Chapter Fifteen

Annabelle waited for the inevitable moment where she wanted to shrink back into obscurity as Lady Bolton looked at her. Curiously, it didn't come. Lady Bolton had the same air of unshakable confidence as Jacob, but when she smiled, the confidence was replaced by gentle understanding that put Annabelle immediately at ease.

"It's all so overwhelming, isn't it?" she asked, nodding at the crowd and the lights and the flowers and the noise. It scraped at Annabelle's senses, rubbing them raw. "I remember when I was first out, I hated it."

"What did you do?" Annabelle asked, unable to help herself.

"I fell in love. Nasty business; I don't recommend it." She gave a lively smile that made her hazel eyes twinkle. Closer to thirty than she was twenty, she was someone Annabelle's mother would have referred to as ‘on the shelf' if she had been unmarried. Yet despite the very fine lines around her eyes, and the sense of weary disillusionment that cloaked her, she was rather devastatingly beautiful. It was to do with the way she held herself, wearing a shimmering green gown that caught the light and sent it sparkling back in every direction.

Annabelle wanted to learn how to be like her.

"But," Lady Bolton continued, "I then married an older gentleman, retired to the country for a few years to further refine myself and establish myself as a lady, and when I returned to London I discovered it wasn't as terrifying as I'd believed it to be."

"It was never terrifying, you just hadn't found your place in it," Jacob said, gazing out across the crowd. "There's Mr Comerford. Son of a viscount, I believe, and fond of a more gentle life." He flashed a brilliant smile that Annabelle was coming to suspect hid something. "As you can imagine, I can count on one hand the number of times we've attended the same events. Louisa, you should introduce her."

Annabelle's heart rate accelerated. Mr Comerford was with a large group of young men, and as she had learnt from experience, groups of gentlemen were far worse than ones on their own. And ones on their own were bad enough. Her palms began to sweat. Would they laugh at her once they realised she was incapable of stringing more than two words together?

"Jacob," Lady Bolton ordered. "Look at her."

With a raised eyebrow, he did so, and Annabelle tried not to notice the flash of heat that split his dark eyes like lightning when he glanced at her mouth, so quickly if she hadn't been looking, she would have missed it.

"Now," she continued. "Tell her what they will see."

He sent Lady Bolton an impatient look. "What is this achieving?"

"Just do it."

"Very well." He turned back to Annabelle and took her hand, lowering his voice until it felt as though there was no one else in the room. She still didn't know how he could do that, make her forget the world whenever he fixed his full attention on her.

She licked her lips and his eyes darkened into pitch.

"They will see a beautiful young lady approaching them," he said, his voice mesmerising. "Shy, but prettier because of it, and utterly oblivious to her own charms. The way she blushes ought to be criminal."

Heat swept over her, head to toe, and he gave an appreciative, sensual smile that sent heat flooding through her.

"They know that you are engaged to me, and they will be curious that you, of all the young ladies I could have married, are my choice. They will be thinking the kind of thoughts that should never be uttered aloud in a ballroom. And they'll be wondering if they can convince you to change your mind. Both for the money, and so they have an opportunity to know what those sweet lips taste like."

"That's enough," Lady Bolton said, her voice alive with merriment. "One would think you're preparing her for you, not other gentlemen."

He gave her a dirty look Annabelle could barely process through her reeling senses. "You asked me to describe what they would see."

"And you did an admirable job." She patted his shoulder in the kind of dismissal Annabelle had often longed to give him. "Now go and brood somewhere visible."

"No doubt you think this is hilarious," he muttered, dropping Annabelle's hand as though it burned him and striding through the crowd. Several young ladies hailed him, but he barely paused, giving them a brief nod before reaching the refreshments.

"Now," Lady Bolton said, tucking Annabelle's hand under her arm. "Shall we find an eligible gentleman?"

Annabelle's knees were weak, certainly not structurally sound enough for walking through the crowd, but Lady Bolton didn't seem to notice, practically dragging Annabelle along after her.

"Now, remember," Lady Bolton said, "Jacob Barrington is a connoisseur of beauty, and he doesn't give compliments lightly. You may be sure he told the truth."

"But those ridiculous things—"

"If you keep your head up, they will think you beautiful." Lady Bolton gave a small, derisive snort. "And if you say nothing, they will think you all the more so."

"So I should not say anything?"

"If you're feeling tongue-tied, merely smile. It'll take some time to get used to, but once you've mastered it, it will be your defence for all things. Remember." She turned back with an oddly twisted expression. "You, the core of you, is sheltering within the armour of your body. Close yourself off to the arrows of their derision, and I promise they will not land."

Annabelle blinked. She had not thought of her skin as armour before, had not thought she might be able to crawl up inside herself and hide from the barrage of words and sensations around her, all while keeping a smile on her face.

