Chapter Twelve

T he entire table rumbled. Wine bobbed precipitously in crystal goblets. Forks and knives clanked raucously against China. Laughter was shared from person to person, ricocheting off the walls.

A merrier dinner could not be had. The prodigal son was home.

As was his friend.

Jacob wasn't usually the kind of man who would force a smile to make others feel comfortable—that was one of the better things about being a viscount—but to brood at his dining table when everyone was having such a splendid time seemed juvenile. Nevertheless, he couldn't quite place his distemper. Why should he be upset that David had returned? It wasn't like they weren't expecting him.

And the boy seemed pleasant enough, polite, even—though wastrels usually were. David had that look about him, the kind of look that said he enjoyed arriving at parties early and leaving late. The kind of look that made fathers throw them on ships bound for India in the hopes that it would evaporate in the heat and hardship.

Sir John wiped his eyes—no doubt at a tear of laughter—and then smacked his son on the shoulder. "I should be furious with you, dear boy. You should have sent a note the instant you got off the ship. We could have met you in London."

David basked in the glowing admiration. He was tall and handsome like their father, though his red hair was more discreet like Beatrice's, his cheekbones and chin chiseled with youth and vitality.

"I didn't want to ruin the surprise," he said. He drank his wine and stared at it appraisingly before gifting Jacob a nod of approval. Jacob responded with a wince of a smile.

"I tried to get him to write, Sir John. I did," Mr. Phillip Williams said, leaning across David to catch the older man's eye. "But he wouldn't have it. Boys will be boys, won't they?"

Sir John sat back in his chair, making it difficult for David's friend to address him further. In the short time he'd been forced to share his home with Sir John, Jacob hadn't known him to be rude, but that curt action was decidedly so. "Yes, boys will be boys," the baronet mumbled just loud enough for Jacob to hear.

There was something there. Jacob was sure of it.

The problem was that he was losing the heart to care. About that potential intrigue or the one involving David. Because all he was truly focused on was getting Anna to look at him again. She'd stopped doing the simple gesture the moment David's arrival had been announced. And now, hours later, she sat at his table, pushing around his food on her plate, taking tiny sips of his wine with her neck bowed.

Anna's anxiety wasn't so very obvious. She laughed on cue and smiled in the face of every innocuous quip, but Jacob knew her well enough to recognize her discomfort.

And all signs pointed to the obnoxious dullard at David's side as the reason. It was unfortunate that no one else in his family concluded the same about the newcomer. Jacob's aunts and mother had practically fallen over themselves to make the dashing man feel as welcome as David. And Mr. Phillip fucking Williams had soaked up the attention like a fat seal sunning itself on a beach. Not that Phillip was fat—sadly, he was not. He was the exact opposite. Tall and trim, he filled out his dinner attire better than most, as if he were born wearing it. His strong nose and high forehead were better suited to a Roman coin than Jacob's dressing room—that was to say, the man was attractive by conventional standards. By anyone's standards, really.

And Phillip knew it.

"I just can't get over Beatrice," David said, admiring his youngest sister from across the table. Beatrice covered her face in shyness, blushing prettily. "She grew up when I was gone. Three years seems like too short a time for something that monumental to happen."

Phillip nodded aggressively, his big eyes glistening. He also seemed to approve of Jacob's wine, though he didn't give off the affect of a drunkard, more like a famed naval captain who drank in between saving England from its enemies. "We came back just in time, David," he said, a warning lilt to his voice. "I'm sure all the boys have been crowding around and giving Sir John trouble." Phillip's smile faded as he switched his gaze to Anna. "No doubt the same could be said for her sister."

There . Jacob saw it. Clear as day. Something tugged between Phillip and Anna, who finally lifted her chin to meet his gaze, an invisible string of knowing that no one else was privy to. Her lips parted slightly, her lungs inflating. A patch of color saturated her cheekbones as she wiped a barely there sheen of perspiration above her mouth with the tip of her finger. She looked both lost and found.

