Page 61 of A Rogue at Stonecliffe

“Mmm. I suppose.” He toyed with a spoon. “Sometimes I wonder what I’ve built it all for.”

“A family? A legacy for your children?”

“I’ve no inclination toward marriage.” His smile held no humor. “Or children.”

“But you used to talk about those things. You said you wanted a home for your family.”

“I was young,” he replied. “I outgrew those notions.”

“But surely—”

His eyes flashed. “That was with you, Anna.” He leaned forward. “I wanted that with you. I wanted you in my house. I wanted you in my bed.”

Her breath caught in her throat, and she stared into his eyes, dark and heated. The air was electric with possibility, and for a moment, Annabeth was sure he was going to pull her up and kiss her. She went taut, waiting, knowing that she would welcome his kiss. Yearned for his touch.

He shoved back his chair and stood up. “The devil.” He strode to the end of the room and stood for a long moment, arms crossed, seemingly studying the array of china in the cabinet before him.

Anna simply sat. She didn’t know what to do. What she ought to do. She wanted to follow him, to lay her hand upon his taut arm and tell him—what? That her insides were quivering just from his gaze? That his words stirred a fire deep in her abdomen? That she wished they were young again and could do everything differently?

He took a breath, visibly relaxing his shoulders. “I beg your pardon, Annabeth. I shouldn’t have said that. It was long ago and well gone.” He turned, his face composed. “I am not good company tonight. You should go upstairs and get some sleep. It’s been a long day.”

She stood up, wanting to refuse to do what he said and knowing how foolish that would be. Had he made one gesture toward her, moved one step nearer, Annabeth thought she would go to him and toss all good sense aside. But Sloane remained still, and she was too wise. Turning, Annabeth left. She climbed the stairs to her room, alert for his call or the sound of his steps following her, but he did not follow her.

And that, she thought as she closed her door behind her, was a relief. A reprieve from having to make a decision whether to go the way of temptation or stay on the side of sanity and safety.

She could not deny that she wanted Sloane. If she could sleep with him without giving him her heart, she thought she would do it in an instant. But she knew, deep down, that that would be impossible.

Indeed, she was already feeling far more for him than was wise. If she was honest with herself, she knew that part of the reason she argued so hard to continue the investigation with Sloane was not just that she was determined to find her father’s killer, but that she simply wanted to continue to be in Sloane’s company.

Every morning she woke up anticipating seeing him. On the few occasions when he smiled at her in the way he used to—the familiar boyish grin, full of life and fun—her heart lifted inside her chest. Wherever he was, whoever they were with, her eyes always sought him out first. The world seemed brighter, lighter, more filled with possibilities. It was so easy to laugh with him, to talk to him; with Sloane she had never felt constraints. With Sloane everything felt right.

But all those things were just fool’s gold and would vanish along with Sloane when this whole ordeal was through. There was no holding on to him, none of the certainty that Annabeth had once felt. Sloane would leave, and she would go back to her life. Safe and secure, surrounded by the people she knew. Bobbing along like a toy boat while life streamed on around her.

Looking back, she could see how she had done that for the last twelve years, moving along as others wanted her to, bending not breaking, arranging her life in small ways, never stepping outside the parameters, never taking charge. Going where her grandmother chose, smoothing the sharp edges Lady Lockwood presented. Accepting Nathan’s proposal because she was so overjoyed and grateful that he had not died.

Had she always been like that? It would be easy to blame the crushing blow of Sloane’s leaving. But that, she thought, had only revealed her hesitancy and dependence. What had she done when he broke their engagement? She’d run away to her aunt at Stonecliffe.

She hadn’t stood her ground, hadn’t refused, hadn’t demanded anything from him. Yes, she’d been too stunned by his words to think what to say, but she could have confronted him later. She could have gone to his house and argued with him. She could have insisted that he tell her the truth. But in her pride and her hurt, she hadn’t done any of that. Instead she had fled.

Well, she wasn’t going to run away any longer. She was tired of letting others make decisions for her. Whatever happened with Sloane, good or bad, she was going to face it this time.

CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN

AT BREAKFAST THE next morning, Sloane announced that he was going to visit Mr. Asquith. “I need to find out what else he might know.”

“I’m going with you,” Annabeth replied.

“No. The less you know about Asquith, the better, trust me. More importantly, the less he knows about you, the better.”

Annabeth stared at him. “What do you mean? I thought you worked for this man.”

“That doesn’t mean I like him. He will use anyone and anything if he thinks it will benefit England. He’s a spymaster, Anna. He doesn’t have a heart. There’s a reason he was called ‘Spider.’ He pulls anyone he can into his web. If there is any way that he thinks he can use you, he will not hesitate to do so.”

“What use could he possibly make of me?” Annabeth said. “I’m of no importance.”

“You are to some people,” Sloane snapped. He looked away quickly and continued in a milder voice, “There are a number of people who could be persuaded by a threat to you—don’t you think Lady Lockwood would do whatever it took to keep you from harm? Or your mother?”

“And you?” As soon as the question was out of her mouth, Annabeth wished she could take it back. It was pathetic, really, hungering for some indication that Sloane cared for her.