Chapter Eight

And that was how Sterling found himself climbing a tree at the Marigold Ball.

In the dark.

Wearing his formal attire.

While a wallflower waited anxiously below yelling instructions that were less than helpful.

"Have you spotted him yet?" she said. "Try clucking your tongue!"

"I'm not going to cluck my tongue at a squirrel ."

"I've a few cranberries in my pocket. Sir Reginald loves cranberries."

Grabbing on to the lowest hanging branch, Sterling managed to wrap his legs around the base and, from there, pivot–after much grunting and cursing–into a crouching position. Squinting, he shoved a collection of leaves out of his face as he tried to locate the whereabouts of Rosemary's runaway pet. "Sir Reginald is going to end up on the end of a stick roasting over an open fire if he doesn't get his arse down here this bloody second," he muttered sourly.

"What was that?" she called out.

"I said throw me a damned cranberry."

The first bounced off the branch above him, but he managed to catch the second. As he plopped it into the middle of his palm and extended his arm while clucking his tongue, Sterling wondered how he'd gotten here.

There was only one answer.

Rosemary.

A glance into those beguiling eyes of hers and how could he not give her whatever it was that she desired? Had she asked him to walk to Istanbul and steal a crown from the Ottoman sultan he'd have done it. Hell, at least there would have been Turkish wine there.

But no.

Not his Rosemary.

His Rosemary didn't want crowns or jewels or pretty trinkets.

She wanted a rat with a furry tail.

Because of course she did.

"Do you see him yet?" Hands clutched beneath her chin, she peered up at him, her eyes twin pools of shimmering blue fog set in a face pale with worry. "Are you clucking?"

Sterling gave a curt nod, realized she most likely couldn't see him through the oak's twisted maze of limbs, and bit out, " Yes. Yes, I'm clucking. It isn't working. Maybe if we return tomorrow–"

"Sir Reginald can't spend the night outside ," she said, aghast.

Once again, Sterling considered the merits of reminding Rosemary that while domesticated, her pet was a wild animal. But it was clear that neither of them were capable of thinking sensibly at the moment, or else why would he be in a tree clucking at a squirrel like some lunatic escaped straight from Bedlam?

It was the kiss. It had addled their minds. Or maybe his mind was already addled to begin with. That would help explain why he hadn't been able to keep his hands to himself. Why no sooner had he seen Rosemary again than he was possessed with the urge to taste her. To touch her. To pick up right where they'd left off at Hawkridge Manor as if not a day had passed.

Bollocks.

What was wrong with him?

Had he no redeeming qualities left?

Every rogue worth his salt knew that you never, ever kissed an innocent at a ball. Besides being the plot of every country house novel gone awry, it was simply a bad idea. No good could come of it. No good had come of it, given that he was currently ten feet up in the air holding on to a tree for dear life while trying to coax a belligerent squirrel onto his shoulder.

If he told this story later at the pub, not a soul was going to believe him. And he wouldn't blame them a bit. He hardly believed it himself. If Sir Reginald didn't show his whiskery little face in the next five seconds–

Tit tit tit tit tit.

"Did you hear that?" Rosemary yelped excitedly. "That was–"

"Quiet," he ordered as he cupped his ear and tried to decipher where the sound had come from. Directly above him, he thought. But it was hard to tell for certain. "Sir Reginald? Is that you, mate? Be a nice fellow and come on down, now. You've worried your mistress, and it's getting late."

Tit tit tit. Tit?

"It's a brave lad you are. Handsome as well, I'm sure. Why don't you come here and let me see what a fine coat you have?" Vaguely, Sterling registered that he was deploying the same soft, crooning voice he'd used to lure many a vixen into his bed. Here he thought he'd been fine tuning his art of seduction all those years to secure himself the most beautiful and talented mistresses money could buy, when in actuality he'd been preparing to seduce Sir Reginald.

Never, he decided then and there. Never would this story see the light of day, in a pub or otherwise. Forget murder. His reputation wouldn't ever recover if it became public knowledge that the Duke of Hanover had attempted to flirt with a squirrel.

"Have you got him?" asked Rosemary. "What are you doing? "

Sterling ground his teeth together. "Would you care to come up here and give it a go? Because you're more than welcome. I'm doing you this favor, in case you've forgotten, and it's not my fault your squirrel is the stupidest, most slow-witted creature that I have ever had the misfortune to–"

And that was when Sir Reginald bit him.

A sharp nip, right on the inside of his left thigh.

