Chapter Sixteen

Annabelle lost track of the hours. Jacob's words still lingered in her head, and she was learning to read the expression on gentlemen's faces when they looked at her. The want, half concealed, the way their gazes lingered on her mouth. If there was one thing she was concluding from this ball, it was that men liked mouths. Lips were something they paid special attention to.

Smiling was easier than talking, and she discovered that if she gave an encouraging smile to a gentleman, he needed nothing more from her. Strange how she had never unlocked the power before, though that was probably because she had never looked into the gentleman's face as often until now. So while her brain worked overtime and she dissected every comment delivered to her with a physician's precision, she found she was able to uphold a conversation by doing little more than maintaining her expression. Occasionally, she found, a word here or there was necessary, but often the smile would do.

It was a trick she wished she had learnt years ago.

Still, after her third dance in which she did nothing but smile until her cheeks hurt, stuck on the outside of a discourse which she really had no part in, she was exhausted. All she wanted was the comfort of a friend with whom she could talk. Express her opinions. The gentlemen she had been dancing with would have been surprised to know she had opinions.

The thought of doing this every year for the rest of her life filled her with a peculiar sense of dread. As a single woman, after a few Seasons she would have been able to largely retire from Society; as a married woman, she would not have that luxury.

The prospect was horrifying.

After her fifth partner bid her farewell, she cast a look around for Jacob, who had abandoned his brooding for something else. Theo was talking with their mother, her fan working overtime, and Annabelle would have joined them except she didn't want to face their questions.

There was nothing for it—she took refuge behind her potted plants. There was no book this time, but at least she had the luxury of some space to pull herself together. She released a long, slow breath. The music still continued, a lively jig that sent her thoughts flurrying about her head, and the overbearing noise of the ball ground her down until she felt like a husk. Like dust, blown about in the wind, reduced to nothing. If she could have had her way, she would have sent everyone home at midnight. As it was, the ball would likely continue until daybreak unless something drastic happened.

What if she faked an illness? Theo would whisk her away from the ball immediately.

But then she'd worry her sister unnecessarily, and that seemed cruel.

Maybe she would just stay here. At least for a few more minutes until her heart rate slowed. Until she would be able to put the smile back on her face without snapping.

"There she is!" A hand reached down and pulled her up, and the unwelcomely familiar face of Lady Tabitha came into view. "Don't tell me you were resting on a night like tonight." She was accompanied by a gaggle of other debutantes, looking at Annabelle with mingled curiosity, envy and pity. "You have to tell us how you did it."

"We already know how she did it," another girl said. Her aquiline nose was a little upturned. "She lured Lord Sunderland into the garden and as soon as rumour spread, he had no choice but to marry her."

Annabelle gaped, her face flushing, her tongue doing its usual job of sticking to the roof of her mouth. Under their beady eyes and not-so-silent judgement, she felt as small as a caterpillar under their feet: easily squashed.

"That's not fair, Lucy," another voice said. This girl looked kinder and a little older; not a debutante in her first Season, then. "I've seen the way he looks at her."

"Ruination," the first girl snorted. "That's all it amounts to."

"How did you manage it?" Lady Tabitha pressed. "I mean, to entice him out into the gardens with you alone."

Annabelle wanted to close her eyes and disappear. "I-I didn't."

"You must have done something," the first girl said impatiently. "Why else would he be hanging around you like this? Everyone knows the Devil of St James had no plans of marriage."

"That's why it's so ingenious," Lady Tabitha said. "How else could she ensure a marriage with him? And after his brother died and he inherited. I wish I had your foresight!"

"No," Annabelle tried. "I didn't."

But the girls kept pushing around her, crushing her, making her hot and uncomfortable and pressed to answer questions she had no answer to. Like "what is he like?" and "is he as devastating as I heard?"

He was devastating, in his own way. Criminally long eyelashes around eyes so dark they could have held the night sky, wicked amusement gleaming in them like the cold moon. His mouth was a sensual slash, caught halfway between mockery and an odd grimness that sat unsettlingly on a man so young. Perhaps that was how he had become a rake in the first place, because he had a masculine beauty no lady could deny.

"Excuse me," came the voice she was looking for. When she glanced up, it was to find that dark gaze pinning her to the floor. Within it, she was utterly caught. "I have come to collect my bride-to-be."

At once the girls parted, and Jacob strode up to her. His eyes were hard, glittering with anger, but his fingers were gentle as they took hold of hers. "My lady," he said, his voice low and intimate. Slowly, achingly slowly, he brought her knuckles to his lips and kissed them.

Annabelle felt that kiss all over, in places she should adamantly not. Under her gloves, her skin burned.

Lady Tabitha's titter was loud enough to disturb nesting birds, but Annabelle hardly noticed. Her embarrassment faded as he took her hand and led her away. Past the musicians sawing at their strings, past Theo and her mother, who watched her with a cautious look in their eyes, and out onto the patio.

"There," Jacob said briefly, releasing her hand. "Take a breath."

