Page 83 of A Rogue at Stonecliffe

“I’ll return tomorrow,” Sloane said to Annabeth. “We can discuss it all then. Make plans.” At her frown, he shook his head and said, “No, I won’t act without you. I just... I believe we could all use a little rest.”

“Tomorrow then.”

Sloane and Marcus departed, and after they were gone, Nathan stood up as well. “I should also be going.”

“Stay for tea,” Lady Lockwood said. “It’s almost time.”

“No, thank you, my lady. I have some things to do. I will return tomorrow for the discussion, if that is agreeable.”

“Of course. You’re welcome anytime,” Annabeth assured him. She walked with him to the front door. “How are you? Really. Not for Grandmother’s ears.”

Nathan smiled faintly. “I am fine. I had too much to do trying to maintain peace among Miss Cole, your grandmother, and Marcus to worry about my finer feelings.”

“I’m sure that’s true,” Annabeth said with a smile of her own. “Sorry to inflict all that on you.” She paused, then went on, “I’m sorry for all of it. Truly. I never wanted to hurt you.”

“I know. And you shouldn’t fret. I haven’t been brooding. Indeed, in a way it’s been almost a relief.”

“A relief?” Annabeth’s eyebrows shot up.

Nathan chuckled at her expression. “No, not a relief to be parted from you. It’s not as though it doesn’t hurt, but there’s a sort of...freedom, I suppose, in something ending. Miss Cole told me I’ve just been trying to best Sloane—in more uncomplimentary words, of course. I don’t think that’s true, but I do think it’s time to get on with my life. See what I can make of it instead of holding on to the past.”

“Good. I’m glad for that.” Annabeth felt as if much of the burden of guilt she’d been carrying fell away. “I want so much for you to be happy.”

“And I will be. I’m sure of that. We both will be. But I can’t leave until this is finished and I’m sure you’re safe. After that, perhaps I shall visit Hubbard—I’m not sure you know him. He’s a friend of mine from Oxford. He moved to Italy a few months back, and he’s been after me to come stay with him in Florence for a while. I might visit more of the Continent as well.” Nathan’s eyes began to twinkle. “This is not, you understand, inspired by my mother and aunt deciding to set up house at the manor.”

“Oh, no. Really? They’re both coming? Permanently?”

“One hopes not. Mama is one thing, but Aunt Sylvie’s lectures are more than a man should have to bear.”

Annabeth laughed. “Then I hope you have a long visit in Italy.”

“Thank you. I’m sure I will.” Nathan took his hat from the waiting footman and bowed over Annabeth’s hand. “Goodbye, Annabeth.”

CHAPTER THIRTY-FIVE

ANNABETH SAT IN the rocking chair beside her fireplace, brushing out her hair. She had spent the evening listening to her grandmother’s many aggravations during her brief stay at Stonecliffe, not the least of which seemed to be Verity Cole’s tendency to ignore Lady Lockwood’s strictures. Verity apparently played too lively games with Lady Lockwood’s great-grandson, Gil, that all too often involved Petunia joining in the fun, barking and darting about. She did exactly as she wanted to, paid no attention to Lady Lockwood’s advice, laughed too much with Marcus Rutherford, and squabbled too much with Nathan. Most irritating of all was that Aunt Adeline seemed to enjoy the woman’s company.

Annabeth had made soothing comments and gratefully escaped to her room when Lady Lockwood finally went to bed. Changing into her nightclothes, Annabeth had sat down to brush out her hair, hoping the familiar, rhythmic routine would calm her own nerves. It wasn’t that she was afraid; whatever Sloane said, Lady Lockwood’s house seemed solid and safe to her, especially with the guards Sloane had planted at the door to the safe and the front entrance.

No, her edginess was due to being alone. She had always enjoyed the time she had spent by herself, reading or writing letters or simply basking in the silence. But now, in the matter of weeks, hardly a fortnight, of being with Sloane, she felt the chill of loneliness. How was it possible to have become so accustomed to his presence, so attuned to him in such a short time?

Yes, she had known him well in the past, but that was twelve years ago, and he was not the same man he had been. He was altogether harder, colder, and more cynical. He’d lived in a world she had no knowledge of; his life no longer touched hers. And yet, somehow, despite all her efforts to the contrary, her mind, her heart, had somehow twined with his as it always had. She had tried to deny it—to him, to the world, to herself—but the truth was, she loved Sloane. She had always loved him. Deep down inside, beneath the anger and pain, there had remained a small, unconquerable ember of love. It had only taken his presence to fan that ember back into a fire.

Annabeth wanted to be with him again, to feel his arms around her, to listen to his voice, to feel his lips on hers. The last two days had been miserable; she’d cried herself to sleep each night. But she had hoped she’d be past the worst of it soon; instead, she felt more unhappy by the hour. It didn’t help to know that she was the one who had pushed him away.

More than once the past two days, she had bitterly regretted that decision. With time and reflection, she had accepted that Sloane had hidden the truth from her with the best of intentions. He was right in pointing out that she was doing the very same thing by not telling her mother about her father’s misdeeds. But that was not the relationship Annabeth had always wanted to have with the man she loved. She wanted honesty and trust. She wanted him to share everything with her, good and bad, not shield her from unpleasant truths.

Was Sloane capable of such a relationship? Indeed, was Sloane capable of any relationship at all? He seemed content with his bachelor status. He was accustomed to being alone and wary of everyone. He’d built walls around himself, as well-guarded as his house. Even in their moments of greatest passion, he had never once spoken of love or marriage. If she had not pulled away from him, would Sloane have eventually pulled away from her?

That was at the core of her dilemma—the future that lay before them. Or, more accurately, their lack of a future. However much she wanted Sloane, however often she ached for him in her heart and in her body, they always seemed to hurt each other. Their love was a fiery thing, something fierce and deep. It might never burn out, but it would never be comfortable. A man like Sloane, so capable of control and so prone to conceal his emotions, so used to isolation, would never be an easy man. And she herself was no longer the adoring girl she had been before, unable or unwilling to see his faults, content to follow wherever he led, and perfectly happy as long as she was enfolded in Sloane’s love.

There would be clashes and disappointments, sorrow and pain. How could she trust him completely, knowing of his deceptions? What if one day he simply turned away from her again, leaving her with a broken heart? Annabeth did not think she could bear to live through that sort of pain again.

Sloane seemed adamant about not marrying. Once, she would have been willing to be his mistress, her love for him overcoming all else. But she held herself too highly now to accept such a shadow life. A passionate affair was one thing; living with the knowledge that he did not value her enough to marry her was quite another.

It was better, surely, to make the cut now. The longer they were together, the more it would hurt. She must stick to her decision, must not crumple, not give in to the heat that flashed through her whenever she was with Sloane. This was what was best.

ANNABETH, SLOANE, AND NATHAN were in the drawing room the next afternoon, discussing their suspects, when Verity, once again dressed in her maid’s costume, sailed into the room. “Have I missed anything?”