Chapter Thirteen

"An engagement ball?" Jacob drawled from where he was sprawled across Annabelle's sofa. While she sat primly to one side, as she'd been taught, he took up an inordinate amount of space. Although perhaps that was something to do with his sheer size.

"My sister seems to think it's necessary to announce the engagement officially." Annabelle glanced at Theo, who was writing a letter quietly in the corner, and lowered her voice. "I was hoping you would have an excuse."

"To get out of it? Aside from the rather obvious fact that all of London knows we are engaged already?"

"Precisely. And we even promenaded yesterday," she said, although she had been attempting to forget her utter failure at flirting with Viscount Villiers.

"Promenading does not an engagement make. A ball, however . . ."

She shot him a dirty look. "Much you would know on the subject."

"It appears I know more than you," he said idly. "I even brought you jewels."

The jewels in question, which were just as much of a statement as the enormous bouquet of flowers currently displayed on a side table, belonged to an enormous ruby necklace. Annabelle had tried and failed to refuse it.

"I don't want your jewels."

He flashed her a smug smile. "I know."

"Pig."

"You are always so eloquent, little bird."

She scowled at him and he grinned back, utterly at ease in Nathanial's drawing room. She often envied the way he seemed to be at ease anywhere he went, while she struggled to fit herself in the shapes expected of the younger sister of a duchess.

Elegant, refined, charming. And now, if Jacob had his way, flirtatious.

Privately, she could not see that happening any time soon. For that, she would have to find a way of conversing with strangers and playing a part. It was hard enough to play the part of Annabelle Beaumont, heiress, never mind adding flirtation into the mix. Plus, the way he had reacted when she had attempted to flutter her eyelashes made her want to curl into a ball and never look at a gentleman again. Attempting to flirt made her look ridiculous.

"I think a ball is a good idea," he said slowly. "In fact, balls in general are a good idea for this to work. You will have ample opportunity to dance."

"I don't like dancing," she said flatly.

"Ah yes, of course. Just as you don't enjoy conversing. Tell me, little bird, what do you like?"

She looked longingly at the book she had been reading before he arrived. With everything in her life seeming to conspire against her, she was finding particular solace in books these days.

"Aside from reading," he added dryly.

"I . . . like walking. And riding. And not all conversing is bad."

He placed a hand to his heart in feigned shock. "Do you mean to tell me you don't hate conversing with me?"

She glared at him even as she felt her blush rising. "Of course not, and there is no need to be so obnoxious, Lord Sunderland."

"Jacob," he said lazily.

"Excuse me?"

"I don't like the title and it doesn't suit me. Call me Jacob."

"I can't!"

"Are we not engaged?"

Even engaged couples rarely called each other by their first names. In fact, Annabelle knew some married couples who still referred to each other by their titles. She could not imagine anything worse, although frankly she still hadn't come to terms with the idea of marriage at all.

"In name only," she muttered. "And besides, it's not proper."

"Dear me, Annabelle." Jacob's eyes took on a devilish twinkle, and his lips curved seductively as his gaze trailed from her lips down her neck. "I hardly think you are always proper."

She flushed and resisted the urge to fling a cushion at him and his stupid, smug face. "Do you have to say such things?"

"I recall a certain young lady in a library—this library, in fact—who took a great deal of delight in—"

"Hush," she hissed, glancing back at Theo. "Stop it!"

"Very well." He heaved a sigh and took a sip of his tea. "Tell me about this engagement ball. Is everyone to be there, or have the most elite of the ton made their excuses, considering it's being held in my honour?"

"It's not arranged yet. Theo suggested it to me with the understanding that I could refuse if it made me truly uncomfortable. I said I would speak to you about it."

"And hope I would refuse so you didn't have to," he finished, reading her with uncanny accuracy. "Well, unfortunately for you, little bird, I think it's an excellent opportunity for you."

"To flirt with other gentlemen? At my own engagement ball?"

"They will be delighted to get to know you."

Stubbornly, she folded her arms. He had an excellent point, because she would need to meet some other gentlemen at some point, but she had really hoped he would have found an excuse. "You will have to be sober," she said, her tone accusatory. "At the ball."

He gave her a wicked smile that made her pulse, for absolutely no reason, race. "I remember the terms of our deal, sweetheart."

"And don't call me that. We are not lovers."

"No." He left an odd pause as though he was considering it, and the fact she thought he was thinking about it made her recall the way he had kissed her. No doubt he was an excellent lover.

How distressing. She would rather he was terrible at it and she would never have to feel as though she was missing out on some crucial act.

Perhaps her future husband would be a wonderful lover. Somehow, though, she doubted it. From what she understood of gentlemen's tastes, they preferred to indulge outside the bedchamber.

That was not the marriage she wanted. If she were to marry, she would want a faithful husband who indulged only in her.

