Chapter Two

Annabelle froze, still debating the merits of sprinting wildly for an exit. Her mother waded through the crowd, resplendent in a blue dress that showed off her trim figure to advantage, beaming in delight when she saw Annabelle. The Marquess of Sunderland. Well, as titled gentlemen went, he was one of the best catches of the Season. No doubt her mother was thrilled.

Annabelle was considerably less so. She took him in slowly. Sandy hair, blue-grey eyes, cheeks that were a trifle hollowed, pale skin. There were bags under his eyes. Thankfully, he wasn't overly tall, and despite the very slight sickliness that clung to him, he contrived to be handsome enough. No doubt he was rich, too, in case the rest were not enough.

"Lord Sunderland," the Dowager said. "Meet my daughter-in-law, Lady Annabelle Beaumont."

The Marquess bowed. Annabelle curtsied, her tongue stuck, as usual, to the roof of her mouth. Now the Dowager had introduced them, there was absolutely no chance of fleeing without causing some kind of scandal, and considering her dowry alone was enough to make people look at her when she crossed a room, she didn't think she could bear a scandal.

No, she was going to have to dance with him. It was inevitable.

The Marquess's eyes sparked as though he could sense her thoughts, and his thin mouth pressed into a line that was either suppressing a grimace or a smile. "Lady Annabelle," he said. "Would you do me the honour of this next dance?"

Her card fluttered at her wrist as, with an internal sigh, she accepted the Marquess's proffered hand. "Of course, sir," she said.

Yes, sir. Of course, sir. My pleasure, sir.All phrases designed to placate a gentleman. She'd come to hate them all.

The music began and the Marquess led her out into the middle of the ballroom where everyone could watch them. Not that this was unfamiliar to her—every dance so far had felt as though she was a trophy being paraded around the room. Her only consolation was that, if she could avoid marriage, in another couple of years she would probably be able to quietly retire from London Society. Then she would be able to sit and read in peace without any expectations she'd marry.

Another two Seasons of this. Her head pounded. The music was too loud, sawing on her open nerves with bows of jagged steel. The thought of enduring two more years of Society felt intolerable.

The Marquess looked at her as they linked hands and began the dance. His palms were warm and sweaty, unpleasant even through his gloves, and she knew the inevitable small talk was coming. They would discuss the same things she had discussed with every partner: the weather (cold), the number of couples (far too many), and how much she was enjoying the evening (she would be forced to lie through her teeth).

Perhaps she would accidentally step on his foot and he would leave her alone, concluding even her dowry wasn't enough to overcome her shortcomings.

Perhaps she would step on his foot deliberately.

"I see you enjoy dancing as little as I," he said.

Annabelle began to give a vapid agreement before his words penetrated. She frowned, glancing up at him. "You do not enjoy dancing?"

"I much prefer a good book."

She was speechless. This was not an uncommon event, but usually it was because she had nothing to say. Now, too many things sprung to mind. Instead of empty, her mind was buzzing with the improbability of a gentleman saying such a thing to her, and what the correct response would be.

The dance parted them, and by the time they came back together, his hand limp around hers, she had almost gathered her wits.

"You like to read?"

"In my opinion, it is one of the greatest pleasures in life."

Annabelle thought back to Fanny Hill and her face flushed tomato red. "You like novels, sir?"

"I do. Do you?" He looked down at her with a serious expression. "I have seen you often at Hatchards."

"You were watching me?" she blurted, then clamped her mouth shut. This was why she was better suited to the peace and quiet of a library.

"I confess I was," he said. "It is not often I meet a young lady quite so interested in reading."

"What is your favourite novel?"

"A charmingly difficult question. Do you have a favourite novel, Lady Annabelle?"

Again, she thought back to the book she had been reading, and tried not to let her thoughts show on her face. "Perhaps Evelina," she said. "Or Sense and Sensibility."

"Ah yes, I'm familiar. You enjoy novels, I presume, that reflect on the position of women?"

"And that are written by women." Annabelle tilted her head as she looked at him. Now they were on her favourite subject—books—she found she was far less tongue-tied. "Do you value lady authors, sir?"

"I think to write a book is an admirable thing whether the author is a man or a woman."

"But to write a book as a woman, when ladies' education is far more genteel and they do not have the same connections as men in the business world, seems a harder task."

He raised his eyebrows at her, a light igniting in his eyes. "You have strong opinions on female novelists. Fine, let us agree with you on one point: it is not considered genteel for a woman to author a book, and thus ladies have more opposition. But it is becoming more common."

"I hope it will become very common in the future," Annabelle said seriously. When he smiled, as though in approval, she felt some of her nerves loosen. This was the first time she had conversed with a gentleman about something she was interested in, and the novelty excited her.

