A reasonable precaution. Jacob was feeling especially reckless tonight.
“Well?” he demanded. “I could insist on staying here, but then I would be tempted to read through my brother’s correspondence to see what secrets he’s hiding from me.”
“Very well, sir,” Smythe said haughtily, his voice so frosty Jacob’s fingers almost numbed. “He is at the Norfolk Ball to celebrate Lady Annabelle Beaumont’s coming out.”
Jacob blinked. Cecil was at a ball? Unusual—if there was one thing the brothers had in common, it was that they both reviled balls and ballrooms and dancing. Cecil because the idea of fun was an alien one, and Jacob because his idea of fun encompassed vastly more interesting things.
As for Lady Annabelle Beaumont . . . Jacob racked his brains to think of a girl under that name. He could think of none. She had probably been told to keep well away from him; most well-bred young ladies were—his reputation as a rake and ruiner had been fixed despite the fact he hadn’t entertained himself with unmarried ladies since Madeline.
He shut away the thought and the accompanying shot of pain. Cecil had a decanter of whisky somewhere, and Jacob found it, pouring himself a glass.
So his brother was intending to marry, then. There was no other reason for him to attend this ball. And logically, it shouldn’t have come as a surprise; Jacob was surprised he had waited as long as he had. Still. If this was Cecil’s plan, it behoved him to ruin it. Revenge of the best—and worst—kind.
“Thank you, Smythe,” he said as he drained the last of the glass and placed it hard on the table. He had a ball to get to.
* * *
Unusually for a girl of nineteen, Annabelle Beaumont detested balls. Equally unusually, she had no wish to be married—a stance which won her no favours with her mother. It was not that she had any moral objections to the institution; her sister was married, and happily so. Rather, she disliked the process. To be married, one had to talk with strange gentlemen, and as she’d discovered when lavish balls were held in her honour, that was extremely taxing. Then, one would have to bemarried. Manage a household and please one’s husband and present themselves willingly in Society. Annabelle shuddered at the mere thought.
The issue was, and she felt churlish for even considering it an issue, Nathanial Hardinge, the Duke of Norfolk and her sister’s new husband, had bestowed upon her a large and exceedingly generous dowry. In the space of a few weeks, she had gone from no one to someone, and her desirability as a conversationalist and dance partner had increased exponentially.
No matter that she flushed red as a beet whenever a stranger directed a word to her. Or that the noise of the crowds made her feel uncomfortable and overwhelmed. Being around so many people, constantly required to be smiling and polite, was intolerable and exhausting, and she hated it.
Unfortunately, her mother and the Dowager Duchess of Norfolk, both keen to see her married at the first possible moment, were not sympathetic to this argument. Thus, Annabelle had curled up in her favourite spot in the ballroom: a small space concealed behind two potted plants. Before the ball had begun, she’d stowed a book there, and after squeezing through the narrow gap, she settled herself on the floor, skirts spread across the cool wood. The novel she’d selected was namedFanny Hill: Memoirs of a Woman of Pleasure, and the main reason she had chosen to read it was because she suspected it was salacious—and she had never read something of that nature before.
Usually, Annabelle read romances. This was something different, and just what she needed to alleviate her boredom.
She thumbed through to the beginning of the book, and had just begun to read the heroine’s overwrought emotions when Theodosia, her sister and the new Duchess of Norfolk, squeezed between the plant pots into the tiny space with her.
“This is extremely undignified for a duchess,” Annabelle informed her without looking up.
“And reading at your own ball is crass,” Theo retorted, making herself as comfortable as she could. “How long have you been here?”
“Not long.” Annabelle eyed her sister with resigned irritation. “What areyoudoing here?”
“The Dowager is looking for you. It’s only a matter of time until she checks this hiding spot.”
Annabelle closed her book with a snap. The Dowager Duchess of Norfolk was Theo’s new mother-in-law and one of the most terrifying women Annabelle had ever met—something the Dowager was well aware of. The only person to ever occasionally defy her was Nathanial, her son, and even then he chose his moments.
“Does she know about this hiding place?” Annabelle asked.
“It’s well hidden but not invisible, dearest,” Theo said sympathetically before her gaze fell on the book Annabelle was still holding. She gave a little gasp. “Annabelle Lydia Beaumont, do you know what sort of novel this is?”
“I know it’s more interesting than the ball,” Annabelle said, although strictly speaking she had not reached the interesting parts yet.
“That sort of interesting is . . .” Theo trailed off. “I presume you know precisely what you are letting yourself in for?”
“I think so,” Annabelle said carefully. In truth, her understanding of these matters was slim at best, but she was looking forward to opening her eyes to a whole new world.
“Well, I won’t stop you if your heart is set on it, but Anna, if you were curious about—that nature of things, you would probably be better placed asking me than reading this.”
“I think,” Annabelle said dryly, “I would prefer the book.”
“Yes, but this is not how it goes in reality.”
Annabelle eyed the novel in her lap with renewed interest. “It’s not? I thought, as it was about a prostitute, it would be—”
“Heavens, Anna, don’t say those words out loud.” Theo clapped a hand over Annabelle’s mouth, smothering her words. “Take it from one who has read it—it is not even remotely realistic. You see, it was written by a man from the perspective of a woman. Don’t you see how that changes things? And,” she added significantly, “it was a book written by a man about a woman for man’s pleasure. Read it if you will, but do not take it as fact.”
