She arched her delicate brows. “I trust we will resume our conversation when your business concludes, my lord?”
He sent her a placid smile. “There is nothing to discuss. Rest assured, I have no complaints about your staying here”—he held up a hand, palm out when she opened her mouth, he presumed, to argue, probably by reminding him of his previous statements to the contrary—“until such a time as a proper chaperone presents herself to accompany you home.”
***
Stunned, Annabelle watched the man stride from the dining room.
She picked up her fork and poked at the remaining slivers of ham and eggs on her plate.
This morning, when she’d imagined having this conversation, this particular outcome had never occurred to her.
So certain was she in the outcome, she’d informed Babette of her imminent departure, likely on the ‘morrow at dawn, when the tide was out. No sense waiting for midday—when the high waters would leave her no option but to board another coble.
In doing so, she had risked heralding one of the girl’s breakdowns. But she’d hoped to save her the trouble of re-fashioning any more of poor Lady Caroline’s gowns—and for what? So that Lord high-and-mighty Randall could blithely reject her altruistic plan, out of hand?
Nothing to discuss,her left foot.
He was not her master. He did not have the right to decree what she could or could not broach, she thought, working herself into a good lather.
Better she focus on that, and not the tiny part of her that had warmed at him taking instant umbrage to her decision to leave. No, she would not think of that at all.
She pushed back from the table and rose, then hesitated.
She had no wish to cross paths with Babette, who’d all but run from the room this morning when she’d learned of Annabelle’s departure. Nor did she relish giving the appearance of waiting around—pining—for a scrap of his lordship’s attention.
She would do what she always did when she needed to think—or not think. She’d visit the stables. She’d brush that magnificent horse of Sterling’s and perhaps bribe him with a cube of sugar. To that end, she plucked one from the sideboard, then hurried to her chamber to gather her cloak and gloves.
A quick glance out the window at the domed grey sky and slanting foliage told her the weather had not improved, but neither did snow appear imminent.
Movement in the periphery of her vision drew her gaze to a cluster of men herding into the stables behind a wheeled cart. They’d obviously transferred whatever they’d delivered from a similar contrivance, which stood empty and attached to a lone donkey. A frowning Lord Randall, hands on his hips, took up the rear of the procession.
What had the townsmen—fishermen, she surmised by their rough-hewn clothing and weathered skin—delivered on that cart that had Lord Randall scowling? Surely not a load of fish.
“A matter of some delicacy,” Chip had said. If she hadn’t made up her mind to protect Lord Randall from scandal—not that he’d expressed an ounce of gratitude—she’d take herself down there this instant and assuage her curiosity.
As if he sensed her looking, he glanced up toward her window.
She skittered backward out of sight before he could spot her.
So much for her plan to visit the stables. A walk, then. Away from the main road, to prevent the men from sighting her on their way back to the village. She’d exit via the servant’s doors, through the kitchens ‘round back, and stroll the estate grounds.
Later, she’d get a look inside the stables.
Chapter 19
Annabelle lifted her face to the wind, even as she hugged her cloak more tightly around herself to ward off the chill. She had to admit the sea-scented air far rivaled the pervasive smells of London, where chimney smoke, soot, horse dung, and other malevolent odors prevailed.
The way her brother had spoken of the island when Lady Caroline had informed him of Sterling—Lord Randall’s—penchant for visiting the place had painted an image of a desolate wasteland filled with cretinous mutants. She’d arrived predisposed to agree with him. Then she’d witnessed her first shooting stars in a smog-less sky.
Now, strolling the quiet, graveled path, breathing the clean air, glimpsing the majestic ocean in the far distance—where she liked it—she had to admit she found Holy Island wholly beautiful.
Not that she intended to tell Lord Randall.
Lord Randall, who not only hadn’t leapt at the opportunity to rid himself of her, had argued for her to stay. Lord Randall, who’d shown her the stars. Lord Randall, who’d kissed her.
Who she’d kissed, in reality. But he had kissed her back.
Only to make it plain there would be no second kiss.
