Worse, she knew to the core of her being she would never glimpse it again without recallinghimand the wonder of being held and kissed and, she would swear,worshippedby him. Nor would she forget the resounding humiliation she’d sufferedwhen, seconds after bringing her the greatest pleasure she’d ever known, Lord Sterling Randall had cast her away from him like so much rubbish.
Enough.She had spent a long night in a half-sleep state reliving the rooftop scene. She must gather herself before she faced him in the dining room in several minutes. But first, she must say her goodbyes to Babette.
“Babette, I…wanted to thank you for all your help during my stay at the castle. You’ve been…I’ve enjoyed you.”There.
Babette smiled her angelic smile. “Milady needs a pair of slippers to wear inside the castle. Much more comfortable than heavy boots. I shall have a pair ready for you later today.”
Oh, dear.She’d underestimated Babette’s mental deficiencies. At times she seemed so sage, other times… “Babette, that is most thoughtful. But, you understand, I am leaving today, and I am not returning.”
She shook her head. “No. Milady is not leaving today.”
Annabelle blinked. “But I am.”
Babette’s honey-brown eyes welled with tears even as a mulish expression covered her face. In the next instant, she picked up her skirts and ran from the room.
Annabelle stared after her, the backs of her own eyes stinging.For pity’s sake.She didn’t have time for this nonsense. She needed to reserve her mental strength for the real challenge ahead.
Squaring her shoulders, she drew a bracing breath, and exited the guest chamber.
Descending the stairs, dread filled her. How would she ever face Lord Randall this morning? And yet a simultaneous thrill left her almost giddy with anticipation, like a child promised her first pony ride.
She was certainly mad.
Nothing had gone as planned. She’d come here intent on proving Lord Randall’s guilt or complicity in Gaston’s death with no question in her mind that hehadplayed a role. Now she’d questioned him, however, and he’d denied any wrongdoing—repeatedly.
She actually…almost believed him.
Almost, but not quite. There was more to his involvement than he was letting on. There had to be. It couldnotbe a coincidence, him, there, the night Gaston died.
She rounded the stairwell and started down the second flight. Not that it mattered, anymore. Lord Randall’s guilt or innocence notwithstanding, she would leave today with nothing to show for her efforts save a secret memory to cherish in the coming months while she was paraded before one horrid contender for her hand after another on the marriage mart. A horse on the auction block. Prime stock.Step this way, folks and get a good look at her teeth.
Her one chance to prove that her worth lay in more than what her face and figure could garner, to earn her parents’ gratitude if not their affection, had slipped through her fingers like sand.
She had not eked a confession out of Lord Randall, but she had wound up throwing herself at him like the most desperate of creatures.Like the homely, pathetic misfit I was as a child, unworthy of even my family’s affections.
Bitterness twisted her stomach into a hard knot.
She hated thinking of that time, of the poor little girl she’d been before reaching adolescence, so fair and pale as to appear practically hairless, as thin as a waif, and bearing that strange eye affliction which had necessitated the use of a black patch until her two eyes managed to work as one rather than cross. Wearing the patch, she looked like a child pirate—something Gaston had found exceedingly humiliating and which he complained of to their parents when he thought she wasn’t inhearing range. She’d have gladly tossed the thing, except that not wearing it left her looking like an imbecile and seeing double.
Of course, her family had wanted to keep her out of sight. Ofcoursethey had. They had reputations to build and later, to uphold. Their uncommonly good looks gave them a foothold in society which they desperately needed.
From her debut, Mother, though a commoner, was known for her grace and splendor, and Father, the newly ennobled marquess, for his swoon-worthy appeal. When they’d married, everyone had raved over the handsome pair they made. Then came their first-born son. A golden-haired, blue-eyed boy.
And then came Ugly Annabelle.
But she wasn’t Ugly Annabelle anymore. Her beauty had simply taken its sweet time to metamorphose. And after that, she’d finally known the power of being beautiful.
Maybe she had kissed Lord Randall, but he had kissed her back. Moreover, she wasnotsome common creature, easily cast aside, and shewoulddepart with her head held high.
She reached the dining hall, took a fortifying breath, and crossed the threshold. Making for the sideboard, she congratulated herself on not so much as blinking at the heart-stopping sight of Lord Sterling Randall seated at the head of the table, the broad scope of his shoulders, squared, his posture erect, his thick, dark hair gleaming in the morning light streaming through the multi-paned glass window.
Reaching for a dish, she saw him push away from the table and rise. “Good morning, Lady Annabelle.”
The rich timbre of his voice tickled her insides, like a feather sliding down her spine, but she only spared him a nonchalant glance. “My lord.”
“Coffee, or tea?” he asked, civilly, as if nothing untoward had happened last night.
“Tea. Thank you.” She helped herself to a warm slice of toast and thick pad of butter. Perusing the array of other offerings—eggs, beans, streaky ham—she decided nothing else appealed. Too many butterflies fluttered inside her belly.
