“What a pair we are,” he mused, the amusement turning wry. “Are you so very unhappy, Annabelle?”
“Notsovery most of the time. I enjoy reading.” Instinctively, she thought back to Jacob’s brother and the way he had discussed books with her. At the time, she had not wanted to marry anyone at all, but if any one of her partners this evening had entered a discussion, not a one-sided monologue, she would have considered him as a potential marriage partner.
How short-sighted she had been to dismiss him so easily.
She sighed and he glanced at her. “What are you thinking, little bird?”
“Your brother enjoyed reading, too,” she said, leaning against the wall as she looked across the garden.
“I’m aware.”
“He offered to bring me some books he thought I would enjoy.”
Something shuttered in Jacob, and although he gave her a smile, it was a little too mocking. “If it were anyone other than my brother, I might have suspected him of trying to seduce you.” He picked up the glass, running his finger along the rim in a way that was downright sensual. “Then again, given the way you seem to adore books, perhaps it would have worked.”
“Helistenedto me.”
Jacob’s eyes were very dark. “Did he now?”
“We debated the merits of female authors and how easy it is, or isn’t, to become one.”
“Riveting.” There was a hard edge to his voice, but Annabelle was looking into the distance, away from him, lost in the past.
“If he were alive now, he would be the man I would choose.”
Silence followed her words, but this was not like the silence they had shared before. This was sharp, slicing into her, and she looked back at him, frowning. His fingers had stilled on the glass, and he looked oddly distant, as though he was carved from marble.
“I assure you,” he said, giving her a bow that felt vaguely contemptuous, “you would not be the first.”
Then she was alone on the patio.
Chapter Seventeen
It was with great reluctance that Jacob moved into his brother’s house. Long ago, it had been his father’s, too, and as he walked through the empty rooms, furniture swathed in white sheets, the ghosts of memory tickled his senses. The library was large and spacious, filled with books that had been collected over generations.
The scars across his back throbbed with memory. In front of the fireplace, his father had beaten him with a poker.
The drawing room was a little dated now, last decorated at the turn of the century. Here, on the sofa, Cecil had stabbed him with his quill so hard the injury bled for three hours. He rubbed the scar on his arm unconsciously.
Of course, Cecil had apologised, penitent yet somehow still righteous. He had only behaved that way because of Jacob; if Jacob hadn’t been sodifficult, Cecil would never have hurt him.
The wound had hurt, but not as much as the memory did.
As an adult, Cecil would never have done such a thing—but as an adult, Cecil’s crimes had been different and far worse. Jacob would have endured any amount of physical injury if Cecil had just done the right thing by Madeline. Maybe then, she would still have been alive.
If Jacob had his way, he would burn this place to the ground, memories and all. That would best match his intentions of destroying his family’s reputation once and for all. What better revenge than burning down the very house his father had so adored? Generations of Barringtons up in smoke.
But the idea no longer held the appeal it once had. If he destroyed all his inheritance, he would be penniless, forced to endure on the fringes of Society, left with no money to his name. Or worse, he would be arrested, though he wasn’t sure it counted as a crime if it were his own property.
Perhaps he should consult his lawyer.
Then again, he could take a look at what would need to be done to maintain the estate. Perhaps he could sell this house and purchase another. Far less destructive. And would a quiet life really be so bad? Once, he had thought it would be the worst kind of hell, but recently . . .
Like clockwork, he thought of Annabelle. The wistful look in her eyes when she said she would have preferred Cecil.
Her and everyone else.
Even dead, his brother was preferable.