Perhaps she was a romantic after all.

"Do you think my future husband will allow me to retire from London?" she asked.

"If you persuaded him to," he said, casting her a low glance through his eyelashes. The sunlight streaming in through the windows added notes of gold to those dark irises. "Charm him well enough and you can become the recluse your little heart desires."

"After yesterday's performance, I'm amazed you think that still an option."

"Practise makes perfect." The look in his eyes suggested he was not only talking about flirtation. He gestured to her primrose morning dress, which was patterned with daisies. "Pretty, I grant you, but you have an excellent figure. Make more of it."

Her colour rose, again. "This is—"

"Smile at me," he commanded, and although she could not believe she was doing it, she obeyed, the authority in his voice compelling her. He nodded in approval. "There. Good. Now lower your eyelashes a little, look at me through them." She did as he asked and he gave her a charming smile in response. "Very good. You see? My confidence is never misplaced."

"Is this what the ladies who charm you do?" she asked, giving her book another wistful glance and pouring herself some more tea.

Darkness crossed his face, too fast for her to see the details or identify the emotion. "There are no such ladies," he said, stretching languidly, the darkness so thoroughly banished it might never have been there at all. He was, in this, the epitome of the Devil of St James. "I am immune to all charm."

"I doubt that," Annabelle said, picking up her teacup. "Do you not have a reputation for being an excellent lover?"

"What do you know about that, little bird?"

"Who doesn't know about it?"

He leant back in his chair, unaffected. "An excellent rejoiner. Yes, I do have quite the reputation, and I would not say it is entirely unfounded." His smile was positively sinful, making her think of silken sheets and clutching hands. Her face burned again. "But that is not because a lady charmed me into bed."

"Why do you do it, then?" she asked before she could help herself.

"For the thrill of it? For the pleasure?" His eyelids lowered, his dark eyes magnetic, and she fumbled for her tea for something to do. He may be immune to charm, but she, it transpired, was not.

"Tell me," he said, his voice indecently low. "What are your preferences in a husband?"

"My preferences?"

"A list of attributes, if you will." He leant back and smiled "So I may ensure you are introduced to the right gentlemen."

Of course. Other gentlemen. Marriage. Annabelle cleared her throat, trying to banish all improper thoughts. It was harder than it should have been. "I see," she said, the prospect making her feel vaguely ill. "How kind of you."

"Yes, that is one of the things I'm known for." He looked at her, waiting, and she was forced to consider what things were important to her in a life partner. Someone who would leave her alone hardly seemed like an attribute.

"Well, he must be . . . nice."

Jacob smirked. "Obviously."

"And he must read."

"Like my dear brother." There was a sardonic note to his voice, a mockery that Annabelle tried not to listen to. "Go on."

"Not too old, if possible."

"And what constitutes as too old?"

She was nineteen, nearly twenty; what was too old? "Not above forty, I think."

"A generous range."

"Are you going to mock me all morning?" she snapped.

"It's delightfully entertaining," he drawled. "But in summary, you require a bookish man under forty who will be kind and allow you to rusticate year-round at his estate."

She blinked in surprise. "Well, perhaps not year-round. I would like to continue seeing my family."

"Noted. Already I can think of several gentlemen who might appeal."

Annabelle raised her eyebrows. "You mean to say you are acquainted with men who can read?"

His bark of laughter disturbed Theo. "Vixen," he said, and she thought she even heard a trace of affection in his voice.

She might have answered in kind had the Dowager Duchess not swept into the room unannounced.

During the Dowager's illness, Annabelle had been given a reprieve from her judgemental eye and intense matchmaking. Something, of course, that was entirely unnecessary now she was so-called engaged. But what would the Dowager think of her shock engagement to Jacob?

She wanted to vomit.

"Duchess," Theo said in surprise, rising immediately to her feet. Annabelle did the same, curtsying with her face turned to the floor. Jacob frowned in her direction, but she could do no more than listen to the rushing in her ears.

Most of her acquaintances thought she was stupid, but it was far worse to know the former Duchess of Norfolk shared their opinion.

"Are you well?" Theo asked, hurrying across. "You did not say you were well enough for a visit or we should have come sooner. I thought the physician said—"

"The physician! Bah!" The Dowager lowered herself into the nearest chair, gnarled hands gripping her cane tightly. "Seemed to think a bit of pneumonia would be enough to carry me off. But I'm not done yet."

Annabelle sank back into her seat, staring at her hands. Jacob sat beside her, rather closer than before, his legs spread until his thigh almost touched her knee. She stared at the almost contact, her anxiety spiking. The Dowager had always managed to make her feel smaller than an ant. One look from her, and Annabelle was struggling to remember where her tongue was, never mind how to use it.

"I'll call for Nate," Theo said. "He won't want to miss you."

