Disgust with himself and his pathetic lapse of control hollowed out his insides.
He turned in time to see Babette round the stair tower. She was bundled in a cloak and scarves, wore thick gloves, and carried a small tray boasting what appeared at a glance to be a single glass of port. Huddled behind the voluminous folds of clothing, he couldn’t make out her expression, but a certain rigidity to her movements communicated her displeasure, all directed at him.
Bloody hell.All he needed now to compound his guilt was for Babette to come unhinged by what she perceived as having happened. By what sherightlyperceived.
“My port,” Annabelle said from behind him, aplomb restored as if the two of them had not been locked in a passionate embrace seconds before.
She glided past him, skirts billowing, and took up a position between Sterling and Babette, before swiping up the glass from the tray. If he didn’t know better, he’d say she was attempting to shield him from the maid’s censure. As if gracing a parlor, the woman took a dainty sip. “Thank you, Babette. You may await me in my bedchamber.”
He nearly snorted. Apparently she was now the mistress of Stoneford Castle, and he the guest.
Babette did not depart. Instead, she leaned her head to look past Annabelle toward Sterling, and though he couldn’t be sure, seemed to aim a glare at him. “I am happy to await you here, milady, and see you safely down the stairs when you are ready.”
He blinked at the young maid’s composure. She sounded almost like any other maid. Not at all like the Babette he’d experienced thus far.
“Nonsense. Go now,” Annabelle said, her words brooking no dissension.
Enough.
“It grows late. I propose weallturn in,” Sterling ordered, trying to regain some semblance of control.
Babette nodded as if in approval.
Annabelle, however, stiffened, and for a moment he anticipated an argument.Blasted woman.
Instead, she brought the small crystal glass to her mouth for another sip, then she held the unfinished glass toward Babette.
A moment later the two women filed into the stair tower with Annabelle sparing him one parting but unreadable glance before she disappeared inside.
Bloody,bloodyhell. He raked a hand through his hair. What had he done? Given into temptation, that’s what, despite all hiscareful plotting to avoid said temptation. He peeled off his coat and slammed it onto the ground, hoping the frigid air might cool his overheated body.Fool.
Not for one minute had he thought she’d follow him up onto the roof. But she had, she and that damned fresh scent that surrounded her like a taunting lure. Still, if that was all, he could have resisted her. But there was today, seeing her with Babette, then the vision she made in the moonlight, and her awe at glimpsing her first shooting star.
And what difference did any of that make? She was still the too-beautiful, spoiled daughter of a pompous, socially grasping marquess. Still the woman who imagined her station and stunning looks entitled her to anything and anyone she wanted. A girl who the world had taught to snap her fingers and laugh as men fell at her feet or danced to her tune, depending upon her whim at the time. Thetonwas full of such superficial creatures that played with men’s lives like pieces on a chessboard.
It was a game he refused to play.
The kiss she’d commenced—nothe—was all the reminder he needed, since he seemed to require one. She did not care in the least what kind of position she’d put him in, didn’t care that his honor was every bit as important to him as her virtue should have been to her. She simply felt an itch and decided to use him to scratch it.
And he was the idiot who’d obliged her. Who’dreveledin the madness. Who would now, undoubtedly, lie awake the entire night, instead of just a portion of it, and burn for the last woman on earth whom he should covet because she personified the sort he’d vowed to avoid in the aftermath of Dillon’s tragic death.
Shivering now with cold that had seeped into his bones, he extinguished the lone hanging lamp with fingers clumsy with frost. Finally, he covered the telescope, shrugged into his coat, and exited the roof into the stair tower.
He stood there for a long moment in the dimly lit space, leaning on the heavy wooden door. Body thawing. Ears ringing in the relative silence following the deafening wind that scoured the rooftop.
He fished in his pocket and retrieved the flask for a last, long draw.
That kiss, that interlude, had been a mistake. A terrible mistake. And not solely because he’d all-but compromised Lady Annabelle, nor because—by indulging his carnal desire for the lady—he’d tarnished his own integrity.
But because the feel of Annabelle’s lips under his, of her body nestled into his, had been so unlike anything he’d thus far experienced.
He’d made love to his fair share of beautiful women, with the expected, gratifying results. But now, withthisbeautiful woman…he could hardly wrap his mind around it. In his wildest imaginings he couldn’t have foreseen the intoxicating, soul-shattering, glorious splendor of it.
He started down the stairs, a creeping dread settling in his chest that he had not begun to grasp where the ultimate repercussions for his reckless indulgence would lead.
***
The following morning, as Babette helped her into her once-favorite travel gown, Annabelle silently vowed to burn it when next she got it off. Despite the embellishments the maid had added to it and the care it had received at her hands, Annabelle was sick to death of wearing it.