In the retelling of this incident (because it would be retold, over and over again), Sterling continued to deny that he screamed. But he did. Like a little girl. Loud and shrill, the high-pitched sound of his feminine screech carried all the way to the manor where the Duchess of Clemson was being serviced by the Earl of Coatesville in her private study.

"Did you hear that?" she frowned.

The earl lifted his head from between her thighs. "Hear what?"

"I'm not sure. Perhaps a maid dropped a tray on her foot?" She patted the top of his head. "Carry on."

The only thing Sterling carried with him as he fell out of the tree and landed on the ground in an unceremonious heap was regret. This was why he didn't help people. This was why he preferred to be alone. Because the moment you held out your proverbial hand, a squirrel tried to bite it off.

"Sir Reginald!" Rosemary cried out joyfully when her pet came flying down the trunk of the tree, streaked across the grass in a red blur, and leapt straight onto her shoulder. "You're all right. Thank heavens."

Staggering to his feet, Sterling scowled as he brushed leaves off his clothes and yanked a twig out of his hair. " I'm fine, thank you for asking."

He almost wasn't. A few inches higher, and Sir Reginald might have–

No.

Best not to even think about it.

"You were very courageous." Rosemary's dress rustled as she approached. Rising onto the tips of her toes, she closed her eyes and placed a kiss upon his cheek. "My own knight in shining armor."

To Sterling's horror, he blushed . Like a schoolboy who'd just groped his first pair of tits behind the stables.

How mortifying.

"Just keep that damned animal away from me," he said, glaring at Sir Reginald who stared back at him nonplussed, black eyes bright and suspiciously cheerful. If he didn't know better, he'd suspect the squirrel was smirking at him. "If it gets itself stuck in a tree again, you'll have to find someone else to rescue it."

"Of course," she said solemnly.

This was where Sterling should have walked away. He'd saved the day. There was nothing keeping him here. The party–and the Duke of Clemson's private stock of bourbon imported straight from some godforsaken place called Kentucky–was under the tents a hundred yards away. That's what he had come for. To drink, and socialize, and take the first step towards clearing his name. Not to do…whatever it was he'd done with Rosemary.

Kissing, and fondling, and nearly having his bollocks bitten off by a smirking squirrel.

He should have been walking–nay, running–as fast as his legs could carry him. Instead, he remained rooted to the spot, reluctant to leave his wallflower behind. Never mind that she wasn't his . And he didn't want her to be. He just…he just enjoyed this particular bench. That was all. And if Rosemary happened to be standing by it, and he happened to kiss her again, well, that was nothing more than sheer coincidence. An act of fate, such as it were. Completely out of his control, really.

"How long are you staying in town?" she asked before she sat on one end of the bench.

Excellent craftsmanship, Sterling noted as he sat on the other end. Who wouldn't want to take advantage of such a fine piece of outdoor furniture? It didn't hurt that its maker had obviously intended the bench to suit a person who was by themself…which meant that there was hardly more than a hair's width between him and Rosemary. Less, when he decided that he just had to stretch his arm out along the back which brought them together like two puzzle pieces fitting snugly into place.

It was strange, this need he had to be close to Rosemary. Not that he ever didn't want to be close to women. But that was generally in a purely physical capacity. Lustful appetites, and all that. With Rosemary, though…with Rosemary, it was different. Yes, he wanted to kiss her again. And admittedly do a great deal more than kiss. They'd been moving in the right direction before Sir Reginald's untimely interruption. But now…now he was content simply sitting beside her. Which was as foreign a notion to him as deciphering ancient Sanskrit.

The truth was that as much as she irritated and bewildered him, she also soothed him. Being in her presence was a cooling balm to his hot, restless soul. A balm that he'd sincerely missed this past fortnight. Especially given what he'd learned from Kincaid.

"Tell me about yourself," he said abruptly. "I don't know anything about you."

"Tell you about myself?" she asked, visibly bemused. Even Sir Reginald looked taken aback.

Sterling couldn't blame her. Or the squirrel. Since when did the Duke of Hanover care about anyone but the Duke of Hanover? And he didn't. Care about Rosemary, that is. But she was a distraction he badly needed. Both from past demons and future uncertainties. So if he could sit on this bench for a while and forget everything but the present, why wouldn't he? He was an arrogant, self-entitled arse. Not a masochist. He didn't crave pain. It just happened to follow him wherever he went.

"Yes," he said in a clipped, no-nonsense tone. "I can hardly go about kissing every wallflower I meet without knowing something about her first. What if you ruin my reputation?"

Rosemary blinked. "What if I ruin your reputation?"