"Never mind my son," the Dowager said, and although Annabelle wasn't looking up, her heart was pounding, and she could almost feel the scratchy weight of the Dowager's attention landing on her. "I've come to speak with Annabelle here. And you, young man, I presume are Lord Sunderland."

"I am, ma'am." His tone was crisp.

"Then I am glad you have finally seen sense."

Jacob tensed beside her. "In what way, ma'am?"

"Marrying Lady Annabelle, of course," she said, and Annabelle looked up to see the Dowager looking straight at her. "You may thank me, Annabelle, for being the one to prompt this lump into action. His mother would have been disappointed in him."

The words penetrated, but it took a moment for them to lodge and make sense in her head. The Dowager had been the one to prompt the matter?

Annabelle's mouth fell open as the full weight of meaning crashed into her.

"You?" Theo asked in hushed, disbelieving shock. "You were the one to put the announcement in the paper?"

"Well of course." The Dowager sounded impatient, as though their shock was entirely unwarranted, but Annabelle couldn't think past the fact her own family member had manipulated her into an engagement neither of them had wanted. "When Lady Ingram said something to me about Lady Annabelle and Lord Sunderland meeting clandestinely in Lady Cavendish's garden, what else was I to say except they were engaged?" Her grey eyes were like a hawk's, piercing and not necessarily friendly. "I expected the boy to do the right thing and offer, but when he didn't, I made sure of it myself."

Jacob stood, his back ramrod straight and his eyes blazing. "You," was all he said, but his voice was like splitting ice, and Annabelle had the terrible premonition he was going to do something awful. Would he end the engagement over this? Blame her? The Dowager's choices were nothing to do with her, but if he didn't know that, or if he didn't believe her—

"Oh, sit down," the Dowager said impatiently. "I don't have the time for theatrics at my age. Yes, it was I; and yes, no doubt you think me presumptuous, given you had no intention of doing the honourable thing."

"You had no idea of my intentions, seeing as you at no point stopped to ask."

Annabelle rose too, putting her hand on Jacob's arm, and Theo stepped between them before it could turn into a confrontation. She'd never seen Jacob so angry; even when he had been furious at her, it was different.

"You should have told someone, ma'am," Theo said as Annabelle pleaded silently with Jacob not to cause a fuss. He glanced down at her like he had forgotten she was there, rage a roiling storm on his face. For one dreadful moment, she thought he would lose himself to his anger, but his expression softened a shade as he looked at her, and she was able to guide him down.

"Perhaps I would have done," the Dowager said, "if it weren't for that dreadful illness. It was all I could do to write to The Times and ask for an announcement to be placed."

"And you could not, in that moment, have written to us too?" Jacob enquired coldly. "Instead of forcing us to wonder."

"I had intended to call and deliver the news and my intention personally," she said, eyes narrowed at him. "I had not thought you would find yourself quite so put out at the prospect of marrying the richest heiress in London."

Annabelle wanted to close her eyes. Once again, her value was attached to her money. The only thing she had to offer a prospective husband, even according to a member of her extended family, was her dowry.

"It is not the lady I object to," Jacob said, his voice flat. "It was the manner by which I discovered I was engaged to her without so much as approaching her father."

"Then that fault lies in you."

"I was not aware such a rumour existed."

"Would anyone like some tea?" Theo asked desperately. "I believe the cook has made some fruitcake."

Jacob's narrowed gaze never left the Dowager's face. "If you had concerns about my honour, you should have expressed them to my face."

She tutted. "I am aware of your reputation, boy. I needed to ensure you would not ruin my granddaughter by any means necessary. She must have a husband, and as you were the one to ruin her, it must be you."

"Your Grace!" Theo said forcefully, looking at Annabelle, who knew she was flushing. Her face burned and she had every desire to sink between the sofa cushions and never emerge. "There's no need to use such language around my sister."

"Then she should know better than to consort with rakes in darkened gardens," the Dowager said dismissively. "It seems nothing we tried to teach her about decorum has stuck. And thus even Lord Sunderland is better than no husband at all, which is what would happen if they were not engaged."

Jacob's thigh shifted closer to Annabelle's. "If you had taken the time to enquire what had happened, you might have discovered that the situation was not as you thought."

"It does not matter what the situation was." The Dowager waved a dismissive hand. "All that matters is what people think it is." She directed her beady gaze at Annabelle, who shrank back. "I hope you have an engagement ball planned. If not, I will be happy to organise one." She made an impatient noise. "Don't look so terrified, Annabelle. An engagement ball will be good practise for when you're a marchioness. You will need to learn how to conduct yourself in Society without looking as though you're about to faint."

"I beg you will not speak to my future wife in that manner," Jacob said, still with that awful ice in his voice.

Theo motioned with her hands behind her back, clearly indicating that they should leave.