"Thank you, I—"

"Don't thank me. Just breathe and stop your fretting over their opinion. They're not worth your time or energy."

"Easy for you to say."

"Is it?" His gaze rested on her for a moment, and she knew now that in the light, they were brown threaded with gold. Compelling enough for her to fall into; deep enough she might drown.

He reached for a glass he had rested on the windowsill, breaking her gaze, and she noticed it was filled with wine. "You're drinking," she accused.

"On the contrary; I have yet to have a sip. But I thought you might like some." At her start, he gave a half-smile. Not cocky or arrogant or pointedly sensual, like so many of his smiles had been, but an expression of genuine amusement. "Don't look at me like that, little bird. There comes a point when there's nothing else for it. Sometimes you need a little liquid courage."

"You appear to need liquid courage often."

"Live a day in my shoes and you might understand why." He offered her the glass and this time she took it. The burgundy was rich and almost sour against her tongue, strong enough she made a face. At home, she only ever had ratafia or lemonade. But under his curious gaze, she took another, then another, until she'd finished the last of it.

"It's not bad," she said eventually.

"You'll get used to it."

"I'm not sure I want to." She looked at him. "I've seen what it can do."

His expression flickered, just for a moment, then he took the glass and put it carefully to one side. "If you are just going to lecture me, feel free to leave."

Even a few hours ago, she might have done, if he had not apologised to her. But something had changed between them—or perhaps she was the one who had changed. Out here, in full view of the ballroom, he didn't look like a rake capable of eating women's hearts for breakfast. He just looked tired, the sharpness in his expression worn away, lines appearing that she hadn't seen before.

Perhaps his reputation was as exhausting to maintain as her facade. Having people hate him had to be draining, just as trying to convince people to like her made her feel as though her energy was being sucked dry.

Earlier that evening, she had thought she could not hate him more, but now she thought perhaps she didn't hate him at all. He was the same as her, just angrier. Maybe hurting more.

They stood in silence for a while, the soft air of early summer refreshing after the stifling heat of the ballroom, and she thought about how easy it was to be with him. No pointless conversation to fill the silence; he was as comfortable in it as she was. He had no expectations of her other than she should be herself, and that was remarkably freeing.

"So," he drawled, dragging his attention back to her. "How did you enjoy yourself?"

"I didn't meet anyone I wanted to marry."

He tensed. "Is that so? It's early days yet."

"You know, not one of them asked me about my opinion on any matter we discussed. Or should I say, they discussed."

A reluctant laugh broke from him, husky and low. Too intimate for the bright candlelight behind them. "Am I supposed to be surprised?"

"But why? Even the kind ones were . . ." She struggled to find a word. "Dismissive. Why is that?"

"Probably because they have greater respect for their opinions than yours."

"Do you?"

He contemplated that for a moment, a crease appearing between his brows. "No," he said eventually.

"Why is that?"

"Probably because I was never taught to respect my opinions." Bitterness coated his words like the bite of November snow. "And despite all appearances to the contrary, you do have a brain."

"A good thing you're trying not to charm me," she said, and he gave a snort.

"I rather suspect that ship has long since sailed."

"And sunk."

"In full view of the harbour."

It was her turn to laugh—not a delicate thing, either. It came straight from her belly and erupted into the night air. He half turned, a line appearing between his brows.

"That's the first time I've heard you laugh," he said. "Genuinely, I mean."

"I could say the same about you."

"What a pair we are," he mused, the amusement turning wry. "Are you so very unhappy, Annabelle?"

"Not so very most of the time. I enjoy reading." Instinctively, she thought back to Jacob's brother and the way he had discussed books with her. At the time, she had not wanted to marry anyone at all, but if any one of her partners this evening had entered a discussion, not a one-sided monologue, she would have considered him as a potential marriage partner.

How short-sighted she had been to dismiss him so easily.

She sighed and he glanced at her. "What are you thinking, little bird?"

"Your brother enjoyed reading, too," she said, leaning against the wall as she looked across the garden.

"I'm aware."

"He offered to bring me some books he thought I would enjoy."

Something shuttered in Jacob, and although he gave her a smile, it was a little too mocking. "If it were anyone other than my brother, I might have suspected him of trying to seduce you." He picked up the glass, running his finger along the rim in a way that was downright sensual. "Then again, given the way you seem to adore books, perhaps it would have worked."

"He listened to me."

Jacob's eyes were very dark. "Did he now?"

"We debated the merits of female authors and how easy it is, or isn't, to become one."

"Riveting." There was a hard edge to his voice, but Annabelle was looking into the distance, away from him, lost in the past.

"If he were alive now, he would be the man I would choose."

Silence followed her words, but this was not like the silence they had shared before. This was sharp, slicing into her, and she looked back at him, frowning. His fingers had stilled on the glass, and he looked oddly distant, as though he was carved from marble.

"I assure you," he said, giving her a bow that felt vaguely contemptuous, "you would not be the first."

Then she was alone on the patio.