Page 11 of A Rogue at Stonecliffe

There he was.

Sloane Rutherford stood beside the door to the ballroom, leaning his shoulder against the wall, arms crossed, looking disreputable and handsome and seemingly ignoring the low murmurs and the glances that were shot at him. Annabeth’s heart was suddenly pounding. She hadn’t expected him to be here. The church was one thing, but not here, where he would be watched like a hawk, gossip flowing around him in a steady stream.

She should have guessed. Sloane never cared what anyone thought of him. He straightened, his lazy expression suddenly sharper, and he started toward her. Annabeth was aware of an urgent desire to flee. She couldn’t speak to him, not now, in front of all these people. But for exactly the same reason, she could not flee; she refused to create more gossip by running away.

He stopped a polite distance from her. “Annabeth.”

His voice was the same low, slightly husky tone that turned everything he said to her into something seductive. He looked much the same—the bright blue eyes, the midnight-dark hair thick and a little bit too long and shaggy to be fashionable, the chiseled jaw and cheekbones. There had always been a wildness to his good looks, and the new small scar on his chin and the addition of fine lines beside his eyes only added to that impression.

“Mr. Rutherford.” She lifted her chin a little, her voice cool and formal.

“So I’m Mr. Rutherford now.” His lips almost curved into a smile.

“What else would you be?”

“Nothing, I suppose.” He cleared his throat. “I see Dunbridge is hanging about you, as usual. I was surprised to find you hadn’t married him.”

Sloane dares to talk to me about marrying? Anger lent steel to her voice, and she said pointedly, “It appears I am more steadfast in love than some, even when it is wholly undeserved.”

“Ah, a direct hit.” His tone was lightly amused, but his eyes darkened, and Annabeth felt a certain satisfaction at seeing that she had at least nettled him.

“Fortunately I got over that weakness,” she added, lifting her chin and narrowing her eyes.

His eyes sharpened. “You are engaged. To Dunbridge?”

“Yes. We haven’t announced it yet, but...”

“Good Gad, Anna, you could surely do better than Dunbridge.”

“Don’t. Don’t you dare say a word about Nathan. He is a good man—faithful, loyal, kind.”

“Mmm. Just like any good hound.”

“That’s quite an improvement over a snake,” Annabeth shot back.

Sloane’s eyes widened, then he let out a short laugh. “I’d forgotten your temper. You never let it show to anyone but me.”

“Because no one else angered me like you. Sloane, why are you here? What are you—”

“Rutherford.” Nathan’s voice was hard as he came up beside Sloane. “Annabeth, are you all right?”

“Yes, of course.” Annabeth was acutely aware of the hush around them, the eyes riveted to the three of them.

Nathan turned to Sloane, his usually warm eyes snapping with anger. “How do you have the gall to show up here?”

“Oh, I have the gall to do far worse things than this,” Sloane drawled in that lazy combination of amusement and contempt he always adopted around Nathan and Carlisle.

“I’m sure you do,” Nathan responded. “But I will not have you disturbing Annabeth.”

“Disturbing? Was I disturbing you, Anna?” His voice caressed the shortened name only Sloane ever used with her, the name that spoke of familiarity and affection, even intimacy.

She narrowed her eyes at him. “No. Mr. Rutherford no longer has the power to disturb me.” She turned to Nathan. “Please, don’t make a scene. Everyone is watching us.”

“No.” Nathan lowered his voice. “I have no interest in stirring up scandal.” He shot Sloane a venomous look.

“I would expect nothing else from you,” Sloane told Nathan. He gave Annabeth a slight acquiescent bow of the head. “I will be perfectly respectable, I promise.” He turned back to Nathan. “Though I must say, Dunbridge, you seem much more upset than is warranted for an undesirable guest at a wedding.” He smiled in a patently false way guaranteed to be irritating. “One would almost think that you didn’t trust your fiancée.”

Nathan raised his eyebrows a fraction, then returned an equally insincere smile. “I trust Annabeth implicitly. It’s you I don’t trust.”