Annabelle had never wanted to leave a place so badly in her life.

"Excuse me," Jacob said, and stood. "I have just recalled an urgent engagement that requires my immediate attention." He bowed and strode from the room. Annabelle mumbled something about escorting him out and followed. As soon as the door closed behind them, he caught her hand and tugged her into the first room they came across: a small closet used for storing cleaning supplies. A mop tumbled across his shoulder as he closed the door on them, casting them into darkness.

Annabelle's heartbeat shook her entire body. She looked up at where she knew his face to be, so far above her own that he would have to lean down to kiss her.

No, she should not be thinking about kissing. Except his body was dangerously close to hers, sending her alight and forcing her to remember what had happened the last time they had been like this, lined up, his heat soaking into her like a warm bath, and his breath fanning over her face.

"Jacob?" she whispered, and he jolted. His hand found her waist, spanning it almost entirely, fingers tightening until they dug in. He didn't draw her closer, but he didn't push her away, either.

"Did you know?" he asked in a low, angry voice.

"Of course not! She has been trying to marry me off for months, but I never suspected . . ." Her voice trailed away. "I know you're angry, but—"

"Angry? I'm furious." He leant closer, and although she couldn't see him, she could sense his proximity. Every muscle in her body tightened in wild, helpless anticipation.

"Jacob," she whispered again.

"I take it back. I don't want you saying my name."

"Why?"

"Because it makes me want to do this."

The moment his mouth crushed against hers, Annabelle knew she had been lying to herself. All those times she had told herself she didn't want the Marquess to kiss her again had been a delusion. Every moment she had convinced herself that because she disliked him, she didn't want him, had been a fabrication.

There was no denying she wanted this.

He pushed her until her back collided with the wall. Something clattered to the ground beside her, but with his mouth hot on hers, his tongue sliding inside her mouth with practised sensuality, there was nothing else that existed in Annabelle's world. Of their own accord, her hands reached up and gripped his lapels, holding him closer, drinking him in like fine wine. He nipped at her lip, and foreign heat spread through her. She had never felt so alive.

She had never felt so much like she was falling.

If she had been in her right mind, she might have been petrified of the landing. The Marquess wasn't gentleman enough to catch her, and reality was sure to be a sharp, unpleasant shock. As it was, she bowed her back, pressing her body against his every way it could. Her skirts rustled as he stepped into them, one thigh between her legs, pressing up against her core, the friction sending a rush of molten pleasure through her. Unable to help herself, she moaned as he pushed his leg more firmly against her. His breath was ragged against her neck as she tipped her head back, staring into darkness.

"Do you like that?" he murmured.

"Yes, but—"

His knee rubbed more insistently against her, and his hand found her hip, gripping it in a way that made her feel as though he had reached the very edge of his control. "I need you to be quiet for me, little bird. Can you do that?"

She let out a shuddering breath, and he cupped her breast with his other hand, squeezing until her nipples pinched. She felt the touch as though it had been against her bare skin, and he let out a rough laugh, the sound barely audible in the darkness.

"Your husband will be a lucky man, Annabelle."

Her husband. Her husband.

Annabelle was no expert in the matter, but she rather suspected her future husband would not look kindly on her having frolicked in a darkened closet with a man whose reputation was one of ruination.

The Devil of St James. And she had almost let him ruin her, too.

He felt her hesitation and pulled away, one hand at her throat, fingers lightly pressing, the sheer possessiveness of the gesture making her head spin and her core throb with need.

"We can't," she said, shifting away from his fingers and catching something rigid at his groin with her hip. He grunted, angling himself away from her.

"Your mouth is saying one thing." With his thumb, he traced her bottom lip, and she felt the breath rush out of her on a shaky exhale. "And your body is saying another. What do you want, sweetheart?"

The flagrant rush of desire made her want to throw her caution to the wind.

But this was not a marriage; it was an engagement. A fake engagement.

"We can't," she whispered. "Not here, not like this."

His hands dropped from around her, leaving her feeling bare, almost desolate in the rush of cold air. Through the darkness, she sensed his mood change, the fervour that had gripped him fading.

"Well I suppose that took the edge off," he said, voice laconic, no hint of the rasping need that had suffused him just seconds before.

Before she could formulate an answer, he opened the door and slipped out, closing it behind him and leaving her in relative darkness. A slit of light illuminated her rumpled dress. She could still feel the clasp of his fingers around her throat, the way he had sounded, cutting and cold, when he had informed her their kiss had taken the edge off.

Quietly, she pushed open the door and exited, running upstairs and to her room, which she locked behind her.

Her body still ached, still wanted him, even though she could have screamed in his face, thrown something at him, broken off their faux engagement there and then.

Two months of this. She couldn't bear it.

The sooner she found another gentleman to marry, the better.