Chapter Twenty

Annabelle paced around the small, plain room, wishing she had never come. Several times, she eyed the door, wondering if she ought to make a break for it. Coming here had been risky, both for her reputation and her reception. Jacob hadn't been pleased to see her at the tavern and his boxing ring, and she doubted he would be happy to see her here, either. At his house.

Maybe she should just go home and save the apology for another time. Lady Bolton had promised to cover for her; she could leave and tell Theo she'd been with Lady Bolton and no one would be any the wiser.

Before she could bolt, the door opened and Jacob walked in, his waistcoat half open and his shirt damp. He closed the door behind him and came to stand in front of her in two strides. "What is it?" he asked, his dark eyes searching her face. "Is someone hurt? Did someone see you at the tavern?"

Unable to speak, she shook her head. Her face flamed.

"Annabelle." Jacob's hands cupped her face, bringing her gaze back to his. His hands were shockingly warm, though still wet from the rain, and he was frowning. "Tell me. What is it? I thought after learning about Madeline you—" He broke off, throat working, and she reached up to brush her fingertips against the hand that was still against her cheek. So gentle, he could be so gentle with these same hands she had seen break a man's ribs.

Her breath caught.

"What you told me about Madeline wasn't the full story," she whispered. "I want to know—everything."

"That's the reason you came here? To hear me talk about a woman long dead?"

"Dead?" Annabelle jerked back out of his hands and his shoulders went stiff. "She's dead?"

Jacob ran a hand through his hair, slicking it back. "It's not what you think, little bird." All of a sudden, he looked exhausted, the lines on his face deepening. Although he was still only in his twenties—a young man by anyone's standard—he looked as though he had seen the dawn of time and everything that came after.

"Then tell me," she urged. "I want to know everything. The truth."

"The truth?" His lip curled. "No one wants that."

"It's part of you. I want to know."

For a long moment, he just looked at her. Then he raked another hand through his hair, his shoulders sagging with the weight of his decision. "Very well. You may sit if you like. It's not a pretty story."

Annabelle perched on the edge of the low couch that had been placed there, and Jacob sat on the other side. He played with his cuffs, eyes cast down as he visibly gathered himself.

"I have no excuse for how the affair began. I hated my brother and everything he stood for, and I hated that he had everything he wanted. So I took the one thing from him I could—the woman he was going to marry. I'll admit, it was an act of spite, at first, and I had enough experience in the bedchamber to think myself capable of it. But the more I got to know her, the more I understood she never wanted the match and her heart was not engaged. We fell in love." There was a mocking edge to his voice. "Or so I thought in my youth and naivety. I offered her everything I had. I said we could elope, I told her I would take a position in politics or the law to support her the best I could. It wouldn't have been the life she was accustomed to, but we would be together and I thought that would be enough."

Annabelle's nose stung. Jacob's voice was flat but she could hear the echoes of hurt behind it. An empty room that had once held screams of pain.

"Of course, what she had truly wanted from my brother was his position, his wealth, his title. I had none of that. So she turned me down, but like a fool I kept coming back to her for more. The affair went on for months, and by the end of it, I'd forgotten why it had ever begun." He shook his head, a humourless smile curling the corner of his mouth. "To this day, I don't know how her father discovered we were together. A rumour, I suppose. Mindless gossip that reached his ears. He believed it enough to throw his daughter onto the street. I offered her marriage, a home, anything she wanted, but she ran to my brother instead."

Annabelle bit her lip in sympathy. "But he no longer wanted her as his bride?"

"He broke the engagement. One of the few times gentlemen can without social repercussions. Everyone thought her a whore and me a low-born bastard." He shrugged, but his eyes were opaque, no emotion seeping through. "My understanding is, after he rejected her, she came to me again. But she never made it. Her body was discovered a few days later, and . . . I never saw the body, but I understand she was strangled after . . ." He broke off, shaking his head.

Annabelle leant forward and placed her hand on his leg. "That wasn't your fault," she said forcefully. "You can hardly hold yourself accountable."

He looked down at the contact, and she curled her fingers, pulling her hand away again, but he caught her wrist. "Annabelle," he said, his voice low. His thumb swept over her pulse-point.

