Chapter Twenty-One

If Jacob were a better man, he would have refused her. Insisted she leave. They had an agreement in place, and that agreement did not involve him taking her innocence. She was going to marry another; he should have no claim on her.

But she had asked, and he was undone. When she asked, he could refuse her nothing.

Her mouth was warm, parting under his, yielding to him in the most delicious of ways, and he took full advantage, pushing her against a bookcase and kissing her until both their breaths were ragged. He was hard, of course he was hard—he had been hard right from the moment she had looked up at him, games forgotten, nothing but want in her eyes.

Now, she kissed him as though she would die if he stopped, and it fuelled him to nip her bottom lip, to press himself against her, to grind his aching length against her stomach, frustrated by the restriction of his breeches and thankful for them all the same.

It could not go any further than this. He would remain in control. Regardless of what happened here today, their agreement had not changed: she was going to be married to another man who would, presumably, want her intact.

Thinking about another man touching her did nothing good to him, so he focused on the practicalities of the situation. The limitations. He would not take her virginity. No matter how much he wanted her. More than Madeline, more than anything he had ever wanted in his life. His existence had been made up of want, of desire, of denial, but nothing had felt as difficult as the knowledge he would come this close to having Annabelle and could not. Would not.

He was not a scoundrel.

Well, he was a scoundrel, but he had learnt his lesson with Madeline, and he would not ruin Annabelle any more than her presence here had already ruined her.

He did not let himself think about what might happen if she was ruined. Instead, he stroked his knuckles under her breasts, feeling the way her nipples pebbled and her breaths turned heavy and languorous.

"Jacob," she said, shifting against him. It was a plea, and in answer, he took her hand and led her to the large table in the centre of the room. It was covered in books, but he swiped them aside, clearing a space for her. When she hesitated, he took hold of her waist and set her on it. Her chest heaved as she stared at him.

"I want to touch you," he said, giving her time to change her mind. Her breath hitched. "Will you let me?"

Her eyes were a storm-tossed sea, and her mouth was red and swollen. She looked thoroughly debauched as she nodded, and he liked her like that, like this, giving him permission to do what he pleased with her. As she watched him, he drew her skirts up her thighs until he reached her hips. Legs. Bare. Stockings then tantalising pale skin and between her legs, damp curls. His mouth was dry and his cock strained against his breeches, achingly hard, demanding he relieve it. With one hand, he cupped himself, squeezing almost viciously, while with the other, he spread her legs.

"You'll like this." His voice was low. The way she looked at him was a torment.

"What about you?"

"What about me?"

"Do . . ." She swallowed, a red blush creeping up her neck to her cheeks. "Should I—"

He leant over and kissed her chastely, softly. "I will enjoy this almost as much as you," he said. "Believe me."

Uncertainly, she nodded, and he placed himself between her legs. He wanted to taste her, but she had never been with a man before. First, he needed to accustom her to being touched intimately. Then—

No. He shut down the thought before it could take root. Touching her was all he would allow himself. But she could not touch him, not if he were to retain what little restraint he had left.

She shifted restlessly and he slid his palm along the soft skin of her inner thigh. As if in invitation, she spread her legs still wider, baring herself to him, and all thoughts left his head.

She was perfection. Even without touching her, he could see how wet she was, her folds slick with desire. When she shifted again, rolling her hips in impatience, he touched her where she needed. A gasping low moan escaped her, and he gripped himself still more tightly as he traced small circles around her sensitive nub. Already, she was ready for him, and that knowledge in itself was an agony.

He slid a finger inside her, kissing her inner thigh at her moan.

"What's this?" she gasped, hips bucking. He added a second finger to the first, revelling in the delicious way she clenched around him. Hot, wet, and utterly inviting.

But he mustn't.

"Quiet, sweetheart."

Her head fell back as she bit her lip, stifling the cries he was drawing from her, and damn him to hell, if this wasn't the most arousing sight he'd ever witnessed. None of the ladies he usually lay with, the experienced widows or the practised mistresses, had ever given themselves to him the way Annabelle did. Innocently, without guile.

To distract himself from the desperate, almost mindless urge to sink inside her, he kissed his way up her thigh to her damp curls.

"Jacob!" Annabelle half sat up again, eyes wide, her legs clamping around his head. "What are you—"

He looked up as he continued to work her with his fingers. "I want to use my mouth on you."

"There?"

"Don't look so scandalised, little bird. It's not as uncommon as you might think."

"And you'll like it?" she asked doubtfully.

"There's nothing I want more."

Slowly, she nodded, an expression of mingled anticipation and suspicion and fear on her face, and he took that as an invitation to proceed.

If he had planned a seduction route for her, he would have gone about it differently. He would have made sure everything happened at its proper pace, possibly over several sessions. And he would categorically not have put his mouth on her the very first time they came together.

