Chapter Fourteen

The engagement ball was arranged for two weeks' time, and although Jacob sent Annabelle several gifts to keep up the pretence, he made excuses not to see her. She probably thought the worst of him, but the truth was, he was ashamed. For five years, he had kept his heart and his cock entirely separate; he never lost control.

Never.

Until he had pushed Annabelle Beaumont into a closet and attempted to ravish her. Would have ravished her if she had not put a stop to it. It was beneath him and he should have known better.

It exposed a weakness in him that he hadn't thought he still possessed. Despite his every intention, it transpired a pair of big blue eyes and pretty lips could make him forget himself, and when he was furious at the Dowager Duchess, unable to do anything about it without hurting Annabelle or her family, his control had slipped.

And it had been the most intoxicating kiss of his life. Little Annabelle Beaumont, the lady he had every intention of marrying to someone else, had kissed him with all the passion of a lady well practised in the art of kissing. But unless something had changed, she had just become practised at kissing him. A fast learner.

He still wanted her. And that was his main reason for staying away. If he could not rely on his restraint to hold himself in check, he could not trust himself being around her. Neither of them could afford for him to be carried away. He attended two boxing matches and took to training at Gentleman Jackson's club just to work off the excess energy.

On the day of the ball, he arrived early to dine with the family, and he saw Annabelle for the first time in two weeks. She was pale, eyes dark like the dusk sky, and any attempt he'd made to convince himself he was unaffected by what had taken place between them was immediately dashed. The moment he saw her face, he felt the soft, gasping way she had moaned in his ear when he had pressed his knee between her legs.

He wondered if she could climax that way, and the thought was so immediately erotic, he felt himself harden.

This was not what he'd had in mind for the evening.

Then he noticed the Dowager Duchess of Norfolk and all thoughts of seduction left his head. Anger swept in its place, and Annabelle's face, which had been distant and resolute, melted into a look of pleading.

Damn it, he could have borne anything but that.

"Lord Sunderland," the Dowager Duchess said without preamble when she saw him. "I do hope you're past that terrible temper outburst you showed the last time we met."

Annabelle stiffened, and he knew precisely what she was thinking: no, he was not past it. The Devil of St James, the man who had pulled her into a closet and kissed her senseless, did not have it within himself to bite his tongue.

His temper grated against his restraint, and he gritted his teeth behind his smile as he bowed. "If you're asking if I have forgiven you, ma'am, then you surely know the answer as well as I."

She tutted and tapped her fan against his hand in admonishment as the Duchess of Norfolk, to his surprise, took his other hand as she curtsied. Her face was almost as pale as Annbaelle's, and there were unusual dark circles under her eyes, but she sent him an apologetic glance.

At least the Dowager Duchess's actions had resulted in another ally. Although, of course, if she knew his true purpose in coming here and attending the ball, she would revoke that soon enough.

Strange. He had never wanted anyone's approval before. His entire reputation, in fact, had been based on the assumption that he craved no one's approbation, and especially not by anyone close to him.

Annabelle took his proffered arm without a smile, her eyes remote, and he led her into the dining room behind the Duke and Duchess. Dinner passed quickly without so much as a word directed to him from Annabelle, the Dowager Duchess dominating much of the conversation. The anger he had repressed rose with every word, making it difficult to eat, and it was a relief to collect Annabelle and wait for the guests to arrive.

"I presume your intention this evening is to say nothing to me," he murmured after the first few guests arrived.

She stiffened. "What could I possibly have to say to you?"

His gaze fell to the large ruby necklace she wore—the one he had gifted her. "It looks well on you."

"Theo insisted I wear it."

"Then she has excellent taste."

"I beg to differ." Her tone was frosty, and he glanced down at the top of her head. Her golden hair was in pretty ringlets, but he was transfixed by the tendrils of soft curls at the back of her tender neck. She was heartbreakingly lovely in the cream silk, and her clear dismissal of him stung, his insides twisting oddly.

"I see you are still on speaking terms with the Dowager Duchess even after she manipulated the both of us."

Annabelle let out a tiny hissing breath before being forced to smile at yet another guest. Jacob greeted them absently, far more interested by the soft, angry flush that rose on Annabelle's neck. He should not feel so victorious at provoking this sort of response from her, but anger sat on her like a crown, and anything was better than the cool distance she had greeted him with at the beginning.

"Is there anything else I can do?" she demanded in a low voice. "She is Nathanial's mother and she thinks I am a disappointment. He has spoken with her, but the thing is done now."

"It should not have been."

"If you think you will gain anything by pointing that out to her, then by all means, go ahead."

He clenched his jaw. "Don't push me, little bird. I could just as easily end this arrangement. I only entered it for your sake."

"Your reputation would be destroyed if you pulled out of an engagement of honour."

