Annabelle’s heart rate accelerated. Mr Comerford was with a large group of young men, and as she had learnt from experience, groups of gentlemen were far worse than ones on their own. And ones on their own were bad enough. Her palms began to sweat. Would they laugh at her once they realised she was incapable of stringing more than two words together?
“Jacob,” Lady Bolton ordered. “Look at her.”
With a raised eyebrow, he did so, and Annabelle tried not to notice the flash of heat that split his dark eyes like lightning when he glanced at her mouth, so quickly if she hadn’t been looking, she would have missed it.
“Now,” she continued. “Tell her what they will see.”
He sent Lady Bolton an impatient look. “What is this achieving?”
“Just do it.”
“Very well.” He turned back to Annabelle and took her hand, lowering his voice until it felt as though there was no one else in the room. She still didn’t know how he could do that, make her forget the world whenever he fixed his full attention on her.
She licked her lips and his eyes darkened into pitch.
“They will see a beautiful young lady approaching them,” he said, his voice mesmerising. “Shy, but prettier because of it, and utterly oblivious to her own charms. The way she blushes ought to be criminal.”
Heat swept over her, head to toe, and he gave an appreciative, sensual smile that sent heat flooding through her.
“They know that you are engaged to me, and they will be curious that you, of all the young ladies I could have married, are my choice. They will be thinking the kind of thoughts that should never be uttered aloud in a ballroom. And they’ll be wondering if they can convince you to change your mind. Both for the money, and so they have an opportunity to know what those sweet lips taste like.”
“That’s enough,” Lady Bolton said, her voice alive with merriment. “One would think you’re preparing her for you, not other gentlemen.”
He gave her a dirty look Annabelle could barely process through her reeling senses. “You asked me to describe what they would see.”
“And you did an admirable job.” She patted his shoulder in the kind of dismissal Annabelle had often longed to give him. “Now go and brood somewhere visible.”
“No doubt you think this is hilarious,” he muttered, dropping Annabelle’s hand as though it burned him and striding through the crowd. Several young ladies hailed him, but he barely paused, giving them a brief nod before reaching the refreshments.
“Now,” Lady Bolton said, tucking Annabelle’s hand under her arm. “Shall we find an eligible gentleman?”
Annabelle’s knees were weak, certainly not structurally sound enough for walking through the crowd, but Lady Bolton didn’t seem to notice, practically dragging Annabelle along after her.
“Now, remember,” Lady Bolton said, “Jacob Barrington is a connoisseur of beauty, and he doesn’t give compliments lightly. You may be sure he told the truth.”
“But those ridiculous things—”
“If you keep your head up, they will think you beautiful.” Lady Bolton gave a small, derisive snort. “And if you say nothing, they will think you all the more so.”
“So I shouldnotsay anything?”
“If you’re feeling tongue-tied, merely smile. It’ll take some time to get used to, but once you’ve mastered it, it will be your defence for all things. Remember.” She turned back with an oddly twisted expression. “You, the core of you, is sheltering within the armour of your body. Close yourself off to the arrows of their derision, and I promise they will not land.”
Annabelle blinked. She had not thought of her skin as armour before, had not thought she might be able to crawl up inside herself and hide from the barrage of words and sensations around her, all while keeping a smile on her face.
“You see, surviving Society is merely about having the tools to do so,” Lady Bolton said. “Now remember what Jacob told you. Here we go.”
They approached a small group of gentlemen, and she broke on them like a crashing wave, splitting them with an air of cultured pleasure, and isolating a young blonde man.
“Mr Comerford,” she said, cooing with practised delight. “How delightful to see you.”
With effort, Annabelle kept her head up and the smile on her lips. Her heart pounded and her palms were sweaty, but every time she considered bolting, she remembered the way Jacob had looked at her, and the way he had said every gentleman would be wondering how her sweet lips would taste.
Did that mean he thought her lips were sweet? Didhewant to taste them again?
Mr Comerford bowed to her and she hitched her smile back into place, forcing her thoughts away from Jacob and to the gentleman in front of her. “Lady Annabelle,” he said. “I have not yet had the pleasure of meeting you this Season.”
Her skin felt clammy and her tongue was in knots. But when she looked up into his face, she realised his warmth was genuine, and he had kind brown eyes. Not the intense dark of Jacob’s but a softer shade that made her think of spring days.