"Indeed. I'm not sure if you're aware, but being accused of murdering one's mistress does put one in a position of social vulnerability. I need to be on my best behavior from this day out. Which means I cannot consort with…" He gave a vague wave of his hand. "Unsavory types."

Tit tit tit!

Sterling glared at the squirrel still sitting atop Rosemary's shoulder. "Quiet, you. Before I make you into a hat."

"Please don't threaten him," Rosemary said with a frown.

" He started it," Sterling said grumpily.

"He is a squirrel, and infinitely smaller than you. Surely you can be the bigger person in this situation." Digging into the small satin reticule tied around her wrist, Rosemary procured another cranberry and held it out. "Go on. If you want to know more about me, the first thing you should learn is that I admire those who treat animals with kindness and respect."

Sterling stared dubiously at the red fruit. "He's going to bite me again."

"He's not." She gave Sir Reginald a stern glance out of the corners of her eyes. "You're not."

Tit tit. Tit tit tit! Tit.

"What did he say?" Sterling demanded.

The corners of Rosemary's lips twitched. "He said he is willing to try if you are. Sometimes that is all it takes, you know. Someone willing to set aside their differences and look past all the obstacles in their path and just try."

Why did he have the impression that she wasn't only talking about a squirrel?

"Here," he said grudgingly, holding out his hand with the cranberry in the middle of it.

After a brief hesitation, Sir Reginald slowly tiptoed across Rosemary's arm and teetered, black eyes darting, on his hind legs. Reaching out with his tiny paws, he snatched up his prize and darted into the folds of her gown where he promptly disappeared.

"Where did he go?"

"I have a squirrel pocket," she explained.

"Why am I not the least bit surprised?" Absently, Sterling's fingers began to play with a curl that had come loose from Rosemary's coiffure and was dangling in a tempting spiral of silky brown down the middle of her neck.

Again, he questioned how he'd ever perceived her as plain. Given, she hadn't the striking, stop-dead-in-your-tracks beauty of her American cousins. Few women did. Nor did she have the alluring, enticing appeal of Eloise. A woman who had exuded sexual arrogance with every long, sweeping pass of her tongue along her bottom lip.

Rosemary wasn't a shiny red apple, ripe for the plucking.

She was…she was the first taste of warm bread. The kind that Cook used to put out by the window to cool when he was a boy, knowing full well that he'd run by and grab a chunk straight from the middle, burning the tips of his fingers as he sank his teeth into all that delicious, freshly baked dough.

She was the first tug of a fish on his line when he and Sebastian were gangly lads sitting on a flat slab of rock with their bare feet dangling in the water and the sun hot against the nape of their necks.

She was his first sip of whiskey. That initial burn that had made his eyes water and his throat hurt, before it mellowed and he tasted the individual notes of honey, smoke, and brine.

Rosemary was warmth, and goodness, and comfort. She wasn't beautiful like a rose or a diamond. Those were things. Objects. Pretty in their own right, but what was a rose without its petals or a diamond when it lost its shine? Rosemary's beauty stemmed from the soil. From the water. From the first ray of sunlight after a storm. Standing in her glow was a reminder of what he'd been, and all that he had hoped to one day become.

When he was with her, his shadows didn't seem quite so long or the night so dark. And it was selfish of him to borrow her light. To let himself believe, for even more than a moment, that he was worthy of her. That someone as angelic as she could ever be with a devil like him. But what was a devil, if not selfish? He was already damned. Why not enjoy the ride on his way down to hell? So long as he didn't bring Rosemary with him.

"Why aren't you under the tents dancing?" he asked. "Surely there's at least a few suitable gentlemen who would be willing to overlook a squirrel pocket."

She sighed. "If you happen to meet one, please let my grandmother know. She's started to think that I'll never find a match."

"And what do you think?" he said, genuinely curious to hear her response. Was there a lord somewhere out there in the mellow glow of the torchlight that Rosemary was sweet on? If so, he'd like to know the fellow's name. Not for any purpose, really. Just so that he could pull whoever it was aside and inform him, in no uncertain terms, that if he ever dared to harm a hair on Rosemary's head then he was a dead man.

"Having already met every person in attendance tonight at some function or another, I can say with confidence that my match is decidedly not under the tents. But my grandmother was still insistent that I show my face and make some attempt at socialization. In the hope, I suppose, that an earl might suddenly be struck with amnesia and forget that I am a quaint little mouse destined for spinsterhood."

Sterling frowned. "Who called you a quaint little mouse destined for spinsterhood?"

I'll grab them by the cuff and–

" You did," she said pointedly.

"Ah." Releasing her curl, he scratched sheepishly under his chin. "That does sound like something I'd say."