"Do you really think that would change anything?" He gave a bitter little laugh. "Destroying my reputation has been my goal since I was old enough to understand the name I carried."

She frowned as she glanced at him. "Why?"

"Is it not obvious? Because I despise my family and everything they stand for." He smiled at another set of guests. There were plenty—he supposed this was what happened when a duchess sent the invitations.

"You despise your family? Why?"

"This is hardly a conversation for the present time."

"If you would rather not tell me, you may just say so." She exchanged her glower for a smile as yet more guests entered the house.

"Very well: I would rather not tell you. Satisfied?"

"Not at all," she said icily.

They said nothing more as they finally finished greeting the endless line of guests and entered the ballroom together.

"Smile," he reminded her. "If you can remember how."

She stiffened under the hand on her back. A dangerous place for his hand to be—it made him think of all the other places he'd touched her.

"Perhaps you should leave," she said, her voice equally low but her eyes flashing a little too brightly when she looked up at him.

Good, this was good. He needed her anger, not her desire. He had more than enough desire for the both of them.

"And here I was thinking you delighted in my company," he murmured.

"I have no idea what gave you that impression."

"Oh, I do." He leant in closer, the warm press of her arm against his chest his own personal lure. "If you recall, when we were in the closet, you—"

"Enough!" She pushed him back with a hand on his chest and seemed to realise it a second after he did, curling her fingers into a fist and snatching it back. Her colour was high and she looked abominably pretty. "Seeing as you never wanted to marry me in the first place, maybe I should be the one to call off the engagement."

"I don't think you would." He smirked at her. "You enjoy kissing me too much to—"

She did not slap him, but he saw the temptation written across her face, and he knew he had crossed a line. Taunted her too far. Hurt and anger crossed her face and she yanked her arm free.

"Annabelle," he said, reaching for her, "wait."

With a dexterity he had not expected, she dodged him and weaved through the crush, ignoring several people who called to her.

Damn. He curled his hand into a fist, trying to ignore the urge to find the nearest drink. That was yet another promise he had made to her.

What was it about her that made him want to do this? To hurt her?

Louisa raised her glass from where she stood nearby. "That went well," she said dryly. "You truly are talented at pushing people away."

"Usually that is not an issue." He ground his teeth together. This evening had been a disaster already, and he could feel the Dowager's eyes on him. The temptation to confront her conflicted with the need to chase after Annabelle and erase the hurt on her face.

She had no right inspiring a protective instinct in him when he had spent five years pretending he had none.

"She isn't usual." Louisa flicked her fingers after Annabelle. "Go after her and use some of that charm to repair the damage before it's too late. Then, unless you've changed your mind about marrying her yourself, introduce her to me. I'll look after her—and a deal sight better than you will, judging by your performance."

At the thought of introducing her to other gentlemen, every muscle in Jacob's body tensed. But, of course, Louisa was right, and he didn't want to marry Annabelle. She deserved someone better than him. Someone who could love her instead of just wanting her; someone who wasn't despised by the vast majority of Society. Even his title didn't make up for that, and she wasn't someone who cared about position or wealth. She wanted respect and peace.

Two things he did not command.

"Go," Louisa said, shooing him away. "Grovel. There is nothing more a young woman likes than to see the man she hates on his knees before her."

"I'm not adept at grovelling."

"Then learn. Surely you can at least do it for her."

There was no at least for Annabelle; she was not the exception to his rules. He wouldn't let her be. But he did need to find her.

"I'll bring her to you," he said, and turned on his heel, striding through the crowd. Annabelle was nowhere he could see inside the ballroom, and although she could have been outside, he doubted she would risk it after the last time.

There was only one other place she could be.

He almost laughed at the inevitability of it as he walked the now somewhat familiar halls of Norfolk House until he came to the library.

This time, there was a lamp casting golden light across the floor and the window, and Annabelle was curled on the window seat, her dress falling beside her, utterly absorbed in a book. There was an uneven stack of novels on the table beside her, he noted, and as she read, the pad of her thumb brushed the soft edges of her page. The faint rasp, imperceptible except in the break in music and laughter that drifted towards them, was almost enough to send him mad.

For a moment, he merely watched her. The anxious line between her brows was absent here; she looked at peace.

He was going to disturb that.

With an odd fierceness, he found he didn't want to disrupt her. This odd picture of domesticity sent an uncomfortable coiling sensation into his stomach, and he rolled his shoulders, trying to dispel the feeling.

This was a deal and it had always been. The only reason he had entered this sham engagement was to save her reputation by finding her another, and neither of them were going to find one in the library.

"You know, you should really lock the door," he said conversationally as he strolled towards her. "Anyone could get in."

She jolted and looked up, and he saw with a lurch that she had been crying.

All other thoughts left his head. She had been crying . . . because of him.