"I have a large library," he said eventually. "I believe you might take quite some enjoyment in it. I add to it whenever possible."

"You do?" Annabelle could not stop herself beaming. Nathanial's library was well-stocked but he was not assiduous in keeping it fully up to date, which necessitated her many visits to Hatchards, spending what little pin money she received on books instead of bonnets and ribbons.

She was not like her sister, dreaming of romance at every turn. Love could not be death-defying—death was the one constant. And marriage, trapped with a man she did not like, sounded akin to torture; the idea of managing a house filled her with nothing but dread. But books—they were her true love.

Books truly were death-defying.

"I wonder," the Marquess said as he looked down into her face, "whether I might have the honour of calling on you in the next few days."

She could hardly refuse. "I am always at home in the morning, sir."

"I shall be sure to bring a book I think you might enjoy."

Well, this was new. And not entirely unpleasant. Although she was not sure if she looked forward to conversing with him or merely the prospect of another book to add to her collection. Had she done the unthinkable and found a man she would be interested in spending time with?

The irony that he had appeared just after she had resolved it was impossible did not escape her. Of course, she still had no intentions of marrying, but . . .

One day, she wanted a library of her very own.

The dance ended and the Marquess bowed over her hand. She expected him to follow her across the ballroom, but he glanced over her shoulder and his eyes narrowed.

"Excuse me," he said, his voice clipped and angry. "There is something I must attend to. Until next time, my lady."

Confused, Annabelle stared after him, but only for a moment. When she turned, she saw her mother searching for her with yet another gentleman in tow, so she skirted the edges of the room. Her mother was standing close to the plant pots, so Annabelle finally took her chance and escaped through the double doors. Talking about reading made her want to read, so she hurried along to the library. It would be quieter there, too.

There was no dancing in libraries. Books demanded nothing from her but her enjoyment.

The room was dark as she slipped inside, and she did not alleviate it, though she knew there were candles and oil lamps she could light. Her favourite place was on the window seat, looking out into the chilly night beyond. Across the lawn, she thought she saw Theo and Nathanial emerge from the hothouse. It was the wrong time of year for them to be admiring the flowers, given that none were growing, but she knew Theo had ambitious plans. Perhaps they were discussing them.

She tipped her head back to the moon, pale and distant. "What will it take to persuade Mama I don't want to marry?" she asked no one in particular.

She received no answer.

Jacob watched his brother march across the ballroom to him, and he almost smiled. The moment he had entered the ballroom, whispers had fanned out in all directions, and dowagers held onto their daughters a little tighter.

If there had ever been a time he wasn't notorious in Society, he couldn't remember it.

"What the devil are you doing here?" Cecil demanded, taking Jacob's arm and steering him towards the patio doors. Jacob paused along the way to pick up a glass of wine. He tossed it back in one and put it on a footman's tray.

"A pleasure to see you too," he said, leaning against the wall. "You wished to see me?"

"Not here."

"Gracious. Could it be that I, your esteemed brother, am a disappointment?"

Cecil's jaw tightened, looking remarkably like their father. To his relief, Jacob bore no resemblance to the man who had raised him. "You stole my carriage and had the nerve to deliver the remnants to my front door," Cecil snapped.

"You're welcome."

"I would like to know how you are going to pay for its repairs."

"The damage is too great. You will have to have a new one made," Jacob drawled, rolling his signet ring around his finger. When he'd reached his majority, he'd had one made in the style of Cecil's—which he had stolen for the endeavour—to annoy him, and to remind the world that he was a Barrington.

Cecil's fury had been worth the effort he had gone to.

"And how, pray, are you going to pay to have a new one made?" Cecil demanded.

"I have no intention of paying for it. Your fortune is far greater than my paltry allowance."

Cecil's nostrils flared. "I pay your paltry allowance!"

"Then you ought to be aware of its insignificance."

"Perhaps I should cut you off."

"That seems somewhat churlish when you own four houses." Jacob gave a sharkish smile. "Though I'm sure none of your closest friends would think anything amiss with casting your only remaining family member to the wind."

"Few who know you would question it, I think," Cecil said coldly. "You take no responsibility for your actions."

Jacob glanced across the room, marking every person who was subtly watching their argument past fluttering fans or glasses of punch. "Why would I take responsibility for my actions when you have always done so, and so admirably?" Rarely acknowledged bitterness sharpened his voice. "You are the perfect son, are you not, and I am your wild, sinful younger brother who makes you virtuous by comparison. Has that not always been my role? Why throw it away now?"

Cecil glowered at him. "You can't taint me with the sins of our father."

