Chapter Three

Annabelle had been kissed once before. He was the son of the local baronet and he had been besotted with her. When she was fifteen, he had pressed his damp lips against hers, and after it was over, she had cried, believing for certain that kissing was not something she would ever enjoy.

Now she was nineteen, and a stranger had done much the same thing to her. Except his mouth had been warm and dry, and his tongue had brushed against hers in a way that had, briefly, made her body stop responding to all commands. Even now, staring down at her with his face half crafted dark, she could see enough to know he was ludicrously handsome—his eyes were pools of ink and his mouth a wicked slash that made her heart beat altogether too fast when she looked at it.

Stop looking at it.

His smile grew and he tilted his head, casting more of his features into the moonlight; the curve of his cheek, the strong, hard line of his jaw. He looked familiar, but she couldn't place him.

"No," she said as tartly as she could. "I am not Clarissa. Why are you walking around my sister's house without invitation?"

He blinked, the smile turning from amused to predatory. "Your sister?"

"The Duchess of Norfolk. This is her house and her library." Annabelle drew herself up and glanced at the door. If she was to make an escape, it would have to be past him, and she did not fancy her chances. "You are trespassing."

"What makes you think I didn't receive an invitation?" the man asked. "But I am more intrigued by you, little bird. What did you say your name was?"

"I didn't."

"And yet if your sister is the Duchess of Norfolk, that can only make you one person." A gleam entered his eye, as cold and unfeeling as the moon above them. "You are Lady Annabelle Beaumont."

"And what if I am?"

He moved, boxing her into the corner. His breath smelt like wine, and panic burst over her like fireworks. If he was inebriated, she could only guess at what he was capable of. After all, her father had drunkenly gambled away her dowry. Anything was possible.

"If you are," he mused, looking the very vision of ease while her heart fluttered like a trapped bird, "that would make you the person I was looking for."

"I've already said I am not Clarissa."

"No indeed." He chuckled. "You are something far better."

"Leave," she said stiffly. "If you do, I will tell no one of this."

With one hand, he reached out and tweaked her curl. The familiarity of it made her want to scream. "I don't think you will tell a soul no matter what I do to you tonight."

"Then you are mistaken."

"It happens," he acknowledged. He still had not moved back. Annabelle's fists clenched impotently. She had never struck another person and unfortunately she doubted she was capable of starting now. Although he did make the prospect seem remarkably appealing.

"Who are you?" she demanded.

"I? I am the last man in the world you would wish to meet, little bird." He leant forward, studying her face. "For you are good and virtuous, are you not?"

Ridiculously, she thought back to the book she had attempted to smuggle into the ball and read. Good and virtuous young ladies were not likely to choose a novel based on their assumption it was salacious. But he was no doubt referring to her practical experience, which was very little.

How best to get rid of him?

"No need to dance around the truth, sweetheart," he said after a moment of agonised silence. "I think we both know the answer."

"You don't want me," she said with an authority she didn't feel. "Leave me alone."

"I don't want you?" He tilted his head and another ruthless smile curved his thin lips. "Why?"

"Because I don't like kissing, and I especially don't like kissing you."

A mistake.

This man was a predator, and she had just issued him a challenge. The gleam of amusement sharpened into something wolfish, and he reached out to take her wrist, pinning it beside her. His mouth hovered a heartbeat above hers.

"Fly, little bird," he whispered.

She remained motionless, unable to move, not wanting to move.

His mouth encountered hers with what should have been bruising force—but wasn't. Oddly, against her every expectation, his lips were soft, gentle, and that thought alone disarmed her. His hands cupped her elbows and drew her into his body as he kissed her with deliberate slowness, crumbling her defences until there was no fight left in her body.

Annabelle did her best to remember that she hated him, and that she did not like kissing. But that proved difficult when all she knew was this moment and his hands, his mouth. She could not even remember her name.

First you move your lips, he seemed to say. Taste mine. Slide our mouths together until they fit. Pressure, pressure, breathe. He showed her what to do, a palm against her cheek as he turned her face to better fit against his, and she obeyed.

They parted, briefly, to breathe, and he trailed his mouth along the line of her jaw as she struggled to hold onto one logical thought. Just one would be enough.