It came to Jacob in waves, the stories and hints Anna had dropped like cookie crumbs at his feet. She'd always been opaque, scant on details, but Jacob had been paying attention. No one else could be the man she'd spoken of, the man that she'd given her heart to. But had she also given her body?

To this bombastic man-child?

The convivial conversations continued to churn around him, in concert with his upset stomach. Phillip kept the table enraptured with death-defying, quixotic tales of India. Everyone laughed at them, but Anna's giggles pierced Jacob in the skin like tiny shards of glass.

But why? Why the pain? Because Anna wasn't his. And she was never going to be. Despite her protestations of marriage, she was always meant for someone like Phillip. Someone who looked and acted the part better than Jacob ever would. Someone who didn't give a damn about printing other people's stories, and only cared about making his own.

In his grand home, seated at the head of his absurdly long table, drinking his fashionable wine, Jacob felt alone. Anna was three seats down, and she'd never seemed so far away. He wanted her at his side. Somewhere deep inside, he believed that he might have had a chance… but the possibility of that had just slipped through his fingers.

*

Jacob couldn't sleep, which was difficult to understand, since he'd drunk enough brandy to fill a horse trough. Why did he continue to lounge in his office when he could have retreated to his cottage? Solitude was always best when he was in these types of moods, but he hadn't been able to pull himself away. After dinner he'd remained close to the rest of the party, skulking in the drawing room, sipping glass after glass, while the others engaged in frivolous merriment. Card games, more of Beatrice's piano playing… even dancing! It was a celebration. And although Jacob couldn't bear to take part, masochist that he was, he also didn't want to miss another look between the star-crossed lovers.

Anna had played her role, doting on her brother and sticking close to his side. At least Jacob could be thankful for that. She had taken mercy on him and not run off with Phillip to the nearest empty bedroom at the earliest convenience. To her credit, she shied away from the bastard.

From his seat in the corner, Jacob had watched Phillip like a hawk while Phillip watched Anna like a hawk. She pretended not to notice. The whole damn room pretended not to notice, which made the stab to his gut infinitely worse.

He stumbled out of his office. It had been an hour since everyone else went up to their bedrooms. His world wasn't spinning yet, but it was getting awfully close. He was just about to climb the stairs to (hopefully) locate his bedroom when he heard voices coming from the library.

Could it be them? Could Phillip have wrestled Anna from her bedroom to profess his undying love? Well, not in Jacob's house! If the handsome blackguard was intent on taking Jacob's woman—why did he like the sound of that so much?—then he was going to have to go outside and deal with the uncomfortable chill in his balls when he did it.

Jacob kept a steady hand on the wall to guide him toward the library. His steps were light, quiet, his ears open to intrigue. And he was rewarded. It soon became apparent, even to his inebriated brain, that the voices were male, and this wasn't a secret, happy rendezvous. There was very little cheer between Sir John and his son.

Jacob plastered himself against the wooden paneling in the corridor, stilling his heart so he could hear the conversation over the roar of his blood.

"I just don't understand why you didn't stay," Sir John admonished his son. A glass rattled against a tabletop. "Leaving after so short a time seems like a waste."

David's words slurred. His voice was difficult to pick up, hollow, as if he were speaking into his glass while he was attempting to drink. "Phillip's brother died… didn't need India anymore."

The words were muffled. Clothing rustled; footsteps sounded over the carpet. Were they embracing?

"You are not his keeper," Sir John said with a long sigh. The man's weariness was evident, and it had nothing to do with sleep.

David was slurring again. Jacob couldn't make heads nor tails of it. "…didn't want to take the journey alone… needs to marry. His father… debt."

Sir John urged him to his bed. Jacob had to leave. He couldn't risk getting caught. He rushed down the hallway back to his office while the men made their way to the stairs. In the end, it was David—drunk, incoherent, cordial David—who confirmed everything that Jacob didn't want to hear.

"Phillip would never hurt her," he said. David hit his toe on the lip of the step and caught himself on the banister before landing face-first. "…don't know why you're worrying so much."

Jacob could hear the anguish in Sir John's voice. "Because you've never had to."