"You see, surviving Society is merely about having the tools to do so," Lady Bolton said. "Now remember what Jacob told you. Here we go."

They approached a small group of gentlemen, and she broke on them like a crashing wave, splitting them with an air of cultured pleasure, and isolating a young blonde man.

"Mr Comerford," she said, cooing with practised delight. "How delightful to see you."

With effort, Annabelle kept her head up and the smile on her lips. Her heart pounded and her palms were sweaty, but every time she considered bolting, she remembered the way Jacob had looked at her, and the way he had said every gentleman would be wondering how her sweet lips would taste.

Did that mean he thought her lips were sweet? Did he want to taste them again?

Mr Comerford bowed to her and she hitched her smile back into place, forcing her thoughts away from Jacob and to the gentleman in front of her. "Lady Annabelle," he said. "I have not yet had the pleasure of meeting you this Season."

Her skin felt clammy and her tongue was in knots. But when she looked up into his face, she realised his warmth was genuine, and he had kind brown eyes. Not the intense dark of Jacob's but a softer shade that made her think of spring days.

"Indeed," she said, her voice managing to sound relatively normal rather than her usual breathy fare. "It's a pleasure."

"The pleasure is mine." He took her hand and pressed his lips to her knuckles in a pointed gesture. "A shame it came a little too late, I suppose. Still, I don't suppose you would honour me with a dance?"

Annabelle glanced at Lady Bolton, who gave an imperceptible nod. In the distance, standing at the edge of the ballroom with a glass of punch in his hands, was Lord Sunderland. Jacob. Her Marquess. He was watching her from across the room, just as brooding as Lady Bolton had instructed.

Maybe he was in love with Lady Bolton. That would explain why he had obeyed her every command.

The thought sank like a stone to the bottom of her stomach, and she sucked in a deep breath.

"I would be delighted," she said to Mr Comerford, accepting his hand and allowing him to lead her into the centre of the room.

Jacob sipped his drink, feeling again the ridiculousness of the situation as he watched Annabelle smile up at her partner. It was a hesitant smile, not like the occasional wide smile she'd given when she knew no one was looking, but it was something. More than he had expected.

And while she was there enjoying herself and charming another gentleman into wanting her, he was condemned to bore himself by watching. Usually, by this time in the proceedings, he would have already made his way into the card room, letting people believe he could think of nothing but whist and pharaoh. Given the alternative, it was hardly a poor choice.

Instead, he was here. He ground his teeth, placing his half-full glass on a table. He'd made Annabelle a promise that he wouldn't drink while they were together, but the urge to dull the sensations in his chest wouldn't leave him.

He was becoming precisely the man his father and Cecil had thought him to be; it was no longer a pretence. The thought should have comforted him, but it felt a little as though he had swallowed jagged glass.

The Duke of Norfolk came to stand beside him, leaning against the wall with deceptive idleness. "She's lovely, isn't she?" he said, nodding towards Annabelle. "We're both very fond of her."

Jacob sent Norfolk a sidelong glance. They were only a few years apart in age, but they ran in very different circles. "I have no doubt."

"I know you never wanted to marry her," the Duke said. "And I know she doesn't want to be married. In another world, I'd indulge her. But we don't always have a choice. And I should warn you now, Barrington—if you ever, ever hurt her, you will feel the consequences."

"A trifle overdone, don't you think?" Jacob drawled, knowing it would irritate, needing it to. He wanted to dig his claws into something and make it hurt. The urge was primal and he wasn't sure from where it originated. "I think Lady Annabelle and I have come to an understanding."

"Oh?"

Jacob had no intention of explaining the terms. "Suffice to say she's satisfied."

"She looks it," Norfolk said dryly, watching her smile at her partner. The urge to rip things to shreds increased. "If she asked it, would you let her retire from society?"

Considering they were not intending to marry, it hardly mattered what he said. He gave Norfolk a cool smile. "If she asked, she could have the moon on a platter."

"I see."

"If you wanted to allow her not to marry, you should not have placed the burden of a large dowry on her head."

"Is that your way of saying you're marrying her for her money?"

"We're engaged to save her reputation." He gave the Duke a long look. "I hardly care for mine."

Across the room, Annabelle was dancing with another gentleman. Now she was making her interest known, the gentlemen were lining up for her attention and the soft, shy smiles she passed around like delicate treasures. His plan was working and no doubt soon, with enough prompting that she would be receptive, she would have at least someone prepared to marry her.

He cast a disgusted look at the punch beside him, wishing it was wine, and snatched it up. It shouldn't have stung, seeing her prefer others the way everyone else did, but somehow it did.

The Duke of Norfolk was still watching him, so he made his way to the refreshment table, taking a glass of wine with him, and continued to the open doors leading to the patio. The curtains fluttered behind him and the moon scowled coldly on the garden.

He stared at the world beyond, but although the wine was held loosely in his hands, he made no move to drink it.