"Leave me alone," she said, turning back to her book. "I don't want you here."

He dropped to his knees in front of her. "Annabelle, I—"

"It's Lady Annabelle to you."

"Annabelle." He gave her a grin he didn't feel. "Don't shut me out. Be angry at me. What happened to the temper you cannot help when you are around me?"

"I have nothing to say to you."

"Not even to abuse me to my face?" He reached for her hand but she drew hers away, and he cursed himself. This was not the sort of situation he was accustomed to. "I apologise," he said abruptly, holding her gaze. "What I said was out of order."

"Yes. It was."

"I never intended to hurt you." He almost said that he hadn't thought her capable of being hurt, but that was unfair. He had known, of course he had, that she was sensitive, and he was someone who had seen some of her most unguarded moments.

He had taken advantage of her most unguarded moments.

She looked down again, but before she did, he caught the glisten in her eyes, and it was like a punch to his gut. Normally, no one cared enough about him one way or the other to cry when he disappointed them. But Annabelle had, and watching it made him ache.

"I'm your servant," he said, taking her hand and retaining it when she tried to pull away. "At your mercy. What would you have me do?"

"Go away."

He attempted another smile. "Anything but that. You see, little bird, there is a ballroom filled with guests hoping to see us, and I am honour-bound to take you back, much as I know you would rather remain here."

"Without you," she said, although she was no longer trying to remove her hand from his.

"Without me," he repeated, the words carrying an odd little sting.

"And you are not honour-bound." Her gaze cut back to his, tears gone and her eyes blazing. Looking into them was a little like looking into the sun, and much as he had done when he was a boy, braving the damage, he held his gaze.

"Very well, I am a rogue. But for tonight, I am your rogue, and I have made a promise I intend to keep."

She sighed, looking tired and so sad, he had the irrational urge to gather her into his arms.

This was not the behaviour of the Devil. But when he was with her, he was nothing like the man he had driven himself to become, and the thought held a vague fear with it.

"I don't want to fight with you again," she said eventually, and the rush of relief made him exhale sharply. "I'm too tired."

"Then I shall be on my best behaviour." His knees ached so he rose and sat beside her. "What book are you reading?" He tilted the cover towards him so he could read the embossed cover. "Belinda?"

"It's one of my favourites," she said defensively.

"Then I'm certain it's excellent. What's it about?"

A tiny line appeared between her brows. "Do you really want to know?"

"Of course I do," he said, and found he meant it. Reading as an activity had never held any draw, but that was largely because it was Cecil's chosen activity, and if it was Cecil's, it could not be his. With Annabelle, though, the appeal of books was different. He found himself interested in anything that could make her eyes light like twin stars. The sadness melted from her face as she looked back at the book.

"I suppose it's about people," she said thoughtfully. "And the misconceptions we can have when we judge with incomplete information. And it's about love, of course."

"Of course," he echoed. "Tell me, Annabelle, are books like these why you never wanted to marry? Because you thought no gentleman could match up to the ones you have read about?"

"Well . . ." Her cheeks flushed, just as delectable when the underlying emotion was self-consciousness as when it had been anger. Perhaps even more so. "Not precisely, although no man has lived up to the ones in books. I merely . . . Theo had her great love—that's enough for me. I'm content to read."

"And you never thought that perhaps someone could love you as much as the Duke loves your sister?"

A pale brow rose as she glanced at him. "Why would he?"

Because you are captivating.

Crushing that rogue, alarming thought, he stood and held out his hand. "Because, sweetheart, you are going to be the belle of the ball. Come, I have a friend I would like to introduce you to. She has promised to help find you a husband."

Annabelle eyed him dubiously, but she accepted his hand. He tucked it in his arm and led her back to the ballroom. The door was cracked, and they slipped in discreetly. Her chin trembled as they stepped into the overpowering swirl of heat and sweat, and he wanted to lead her right back out to the library.

But he had made her a promise.

"My friend's name is Lady Bolton," he said, leading her confidently through the fray. "She's a little older, a widow, and—don't give me that look, little bird. She is nothing but a friend. We met after another gentleman broke her heart, and she's been pining away for him ever since, though she would never admit it." And that gentleman was Lord Eyresham, Annabelle's brother.

"That sounds sad," Annabelle said with a frown.

"Oh, she won't make you feel like she's sad. And she would never forgive you for pitying her, so make sure you don't. She lives a charmed life now, with all the freedom and independence a lady could want. She'll make you an excellent friend."

"What if she doesn't want to be my friend?" Annabelle asked, sounding as though she was genuinely concerned about the prospect.

"Impossible." He steered her to where Louisa was standing, an expression of distinct amusement on her face as she watched them approach. "Lady Bolton, may I present the delightful Lady Annabelle Beaumont?"