Only then he was kissing her again, the hand on her cheek urging her still closer, sinking into the silken mass of her hair, and she lost herself once more. His other hand rested lightly on her waist, hot and urgent, and although he did not move it, she was aware of its burning presence. At any moment, he could choose to bend her body further into his or push her more firmly against the wall.

There were a thousand things a man this powerful could do to her if he chose, and yet he still just kissed her.

That was, if just was a word that could be used to describe the magnitude of this kiss. Her body opened before him like a flower, and she felt the first tendrils of warmth move through her with lazy intensity. It felt a lot like wanting.

After poor Ronald's kiss, she had never thought she could ever want a man. Yet here she was, sighing in pleasure as his tongue flicked lightly across her bottom lip.

Her mind, clearly, had been neatly taken from her body and disposed of somewhere, because no logical train of thought indicated that she should either enjoy this gentleman's kiss or be kissing him back. To be doing either, never mind both, lost in the dancing oblivion his kisses wrought, implied insanity of the highest order. She should confess her affliction to Theo at once and be locked at the top of a tower for the rest of her days.

The man broke away, a triumphant smile on his face. Cold air rushed between them, finally restoring a modicum of sense. Annabelle pressed a trembling hand to her mouth, recovering her faculties—and her anger.

Usually, when she was angry, she found herself at a loss for words. But this man had thwarted propriety and she found herself no longer bound by its restraints. Reaching her arm back, she leaned forward and slapped him across the cheek as hard as she could, her chest rising and falling.

The man rocked back on his heels, one hand cupping his cheek. The sound of her slap still hung between them, and his smile, for one moment, seemed to her genuine, rather than mocking. "A good blow," he told her, a trace of surprise in his voice. "Well made. I'll wager your hand hurts."

"Yes," she said, bewildered, before remembering that she was furious at him. Outraged. Horrified. Something warm and liquid she didn't want to think about. She scowled. "I hope it hurt."

He nodded, showing no sign of pain. "It did. Now, little bird, can you tell me in true faith that you have still never enjoyed a kiss?"

Lying was her only possible avenue, and she did not hesitate. "There is nothing I enjoyed less, sir. Now let me pass."

To her surprise, he did so almost immediately, stepping back and giving her room. She took the opportunity to flee, thankful for the darkness concealing her, and thankful still more that no one had stood witness to what had happened.

"Lady Annabelle," the man called when she reached the doorway. "When my brother courts you, as we both know he will, you will look at him and see me. Do you think you could marry such a man?"

The final piece of the puzzle fell into place and Annabelle's jaw dropped. She blinked. Dread replaced her anger. This man was no stranger: he was a rake so vile she had been warned against him. A deflowerer of virtuous ladies.

He was the Devil of St James—and she was his latest victim.

Cheers erupted around Jacob as he paced the boxing ring, sizing up his opponent. This was his favourite place to come when he needed a break from the vapidness of Society. A place where beer sloshed over tankards and no one gave a damn whether you were a lord or a knight or a butcher. In the ring, you were equal.

Few gentlemen truly fought, the sport being dangerous at the best of times. But Jacob had been told all his life he was not a gentleman, and what better way to prove it than in the most violent of sports? There was not a time when he felt more alive. After all, he was no stranger to pain. Pain merely proved a man still lived; pain was the measure by which he tracked his existence.

His opponent was a smaller man, but that merely meant he would be faster. Daniel Mendoza, famous boxer from the past century, beaten only by Gentleman John Jackson, had been small, and he was fast and vicious with it.

Jacob's blood hummed with the anticipation of the attack.

It happened almost before he could blink. His opponent lunged, and had Jacob not been ready with his fists, he might have been taken down by the sheer force and speed. As it was, he struck like a tiger. Five blows in quick succession, aiming for his ribs, his jaw, the delicate bones he knew a man could break.

Again.

You can't taint me with the sins of our father.

Again.

The whole of London knows your affairs.

Again.

Anger rippled through him—a dark thing that indulgence and dissipation alone could not temper. He needed this rawness, the feeling of his knuckles splitting against another man's bone. His mind cleared as his fists worked, his muscles burned, and the cold February sun gazed down at the scars on his bare back. The only time he ever removed his shirt was here, when no one knew, or cared, who he was.

You are a coward. And you are unworthy of the name of Barrington.

The hurt had gone from that statement; it was a reminder of who he was and who he had vowed to be ever since his father had beaten him in front of that roaring fire.

