Chapter Five

Three months later

Annabelle tried not to wince as the musical recital she had been forced into attending reached new heights of excruciating. She was, she was almost certain, the only member of the audience to feel that way. Everyone was smiling, nodding, talking in low voices to their neighbour, or in the case of her father, slowly falling asleep.

Then again, no one else was sitting beside Lord Helmsley. She could only conclude this was punishment for severe misdemeanours in another life.

It was not that, on first glance, there was anything wrong with Lord Helmsley. Her mother and the Dowager Duchess, both keen to see her married to another peer of the realm following the death of the Marquess of Sunderland, approved of him. He was in his early thirties with a swarthy, handsome-enough face, brown hair neatly brushed back, a smile that almost dissolved into a smirk, and, crucially, a fortune.

Unfortunately, Annabelle was forced to suffer more than just a first glance. The recital had been going for almost an hour now, and his hand had been steadily making its way up her leg. At first, she'd thought it was an accident and shifted away. But his hand had always found its way back. First her knee. Then higher, higher, draping her shawl to cover the movement, knowing no one else would be looking at them.

Now, as his hand crept further up her thigh, she imagined interrupting the recital to make a scene. A vivid, stomach-curling daydream that had no happy resolution. Everyone's attention would be on her, and everyone would know what had happened. If they believed her; Lord Helmsley was bound to play her off as a hysterical woman and claim it was a misunderstanding. The ton would believe him.

This was not the first time a so-called gentleman had touched her without her permission. For one, Jacob Barrington, the new Marquess of Sunderland, had done so. But oddly, she had felt safer with him—she had known intuitively that if she had pushed at his shoulders and told him no, he would have stopped. He had kissed her in the full—arrogant—knowledge that she would enjoy it.

Lord Helmsley did not care.

She wanted to expire on the spot.

The musicians were excellent, she was sure—their host, Lady Cavendish, would not have settled for less than the best. But she was not a musical connoisseur no matter how well she could play the pianoforte.

Lord Helmsley had still not taken his hand off her leg, leaning closer to whisper in her ear something about the players. Probably. She wasn't listening. All she could hear was her rather ragged breathing.

To her relief, he removed his hand when he leant back.

The quartet finished on a grand note that seemed a trifle overplayed, and they rose to applause. Annabelle clapped quietly, plotting how she might escape. Next was dinner, and she had not secured anyone else as escort, but surely she could just approach a gentleman and ask him to walk her in. Unless he had already pledged to walk another young lady to dinner.

The potential humiliation in the idea made her stomach flip.

As the audience rose and Annabelle was still looking for an escape, Lord Helmsley took her hand and placed it possessively in the crook of his arm. "Allow me to escort you to dinner," he said, leaving no room for argument. Before she could protest, he had manoeuvred them so they were almost at the very back of the queue.

Where was Theo when she needed her?

"You are beautiful," he pronounced. Annabelle felt as though she was being slowly suffocated. "How charming it is to spend an evening in this way."

Perhaps there was a convenient window she could jump out of. Perhaps she would run away and join a convent. Would she be allowed to read as a nun? At least she would not be expected to marry.

"Do you not agree?" Lord Helmsley said. Annabelle stuttered, tripping over her words until her face flamed, and he moved on. Clearly her response was not required. "The charms of a good partner make every evening worthwhile."

Her only charm was her dowry and both of them knew it. Where was Theo? Annabelle strained, searching for her sister, and instead encountered him. The Devil of St James.

The new Lord Sunderland's tight, brooding face, rose a full head above the lady beside him. He surged through the crowd, moving with purpose she envied, until at the door, he paused and glanced back.

His eyes locked with hers.

It was as though three months had not passed at all. Instantly, she was back in the library being ruthlessly kissed, all hot mouth and firm hands, and the memory of it was so shockingly vivid, she gasped.

His eyes glinted and she knew he recognised her. There was no reading his expression because a moment later, he had disappeared through the doorway and vanished.

Something touched her backside. With no small amount of horror, Annabelle realised it was Lord Helmsley. He kept up his steady stream of conversation, all the while allowing his hand to brush her rear. She squirmed away, but he just inched closer. Positioned at the back of the crowd as they were, there was no one behind them to see.

Speak, she urged herself. Convince this man you do not want him.

Nothing had ever felt more impossible. Her eyes burned and her fists clenched and her tongue remained silent, frozen by the same ineptitude that always seemed to ground her.

If she vomited, would she be allowed to leave this dreadful party?

"You have such lovely eyes, Lady Annabelle," Lord Helmsley continued, and her chance of vomiting increased dramatically. "They could send a man to his grave."

I wish they would.

Her mouth refused to open, not giving vent to any of the thoughts inside her head, and humiliation crawled over her skin as his hand slid to her backside again, this time giving her a squeeze.

If she were Theo, she may well have slapped him, or at least demanded in a loud tone that he keep his hands to himself. But she was helpless, encouraging him by her silence, and she despised herself for it. Nausea rose up her throat and her head throbbed and she wished, she wished, that she could tell him where to put his unwanted attentions.

The dining room came into view—had they really only been walking for a few minutes? It had felt like hours—and that was Annabelle's moment to escape. His grip on her arm loosened, sensing victory, and she took advantage of his lapse in awareness to yank her hand free.

"Excuse me, my lord," she muttered, turning away and practically running blindly through a nearby door. Although her stays were loose, her chest felt constricted. She couldn't breathe.

Out. Away. The library was out of the question, given what had occurred before, so she made the only choice she could: outside. The house was both cavernous and unfamiliar, so when she saw a small side-door leading into the garden, she took it.

Cool air chilled the damp sweat on her skin. Panting, disgusted with herself and with her skin shuddering from Lord Helmsley's touch, she wandered off the patio and onto the lawn. The grass was wet, soaking through her slippers, but she hardly cared. Cloaked by darkness, she moved through the garden like a shadow, a wisp of thought.

She had almost made it to the end of the garden, where fruit trees loomed above her, when she heard it.

"Lady Annabelle?" It was Lord Helmsley, his words sliding together like pebbles down a hill. "Are you waiting for me, sweetness?" His laugh was unsteady, and she shrank back into the shadows. "Fear not, I shall find you."

She surveyed the tree to her left. It was large and well-established. Perhaps she could climb it and escape that way.

"I wouldn't recommend it," a voice drawled from behind her. "You'll quite ruin your dress."