Annabelle was not prone to disliking other women where she could help it, but she detested this Madeline. For existing, for making Jacob love her, and for breaking his heart so thoroughly he had never been able to put the pieces back together.

"She should have loved you," she said.

Jacob's eyes were dark, so dark, when he looked at her. "I fear that would have been impossible."

"Why? Because you didn't have a title?"

"Because in all my life, no one has ever loved me, and why should a girl hoping for a rich husband be any different?" His smile twisted, bitter enough to impale her heart. "What did I have to offer her, little bird? I was the younger brother of a marquess, and considering I was hardly suited for the church, I would have had to find some other occupation. Not the life she had envisaged for herself."

"Then she should have considered what would matter more—a husband who adored her or a man who was marrying her for convenience only."

"My love would not have made us rich," he said, toying with her fingers absently in a way that made heat steal through her body. "A noblewoman learning to darn socks and make do? Imagine, Annabelle."

"It doesn't sound so terrible to me."

"I hadn't thought you were so much of a romantic," he said, a gleam of something in his eye. Unfathomable and dark—there was such darkness in him, but it called to her, begged her to soothe its edges. "But if you recall, she is not the only one to prefer my brother."

"That's why I came here," she said, looking up and meeting his gaze with all the seriousness she could muster. "I wanted to apologise for saying I would marry Cecil over you. When I said it, I was thinking about the books, but—" But he had sent her the sonnets and she had felt seen and heard, and even his tale of Madeline hadn't taken that from him. "If it came down to it, I would far rather marry you than your brother. Even if you were not a marquess and I had to darn my own socks."

His sumptuous mouth pressed into a hard line. "That is not the life you would want."

Better to live with a man who touched her like she was something precious, and kissed her breathless, than a man who married her for her money and convenience. Cecil had wanted her because of her reading, she knew, but he didn't like her. He didn't know her.

There was no point arguing with him, but she wanted to offer him something he might accept. They had gone into their agreement as reluctant allies, but things had changed now.

They may never be husband and wife, but at least they could have this.

"I want to start anew," she said, holding out her hand. "As . . . friends." On the patio at the ball, they had been friends, and she had liked it. Friends enjoyed each other's company and looked out for one another, did they not? And if she sometimes got distracted by the way his shirt indecently hugged his body, then that was not so bad.

He eyed her hand. "Friends?"

"Do you dislike me so much?"

An unidentifiable expression flickered across his face, but a heartbeat later, he gave a wry smile and clasped her hand, fingers wrapping almost to her wrist. "Very well. Friends it is."

A more unusual pairing had not been seen. Annabelle shook his hand and rose, taking a deep breath. "Good day, my lord," she said, hoping he would play along. "My name is Lady Annabelle Beaumont."

A surprised laugh lit his eyes, turning them from ebony to honey and chocolate, and he stood to join her. "Lord Sunderland at your service."

She curtsied, letting him keep her hand. With his eyes on her, too much like the ball, he kissed her knuckles. "It's a pleasure to finally meet you," she said. "I've heard so many things."

"All bad, no doubt." He tucked her hand into the crook of her arm. "Would you like a tour of my home? I have an expansive library."

A smile spread across her face. So many people heard but they didn't listen. With Jacob, she felt seen. "You do?"

"Do you like libraries, my lady?"

"Very much." She grinned up at him and he glanced down at her with an indulgent smile. As they passed through the hall and receiving rooms, he played the part of host, regaling her with stories—some true and some not, she fancied. His clothes were still wet, but he made no move to change them, and there was a softness to him she hadn't seen before. This was the man who had sent her the sonnets, not the man who had glared at her from a boxing ring with bloodied knuckles.

This was the gentleman, not the fighter.

She found herself intrigued by both. The juxtaposition of one against the other. Soft and hard; rough and gentle. Sophisticated and brutal.

"When I was thirteen, I came with my mother to London and while she was entertaining, I added tiny additions to the paintings." He pointed to a small, obscene drawing in one corner. "No one noticed for a few years, and by the time my father did notice, I was too old for him to punish."

Annabelle remembered what Lady Bolton had told her about Jacob and his childhood—specifically that there was some question as to his heritage. "Did your father often punish you?"

