Louisa’s face twisted as she drank. “I knowofher,” she said after a moment. “Do you want me to befriend her?”
“She shares your opinion of me, so I expect you’ll get on delightfully. And frankly she needs a friend. I hardly count.”
“No,” Louisa muttered. “You do not.” She glanced at the painting in the corner of the room, which Jacob had almost immediately forgotten about in his preoccupation with his own news.
She sighed. “Annabelle Beaumont is Henry’s sister.”
It took a few moments for the words to penetrate and for Jacob to parse their meaning. Henry’s name had been mentioned between them once before, shortly after their one and only moment of intimacy. And even then the mention of him had been brief—Henry Beaumont, the Viscount Eynsham, the future Earl of Shrewsbury, had been Louisa’s first love.
It had ended badly and Henry had gone off to war. Everything Louisa had done in those early years, Jacob knew, was a form of revenge. She was older now, and more poised, but the hurt was still there, lingering in her heart like a bruise that had been pressed.
“You told me you never think about him,” he said. He had never known any of the details, and now he itched to learn.
She directed a glare at him, her eyes sharp enough to cut glass. “That was before I heard he was coming back to London.”
* * *
The announcement that Henry was returning from the war greeted Annabelle when she rose for breakfast. Her mother was already there, having made the walk to Norfolk House that morning, and she was full of the news.
“He writes that he’s sorry he’s been gone so long and he hopes to see us soon,” she read from the letter clutched in her hands. Annabelle poured herself some tea and tried to recall everything she knew about Henry.
Seven years ago, when she’d been just thirteen, he had left to fight the French, and since then he had returned home rarely. When hehadbeen here, he had argued with their father almost constantly, which made her stomach curl with worry.
As for what she remembered of him . . . he was so much older than her—by eleven years—that they had never played much together as children. She was closer with Oliver, her second brother who was currently at Cambridge; they were of a similar age.
Theo poured herself some coffee “Does he say when, Mama?”
“He gives no date, but I expect we can see him before the month is out.”
Annabelle’s stomach gave a little lurch. Once Henry was back, he might do things like force the marriage, or disapprove of her marrying one man after she was engaged to another.
“Will he be coming to London, do you think?” she asked cautiously.
Her mother frowned at her. “Well of course. This is where his family is, after all.” She hugged the paper to her chest again. She was the kind of mother who, despite her attempts to hide it, rather obviously preferred one child over all others. Henry was her darling and had been since he was born, especially since she had lost many children after. Theo had been born a full ten years after Henry.
There was no doubt that their mother loved them all. But she unequivocally loved Henry the best.
Theo grinned at Annabelle from across the table, mouthingMama’s favourite. Annabelle did her best to smile back. She glanced at the clock. Jacob had promised to call on her that morning with a gift, and she was already, absurdly, nervous.
Their mother stayed a little longer, reading Henry’s letter to them a total of three disjointed times, and exclaiming how good things would be once he was there, before finally leaving to spread the news elsewhere.
They ate the rest of their breakfast in near silence, Annabelle reading a book on her lap and Theo staring into the distance. After breakfast, Annabelle carried the same book into the drawing room and continued reading as Theo practised some scales on the pianoforte. Nathanial joined them, bringing in some of the work he usually did in his study and spreading it across the table. It was the picture of domestic bliss.
That was, of course, until the butler escorted a familiar face and a rather obnoxiously large bouquet of flowers into the room.
“Your Graces,” the Marquess said with a devilish smile directed at Annabelle as he bowed. He offered the flowers to her, and Annabelle was aware of Theo’s pursed lips and Nathanial’s frown. She had told them of her intention to maintain the engagement, though she had not revealed her intention of marrying another, but neither had been pleased at the idea.
Only her mother had been happy at the news. But Annabelle could be marrying an octogenarian and if he was a duke, her mother would have been happy.
The Marquess’s gaze was warm with false affection, but his smile was all wickedness, and her stomach flipped uncomfortably. She had thought when she was making the deal that she was doing the right thing, but seeing him here, now, with these flowers, sober and with every intention of appearing to woo her, she could not help thinking she had made a mistake.
Chapter Twelve
Jacob watched the way Annabelle swallowed back whatever retort was in her mouth before attempting a smile.
“Sunderland,” Norfolk said, rising and giving a stiff nod. His wife laid a hand on his arm, presumably to stop him from saying anything more.
So, Jacob wasn’t a favourite in the family. No matter. He didn’t intend to be part of it for long.
