He gave her a wicked smile that made her pulse, for absolutely no reason, race. “I remember the terms of our deal, sweetheart.”
“And don’t call me that. We are not lovers.”
“No.” He left an odd pause as though he was considering it, and the fact she thoughthewas thinking about it made her recall the way he had kissed her. No doubt he was an excellent lover.
How distressing. She would rather he was terrible at it and she would never have to feel as though she was missing out on some crucial act.
Perhaps her future husband would be a wonderful lover. Somehow, though, she doubted it. From what she understood of gentlemen’s tastes, they preferred to indulgeoutsidethe bedchamber.
That was not the marriage she wanted. If she were to marry, she would want a faithful husband who indulged only in her.
Perhaps she was a romantic after all.
“Do you think my future husband will allow me to retire from London?” she asked.
“If you persuaded him to,” he said, casting her a low glance through his eyelashes. The sunlight streaming in through the windows added notes of gold to those dark irises. “Charm him well enough and you can become the recluse your little heart desires.”
“After yesterday’s performance, I’m amazed you think that still an option.”
“Practise makes perfect.” The look in his eyes suggested he was not only talking about flirtation. He gestured to her primrose morning dress, which was patterned with daisies. “Pretty, I grant you, but you have an excellent figure. Make more of it.”
Her colour rose, again. “This is—”
“Smile at me,” he commanded, and although she could not believe she was doing it, she obeyed, the authority in his voice compelling her. He nodded in approval. “There. Good. Now lower your eyelashes a little, look at me through them.” She did as he asked and he gave her a charming smile in response. “Very good. You see? My confidence is never misplaced.”
“Is this what the ladies who charmyoudo?” she asked, giving her book another wistful glance and pouring herself some more tea.
Darkness crossed his face, too fast for her to see the details or identify the emotion. “There are no such ladies,” he said, stretching languidly, the darkness so thoroughly banished it might never have been there at all. He was, in this, the epitome of the Devil of St James. “I am immune to all charm.”
“I doubt that,” Annabelle said, picking up her teacup. “Do you not have a reputation for being an excellent lover?”
“What do you know about that, little bird?”
“Whodoesn’tknow about it?”
He leant back in his chair, unaffected. “An excellent rejoiner. Yes, I do have quite the reputation, and I would not say it is entirely unfounded.” His smile was positively sinful, making her think of silken sheets and clutching hands. Her face burned again. “But that is not because a lady charmed me into bed.”
“Why do you do it, then?” she asked before she could help herself.
“For the thrill of it? For the pleasure?” His eyelids lowered, his dark eyes magnetic, and she fumbled for her tea for something to do. He may be immune to charm, but she, it transpired, was not.
“Tell me,” he said, his voice indecently low. “What are your preferences in a husband?”
“My preferences?”
“A list of attributes, if you will.” He leant back and smiled “So I may ensure you are introduced to the right gentlemen.”
Of course. Other gentlemen. Marriage. Annabelle cleared her throat, trying to banish all improper thoughts. It was harder than it should have been. “I see,” she said, the prospect making her feel vaguely ill. “How kind of you.”
“Yes, thatisone of the things I’m known for.” He looked at her, waiting, and she was forced to consider what things were important to her in a life partner. Someone who would leave her alone hardly seemed like an attribute.
“Well, he must be . . . nice.”
Jacob smirked. “Obviously.”
“And he must read.”
“Like my dear brother.” There was a sardonic note to his voice, a mockery that Annabelle tried not to listen to. “Go on.”
