, fingers draping gracefully, a delighted smile on her face, as if she beheld the man of her dreams.
Sterling pinched the bridge of his nose. “Lord Vane, may I introduce Lady A—”
“Woodville,” she supplied, cutting him off. “I arrived yesterday. Lord Randall is the cousin of my late husband, God rest his soul.”
Sterling was momentarily struck dumb. She’d held to her phony persona. He had not expected that.
He glanced at Vane, who had not so much as blinked at the fabrication.
But then he was distracted by Annabelle herself.
Sterling rolled his neck ’til it cracked. “Lady Woodville, meet Lord Vane, a frequent visitor to the island who hails from a nearby estate in Beadnell.”
“How do you do, sir?”
“Very well. Very well indeed, madam.”
As Sterling watched, Vane took Annabelle’s proffered hand. He bent over it, slowly. Painstakingly. He all but devoured thewoman with his eyes, for the love of the saints, starting with her rapt face, then the graceful column of her neck, then her scooped décolletage.
And there, staring at the prominent swell of Annabelle’s lush breasts, his lips hovering over her knuckles, he remained.
Sterling thought he hadn’t liked the man before. Now, something more elemental seethed just beneath the surface of his skin, causing his pulse to race, his blood to heat, and his fists to clench. If Vane did not release Sterling’s so-called late cousin’s widow’s hand in the next instant, he would be made to with a solid blow to his face.
“Well,” Annabelle said, breathless, as she retracted her hand.
Grinning like an idiot, Vane straightened. “Well,” he said, as if in agreement. “A widow. At such a young age. Such a shame.”
Vane’s too-cheery tone earned Sterling’s glare—not that he noticed.
At the reminder of her status, Annabelle affected a somber expression and lowered her gaze. “It was terribly unexpected. Indeed, Lord Randall had no notion until I informed him yesterday that his dear cousin had succumbed to the dreaded weak chest that befalls so many men in Lord Randall’s line.”