His opponent fell, looking briefly like Cecil, briefly like his father, and the end of the round was called. Jacob walked in a tight circle between the ropes staked into the hard ground, steam rising from his skin. His knee-man took a knee in case he wanted to sit, but he waved him away. The only thing he wanted was water. An orange. To go again until every thought in his brain smoothed into emptiness. The feeling of nothing—that was what he craved.

Lady Annabelle's face flashed in his mind. The way her lips had felt against his own; the horror in her eyes when she finally understood who it was who had kissed her.

Irritated, he brushed the thought aside as the whistle blew and he walked again up to the scratch. His opponent's brows were lowered, his fists rising a little, and Jacob felt the mad, wild thrill of a challenge.

"May the best man win," he said, and they set to it again.

Jacob did not return home until late, drinking in the tavern until he could forget the way seeing Cecil made him feel: as though he was and always would be inadequate. A disappointment.

He had crafted his entire life into a disappointment to his staid, surface-respectable family, and still he felt the burden of their disapproval in those quiet moments when his mind refused to sleep.

That was the reason he had kissed Lady Annabelle, knowing Cecil wanted her. But it had been a mistake: he did not kiss virginal young ladies, and especially not ones who looked at him as though he had committed a cardinal sin (not a reaction he was accustomed to). If he had one rule, one moral guideline around which his life revolved, it was that.

He would not approach her again. If Cecil wanted her, he could have her—and good luck to him. Jacob did not make the same mistake twice.

When he finally stumbled back to his lodgings, he found his brother waiting in his drawing room, and more of that coldness descended on him. Ice in his veins.

Cecil, as usual, was glaring at him. Jacob, as usual, was roaring drunk and with none of his usual patience.

"So you found me," he said, sinking into his favourite armchair and looking up into Cecil's familiar face with a sneer.

"You're drunk," Cecil said, wrinkling his nose.

"I am aware."

Cecil's jaw flexed at the sight of the fresh scabs on Jacob's knuckles. "You've been boxing again. Don't think I am unaware of your activities."

Jacob yawned. "Distasteful are they, brother?"

"You know they are. If you have an interest, take lessons with Gentleman Jackson. Bet on the outcome of the matches if you must, but don't participate like a commoner."

The corner of Jacob's mouth ticked down. "Don't tell me you're ashamed of me now. And here I thought we had such a good relationship."

"You are my brother," Cecil said coldly. "I would rather not be ashamed of you."

"Is that so?" Jacob cocked his head. "Is that why you did everything in your power to ensure Father took out his anger on me and left you alone?"

Cecil's reddened cheeks paled. For a moment, he looked like the boy Jacob remembered from his childhood. Always trying, trying, trying—and for him, trying went somewhere. He excelled at his studies, was moulded into the perfect heir, and inherited young. That, of course, had not been part of the plan, but perfect Cecil rose to the occasion.

The only thing Cecil had failed to do was protect Jacob.

"I am not . . . proud of what I did as a boy," Cecil said falteringly. "But you have become a liability, Jacob. You have gambled away people's fortunes at the card table. Won everything from one man and lost it to another."

Jacob raised a brow. "Then they should have played better. And so should I."

"Last year, you fatally shot that man when you were travelling to Hungerford."

"A highwayman," Jacob corrected. "An important distinction, I'm sure you agree."

"Do you know how many strings I had to pull to ensure you could remain in the country?" Cecil demanded.

Jacob tilted his head in surprise. "I would have thought you'd want me gone."

"And how would that have made me look? I want you to be the man we both know you could be."

"On the contrary." Jacob gave a lazy smile that he knew would irritate his brother. "I have become precisely what you made me. You and Father both."

Cecil rose and paced around the room, his hands behind his back. Jacob ran a hand down his face, wondering whether, if he asked his brother to leave, he would go.

Unlikely. Cecil had not made a name for himself by respecting Jacob's opinions and preferences.

Eventually, Cecil turned, his hands still clasped behind his back. His cravat was crooked and his eyes were a little too bright. "I intend to marry," he said, and though Jacob pretended they didn't, the words hit him like a brick to the chest. All the brandy in the world was not enough to keep the familiar pain from wrapping around his heart.

He would not make the same mistake again, but he could not bring himself to forget.

"I know," he said, letting his words slur together. "The girl."