Acting as though he didn't hear, Jacob opened a large door and ushered her through. "And this is the library," he said. Annabelle had wanted to pursue the subject of his family, but with the library in front of her, all other thoughts left her head.

Nathanial had an excellent library, well-stocked and spacious. He often spent time there doing his accounts and sitting by the fire. Theo sometimes joined him with a book. It was a space for relaxation more than for reading, despite the books that lined the shelves.

This was a space directly designed for reading.

Large windows eliminated any gloom, and ladders were placed against the tall bookcases so one could reach any books they wished. Small, cosy chairs were tucked away in corners, and although there was a table, it was stacked high with books. Silk bookmarks were tangled in a pile, and half-burned candles lined shelves that had been designed especially for them, burn-marks marring the wood above.

Unlike in Nathanial's library, the fireplace was not the focal point of the room.

Annabelle's breath rushed out of her as she turned, taking in every detail. The thick velvet curtains could be drawn as necessary to ward away the cold, and the chairs looked worn. Comfortable and cosy.

Jacob, she noticed, didn't look at the space as she did. There was a muscle ticking in his jaw and a dark light in his eyes that reminded her of how she felt when she viewed a ballroom being prepared for a ball. Instantly put in mind of the torture she would have to endure.

"Is this not a room that holds happy memories for you?" she whispered, forgetting her joy in the wake of his grim endurance.

He frowned as he glanced down at her. "Nothing in this house holds happy memories for me, little bird."

"Annabelle."

"Annabelle," he repeated, tongue curling around her name in a way that sounded almost obscene. Their eyes locked and the air was sucked from the room, nothing in the space between them but desire that sizzled like a flame. She was old enough, aware enough, to know what it was, to put a name to it, to acknowledge she felt it when she looked at him.

After they'd kissed in the closet and he had dismissed her, she had told herself she would never let something like that happen again. Now, she wasn't so sure she would be able to stop it. There was a feeling of creeping inevitability here—they had been resisting it for so long, but now they were alone.

He had loved Madeline. He had loved her enough to marry her. The thought made her simultaneously warm and cold.

"You said kissing me took the edge off," she whispered, forgetting the role she'd given herself. Friend. Stranger. "What did you mean?"

His jaw tensed. "I just said that to hurt you." Hesitation cracked across his expression. "Forgive me."

She already had. When he'd come to Nathanial's library and knelt before her, when he had apologised, she had forgiven him then, though she had not meant to.

"We've started afresh," she reminded him. "No more apologies."

"Just friendship?" he asked, eyes burning into hers.

This was no closet. Weak sunlight streamed in through the windows. The tension between them crackled with intensity and purpose.

"If you only came here for friendship, Annabelle, you should leave."

"Why?"

"Because you asked me not to touch you again, and I'm a man of my word." His gaze dropped to her mouth before he wrenched it back to her eyes with a vehemence that shocked her. "So I suggest you leave before I do something one of us might regret."

In the closet, he had kissed her as though she was his last breath. So urgently, she had known nothing but him. At the memory, she grew hot all over.

Annabelle had always been the sensible daughter. The good daughter, the reliable daughter. But this man, the Devil of St James, made her want to forget what it felt like to be good. Weeks ago, before she had ever known him, she would have left now. She would not have come.

She was not the girl she had been weeks ago.

"And if I said I would not mind if you touched me?" she whispered.

He groaned like a man tortured, and through the wild pounding of her heart, an answering thrill ran through her. "I told myself I would not, Annabelle."

"Why?"

"Madeline."

The name sliced through her and she had to take an unsteady breath. "I'm not Madeline."

His throat bobbed as he swallowed. "I know."

"I would not choose your brother over you." She pressed still closer, tilting her head back in invitation. Kiss me. "We agreed that by the end of the summer, our arrangement would be over. But for now, we are engaged." She pushed any anticipatory hurt away; later, she would deal with it later. "And I want to know what it's like."

His fingers dug into her hips, drawing her closer, and she let out a long breath. "Then I'll show you, Annabelle, if you are sure this is what you want."

"It is."

With a shudder, he gave in.