Page 1 of A Rogue at Stonecliffe

PROLOGUE

1810

SLOANE TACKED INTO the wind, then settled back, one hand on the rudder, and savored the moment. The sunlight sparkled on the water, and the ocean breeze cooled the heat of the summer day. The sky was blue, with puffy white clouds drifting by. His father was rusticating here at home, so Sloane didn’t have to wonder whether he might even now be gambling away their house or running up his bill at some shop that was still foolish enough to extend Marcus’s credit.

But what made it perfect was Annabeth, sitting on the bench across from him. The wind stirred her light brown hair, sending the freed curls dancing around her face, and the light shimmered on the blonder strands that were the result of days spent in the summer sun without her bonnet. A few summer freckles were sprinkled across her cheekbones, which made her mother scold and treat with cucumber poultices. Sloane wanted to kiss them.

But then, everything about Annabeth made Sloane want to kiss her. And it made his heart swell in his chest to know that she loved him—not as much as he loved her, for Sloane was certain no one could love him that much, but still, she loved him without reservation.

“I’ve loved you from the moment I saw you,” he said, for he could say anything to Annabeth, reveal any weakness, any flaw. She knew them all, had known them for thirteen years, and yet still she loved him.

She laughed now, turning her gaze from the ocean onto him. “You pulled my hair.”

“You kicked me in the shin.”

“Well, you’d knocked Nathan down. And for no reason.”

“Isn’t the fact that he is Nathan reason enough?”

Annabeth grimaced at him, but her voice was without heat as she said, “You are unfair to him.”

Sloane made a scornful noise. “He’s such a little gentleman. His clothes are always right for the occasion; his hair is never mussed; he always says the right thing.”

“Most people consider those good things.”

“He loves you.”

“I love him, too.” She said it with such platonic affection that Sloane couldn’t claim too much jealousy. “But it’s not the way I love you.” A sensuous smile touched her lips.

That smile went through him as if she’d stroked him. It took little from her to fill him with desire; looking at her was enough to make heat surge in him. Kissing her was an almost unbearable delight, and when he held her in his arms...well, he wasn’t sure what word, what phrase could describe how he felt... It was as if her warmth, her goodness, her beauty poured into him as well, chasing out all the anger and resentment and loneliness.

Annabeth shaded her eyes and looked at the sky. She sighed. “It’s getting late. I must get back by teatime, or else Grandmother will quiz me.”

Little as he wanted this time to end, Sloane began the process of turning the boat. “How much longer is your grandmother going to visit?”

Annabeth chuckled. “That’s exactly what Papa asked me this morning. Poor man, he’s been almost living in his workshop since she arrived. The answer is, no one knows. She will leave whenever she wants to. She arrives with almost no warning and then one day will suddenly declare that she’s leaving. I think she enjoys keeping everyone wondering.”

“I’m sure she does. Every time I see her, I feel an almost uncontrollable urge to hide beneath a tea table. Apparently I am too bold, my hair too long, and my manner unpolished. Once, she told me that my eyes were too blue.” Sloane paused. “I’m not sure what she expected me to do about that.”

He didn’t mention that Lady Lockwood would also frequently remind him of his father’s faults—which he agreed with but would rather not hear discussed—and worse, warn him that he was likely to turn out the same way, a fear that had long lay buried deep within Sloane no matter how much he had shaped himself to be different.

“‘The woman is a menace,’” Annabeth quoted. “That’s what my father always says. But of course, poor Mama simply cowers before her. She cannot say no or argue. I am the only person who ever disagrees with Grandmother.”

“Ah, but she won’t beat you down. You are the person she loves—you and that damn silly dog, Petunia.”

“I think she loves her children,” Annabeth told him, and Sloane snorted. “No, really, she loves Adeline and Mama, and I think she adores Sterling.”

“She has an odd way of showing it.”

“That’s true.”

When the small boat drew near the shore, Sloane dropped anchor and waded through the water, carrying Annabeth.

“You don’t have to carry me, you know,” she told him, though she made no move to leave his arms. “I could tie up my skirts and wade through the water myself.”

“While that would be a lovely sight, I’d rather carry you,” he told her.

She smiled and snuggled against him. “I would, too.”