That was the first time Cecil had criticised their father's behaviour, and Jacob tilted his head, smile fading. "I don't," he said. "I judge you purely according to your own sins, dear brother. But fear not, I won't tell anyone."

"You're being ridiculous." A muscle in Cecil's jaw jumped. "You need a vocation, Jacob. Something to keep you out of trouble."

"On the contrary; I already have one."

"Dissipation is not an occupation."

Jacob gave a lazy smile he knew his brother detested. "Unfortunately, I find myself extremely busy."

"Fleeing vengeful fathers and cuckolded husbands? Or perhaps just taking widowed ladies on inappropriate excursions?"

Jacob glanced across at Clarissa, who was laughing with another gentleman, her eyes sparkling. Truth be told, she had already started to bore him, but he would never have confessed that to his brother. "Is she not delightful?"

"The whole of London knows your affairs." As they have for five years. The words were unspoken but angry. They had never openly addressed what had happened with Madeline five years ago, but he doubted Cecil had forgiven him. No doubt now he was worried Jacob had come to stand between him and this Lady Annabelle.

Of course, Jacob knew he would never seduce and ruin an unmarried lady again. But Cecil did not.

To reinforce that thought, he raised his eyebrows at Clarissa. "I suppose I should dance with her, then. Or make the most of this vast house. How many unoccupied rooms are here, do you think?"

"In the Duke of Norfolk's home?" Cecil spluttered. "You would not dare."

"Watch me." With a wink, Jacob sauntered over to where Clarissa was procuring herself some lemonade. She glanced up at him, lips curving into a smile.

"Speaking to me in public, Jacob?" She popped a strawberry in her mouth, biting seductively. "You must be intending to pique your brother."

"And if I am?"

"How flattering you chose me," she said dryly, and he laughed.

"I can make it worth your while."

"Am I such a certainty you have dispensed with manners entirely?"

"Why, do you need wooing, Clarissa?" He raised an eyebrow at her. "Find an empty room and I shall show you just what sort of wooing I am capable of."

Her eyes sparkled with mischief. "In the Duke's house? How scandalous."

"Luckily for both of us," he said, leaning past her to select a strawberry of his own, "you delight in scandal."

She slowly drew her fan along his arm before strolling away. "Don't come after me too soon, darling," she said over her shoulder. "I have some semblance of a reputation to maintain."

In answer, he merely picked up a glass of champagne and tossed it back. Then he picked up another, turned, and raised it to Cecil. It was petty revenge, he knew, and barely worth his time, but his life had become a study in how best to embarrass his brother. Especially after his father had died.

Especially after Madeline.

After the appropriate amount of time passed, he made his way unobtrusively from the room. The hallway beyond was large, with a stairway leading to an overlooking gallery in the shape of an L, and a corridor to his left led back, he suspected, to the main body of the house.

Where would Clarissa have gone? Would she have dared find an unoccupied bedroom upstairs? That seemed a dangerous venture. Downstairs, therefore, she must be; he followed the gallery into the main body of the house. The first door he came across had well-oiled hinges, allowing him to peer inside soundlessly. It was a library, large and cast in shadow. Here, the sound of the ballroom had faded, and he could almost believe he had not just come from music and light and dancing.

Jacob had not, over the years, spent a great deal of time in libraries. Given Cecil was the bookish one, and Jacob had resolved to be as little like Cecil as possible, this was easily done. Added to this his father's propensity to beat him in the library when the mood took him, it had become a matter of survival.

Still, there was a considerable chance that Clarissa, who knew nothing of his past other than his feud with his brother, was hiding at the darkened end of the room.

His scars burned as he prowled across the soft carpet, gaze fixed on a shadow by the window. She was gazing out across the gardens, no doubt bored and waiting for him to arrive. Without giving her any warning, he took her shoulders and spun her around, barely giving himself time to take in her expression of shock before he kissed her.

Her lips parted under his, soft and surprised. A small noise escaped her throat and she placed both hands against his chest as though to push him away, but when he licked her lower lip to encourage her mouth open, she stiffened then softened. Never quite returning his kiss, but not ending it, either. For a reason beyond his understanding, desire kicked in his belly. Usually, Clarissa kissed differently—expertly, as though it was an exercise in pure skill rather than passion.

He came to the conclusion at the same time as she shoved him back, and he looked down into a face he did not immediately recognise. Dark eyes he suspected might be blue, a full mouth different from Clarissa's pert lips, and an expression of outrage that didn't belong to any lady he dallied with.

"How dare you," she gasped, fully confirming that she was not who he had thought she was. "Do you know who I am?"

He allowed his gaze to travel across her face, amused by the way her throat worked as she swallowed. "You," he said, his voice low and rough, "are not Clarissa."