But there might not be another time. There was a slight uneasiness in his stomach at the thought and he pushed it to one side, letting himself focus exclusively on this. Messy, open licks and kisses. There was no finesse here; his reputation as an experienced lover was in tatters at his schoolboy enthusiasm, but the taste of her on his tongue was driving him wild. He would be remembering this for months to come, every time he took himself in hand. The smell of her, the taste, the way she tightened around his fingers as her climax drew closer, and the helpless, pitiful cries she gave past clenched teeth as she strove to be quiet.

He wasn't entirely sure he would ever be able to stop.

He slowed as she reached the edge of climax, holding her there, teasing at the brink but never quite pushing her over.

"Jacob." Her voice was breathy impatience, and the sound of it almost undid him.

He should never have kissed her; then he would never have known how addictive it was. Sweeter than wine, stronger than whisky.

"This is the sweetest moment," he said, pulling back and meeting her gaze. "Savour it."

She wiggled again. "What about you?"

"It's better I . . . don't."

"Why?"

Instead of answering, he kissed her again, drawing her into his mouth and sucking as he crooked his fingers one last time. She shattered, shuddering on the table, the picture of wanton beauty, a hectic flush on her cheeks. He could imagine it extended down her chest to her breasts, too, which even through her clothes he could see were heavy, the nipples peaked.

She would be his every undoing.

Watching her climax, he didn't care.

If things were different—if he could love her, if she could love him—he would have offered for her there and then, just so he could keep her with him. So he could know the heaven that would be sinking inside her.

But he was cursed to be unlovable, and she was too good for someone like him. Too pure, too sweet, too loving. She deserved a gentleman who could give her the world.

They had an agreement.

Annabelle sat up, her hair slipping loose from its pins the way it had once before, and she smiled at him. Widely, openly, without restraint. And he knew he was totally lost.

She was not Madeline; she was better in every way. Honest, genuine, sincere. When she had thought she'd offended—no, hurt—him, she'd come to his house with the intention of apologising. Madeline had wielded her beauty like a well-honed weapon, but Annabelle was oblivious to her charms, and he had no doubt she meant everything she said.

He could not ruin her.

His hand curled into a fist at the urge to brush her hair back from her face.

"Jacob," she said, her smile slipping into confusion at his expression. "What's wrong?"

He tugged her skirts back into place, searching for his usual brusqueness. Why now, of all times, had it failed him? She wrought tenderness from him he had thought died along with Madeline. "Annabelle," he said, then sighed. "I think it's time for you to leave."

Her lips parted, shock crossing her features. "Now?"

"Now."

"Did I do something wrong? I know I did not—"

Unable to help himself, he leaned in to kiss her again, swallowing those words before they could pierce him. "You did nothing wrong," he said when he pulled away. "Nothing. But you can't stay here. What if your brother finds out?"

Henry Beaumont. Another obstacle to handle.

"He thinks I'm with Lady Bolton," she said confidently.

"Then return and be with her." He helped her to her feet, supporting her when her legs crumpled a little under her. "I appreciate you coming here today, but what just happened . . ." This was the hardest thing he had ever done. "It can never happen again."

Hurt crossed her features. "Because you don't want it to?"

"Do not talk to me about what I do and do not want." His voice was rough, but she did not flinch away. "You will be happier when you find another man. Better Cecil had lived and you had married him."

"But I don't want—" she started.

"He wanted you." It was a peculiar kind of pain in his chest as he reached out and stroked down her cheek. She looked at him with large, trusting eyes. "And he could have given you what you were looking for."

"I never wanted to marry," she said, although she sounded unsure. "I never thought marriage was—that one person could ever . . ."

He needed to look away from her fragile beauty, like the wings of a butterfly. So easily crushed. "You should go home, love."

"What if I want to stay?"

There were so many rules he had broken already—both his own and societal—that the thought was painfully tempting. He could keep her here in this house, turning all those ugly memories into something wonderful.

Then he thought of Cecil, and the idea soured. This was history repeating itself, and he was allowing himself to get caught in its allure the way he had before.

Never again. How many times had he sworn that to himself?

"Little bird," he said, and half laughed, shaking his head. "You don't understand. I break everything I touch. Get too close and—" He shook his head, blocking out the thought. "Come. Let me do your hair."

"Is that a rule you have?" she asked in a quiet voice as he repinned her hair, unable to stop his fingers from lingering against the soft skin of her neck. "You only see a lady once?"

"No." He stepped back, his work passable at first inspection. "Just you, Annabelle."

She nodded, still staring at the wall. "I see."

"In time, you will thank me." Even if he would always look back on this day and wonder what would have happened if he hadn't adhered to the one rule he had left.

Even if he would always, always regret not being her first.

"I'll send for a cab," he said, reaching for the bellpull. "And I will call in a few days, if your brother allows it."

Her smile didn't touch her eyes, and he wondered what else he had broken by, for the first time in his life, trying to be a better man.