She made a humming noise of agreement under her breath, then asked, "Why aren't you under the tents dancing?"

"Because I'm a quaint little mouse destined for spinsterhood?" he offered, and was rewarded for his cheek when she smiled.

"I am certain there is a long line of ladies waiting for you to sign your name on their cards."

But I don't want them, he thought silently. I want…you.

His jaw tightened. What pure, utter romantic rubbish. Clearly when Sir Reginald bit him on the thigh the squirrel had transmitted some kind of horrible disease. The symptoms of which included fawning over a wallflower as if he really were some love-struck schoolboy.

"You are correct," he said as he surged to his feet. It was apparent now that he was deathly ill, and it was equally apparent that the only antidote was to put as much distance between himself and Rosemary as possible before he did something truly absurd, like kiss her again.

Inadvertently, his gaze fell to her mouth as her smile faded.

"I…I am?" she said.

Wrenching his stare free of those tantalizing plump, perfect lips, he glared instead at a spot halfway up the tree he'd tumbled out of. "Indeed. There are probably dozens, nay, hundreds of women waiting impatiently for me to make my grand arrival. I wouldn't want to disappoint them."

Her head tilted to the side. "Does it cause you digestive upset?"

"Does what cause me digestive upset?"

"Having such a high opinion of yourself," she said innocently.

"Ha ha." His eyes narrowed. "Very amusing, Ramona."

From somewhere inside her pocket, Sir Reginald gave a loud chirp as Rosemary stood up. She absently patted the side of her skirt, and the squirrel quieted. "You did not come here to practice your Viennese Waltz any more than I did. So why are you at the Marigold Ball? My grandmother forced me, but I cannot imagine anyone who would have the power to make the great Duke of Hanover do anything he didn't want to do."

"Did you just miss the part where I climbed that bloody tree to rescue your rodent?"

Moonlight glimmered on her skin as she lifted her shoulder. "I didn't force you to help me. You did it because you wanted to. Because deep down, you're not nearly as self-absorbed or pretentious or wicked as you pretend to be."

"I am wicked," he said, offended that she'd dare suggest otherwise. "I'm very wicked."

"Are you?" she asked skeptically. "To some, maybe. I've no way to see how you act with others. But with me you have been, while admittedly vexing at times, quite kind."

Kind?

She thought he was kind?

He didn't know whether to feel amused or insulted.

"I am afraid you're mistaken, Roxanne. There's not a kind bone in my body." His eyebrows wiggled suggestively as he took a step towards her and lowered his voice to a velvety growl. "But by all means, if you don't believe me, you're welcome to check for yourself. I'd start with my trousers first."

Her gaze softened. "You don't need to do that with me."

"Do what?"

"Use blatant sexual advances to disguise your vulnerabilities."

Sterling gaped.

Kind and vulnerable?

This was really starting to get out of hand.

"Should I show you just how wicked I can be?" He meant it as a threat. A way by which to set Rosemary onto her heels and remind her that he wasn't some trained puppy looking for sticks to fetch, but a feral beast with fangs and claws. If she thought he was another pet to be put in her pocket, she was sadly mistaken. He was a bastard in every sense of the word but one. A blackguard. A devil in duke's clothing. A–

"By all means." Seemingly unperturbed by his bared teeth and raised hackles, she gestured at the oak tree. "Should I send Sir Reginald back up there so that you can save him again? I'm sure that would be a true display of your terrible wickedness."

The impertinence was almost too much to be borne.

"You're wrong," he snarled. Hands on his hips, he began to pace. "You think you see something redeemable in me because that's what you want to see. But there's nothing here, Rachel. Nothing but darkness and rot. Whatever kindness I had in me disappeared a long time ago, and the only vulnerable person out here is you."

"Maybe," she said quietly. "Or maybe you're wrong."

Chest heaving, he stopped short, corded muscles bulging in his neck and shoulders as the guilt he carried, the guilt he always carried, nearly caused him to drop to his knees. "You have no bloody idea what you're going on about. You know nothing about me, or the things I've done. If you did…"

"If I did?" she whispered.

Slowly, he raised his head. From behind the shadows and the weight of his own sins he stared at her. His beacon of light. His ribbon of hope that he didn't deserve. His second chance at happiness that he could never take. "If you did, you'd already be gone."

She took a bold step forward, the silly chit. Then another, and another, until she was standing directly in front of him. Reaching out, she grabbed the lapel of his jacket. As if she were anchoring herself to the mast before her ship set sail into the midst of a storm. She lifted her chin. Met his gaze. And said four little words that set both their worlds on fire.

"I'm not going anywhere."