"Jacob—" Cecil advanced two steps then, when Jacob slitted his eyes, remained in place. "We should discuss this. It's been five years."

"Which part would you like to discuss?" Jacob asked conversationally, the hard, angry edge to his words a throbbing undercurrent. "Are you concerned your new choice will fall for my charms?" He fixed Cecil with a cold smile. "Or, perhaps, you're worried she will die in her attempt to flee your cruelty."

Cecil sucked in a breath, and Jacob could not find it within himself to feel guilty. Not for this. Once, he might have been able to forgive his brother for any childhood crimes. He had not been an easy brother to manage. But he could not forgive Cecil for turning a desperate Madeline away from his door, only for her to perish on the darkened streets of London by some degenerate's foul hand.

Just as he could never forgive himself for seducing her while she was engaged to Cecil, ruining her piece by piece, and not being enough for her to love in return.

"I could never have predicted the outcome," Cecil said through a tight throat. "And if you had not betrayed me by—"

"You did not love her." The words were sharp, digging into him like broken glass. Jacob almost felt the blood well in the aftermath.

"Marriage is not always about love."

"Presumably that is also why you are marrying this Lady Annabelle Beaumont. For the same reasons you chose Madeline?"

Cecil was pale now, sweat beading on his forehead, but he held his ground. "I need to know you won't stand in my way, Jacob. Let me have this one thing."

Jacob snorted. He was too drunk for this. The world spun around him and so many things he had once kept inside him finally broke past the dam. "Let you have this one thing, Cessy?" He tutted. "You have had everything since the day you were born. But me? There was just one thing I wanted, dear brother, and that was Madeline." He bared his teeth in a smile that was more like a snarl. "But as always, she chose you over me. I asked her to marry me, you know. Once I realised I loved her."

Cecil's cheeks seemed to hollow. "You did?"

"Yes, I asked her to break it off with you and choose me instead. You would find someone else, I knew, but she was the only girl I would ever love. And she told me no." He pushed himself to his feet, swaying a little. "She told me she would rather have your riches and your position and you than someone like me."

Cecil was silent, his throat working, and Jacob wanted to hate him. He hated the world. His hatred was a dark thing inside him that consumed everything good, that he could only tame with his boxing and his drinking, and even now he could feel it swelling inside him, demanding he hurt. Demanding he break something.

He thought of Lady Annabelle and the sweet, innocent way she had kissed him back. And that disgust in her eyes when she had come to her senses.

"And then her father discovered her affair with me," he continued, "and he threw her out of the house. I would have taken her in, protected her as far as I was able, married her, but she still ran to you first. You could have had her, Cecil, if you'd wanted, if you hadn't been so proud. So don't tell me I should give you this one thing."

"I'm sorry—"

"For what? For ruining my life?" Jacob laughed harshly. "Fear not, brother. I've made it my mission to ruin yours too."

Cecil's throat bobbed. His eyes glistened. Five years they'd been pretending they hadn't hurt one another and Jacob was tired. The darkness inside of him had been released, and there was nothing he could do to force it back inside again.

"I thought you seduced her because you hated me," Cecil said eventually. "Because I am . . ."

I am our father's and you are not.

Jacob did not know if the rumours were true that he was a bastard, begat of some unknown, but he knew his father believed it. In the end, it had been a relief to think he might not belong to the man he had learnt to hate.

Cecil had belonged, and Jacob had never quite forgiven him for it.

"I approached her to spite you." Jacob gave a careless shrug. "I never expected it to get so far, and then it became about far more than just you. But after you turned her away?" His nostrils flared. "I despised you as much as our family name." And himself. Because even for Madeline, who had lain in his arms and let him plot their future like constellations in the sky, he had not been enough.

Cecil stared at him as though he was seeing him for the first time. And Jacob had never, not once in his life, wanted to hate his brother more.

From the location of Madeline's body, she had been on her way to Jacob after Cecil had turned her away. All this could have been prevented if she had come to him first. Or if Cecil had shown a morsel of mercy and allowed her to stay even one night.

"I should leave," Cecil said, taking his hat from the side table. "But for what it's worth, Jacob, I would have wanted to be your friend if you would only let me."

"A little late for that, don't you think, brother?" Jacob asked, turning to his drinks cabinet to pour himself a scotch. When he turned back around, Cecil was gone.