Which alters when it alteration finds,
Or bends with the remover to remove.
O no, it is an ever-fixed mark
That looks on tempests and is never shaken;
It is the star to every wandering bark,
Whose worth’s unknown, although his height be taken.
Love’s not Time’s fool, though rosy lips and cheeks
Within his bending sickle’s compass come;
Love alters not with his brief hours and weeks,
But bears it out even to the edge of doom.
If this be error and upon me proved,
I never writ, nor no man ever loved.
“He sent you a book?” Theo asked, rousing herself as Annabelle read the sonnet again and again, drinking in the words like sweet, addictive punch. “Well, I suppose he must like you after all.”
He had been reading sonnets about love.Jacobhad read about love. Irreverent, careless, mocking Jacob had read poetry.
Then she remembered what he had said about his family at the ball.Because I despise my family and everything they stand for.
Suddenly, these words of love took on a different context. She pictured him now as a young boy, reading about love being an ever-fixed mark, that looks on tempests and is never shaken. If he had a loveless upbringing . . .
This gift felt like the most precious thing she owned.
“Are you all right?” Theo asked, squinting at her.
Annabelle cleared her throat, handing the book back to the butler. “Jarvis, can you have this taken to my bedchamber, please?”
“Of course, my lady.” Jarvis left, as stiff-backed as always, and Annabelle brushed her hair back from her face, trying to push back the emotions swarming her. For an odd reason, Jacob’s gift made her want to cry.
“Who would have thought the Devil of St James enjoyed poetry,” Theo mused with a grin that almost matched her usual aplomb.
To Annabelle’s relief, Nathanial finally descended the stairs, providing a much-needed distraction, and Annabelle was free to dwell on Jacob’s gift in relative peace.
What did it mean? Was it a peace offering of sorts? They had not argued, but he had certainly left her looking . . . angry. Hurt, perhaps, although the possibility thatshecould ever have said anything to hurt him seemed ludicrous in the extreme. The Devil of St James was not capable of being hurt.
But he had sent herpoetry. And not only that, but Shakespeare.Sonnets. How was this the same man who had cornered her in a library and kissed her so thoroughly, or after kissing her in a closet, told her she hadtaken the edge off? No matter how she tried to explain the reason behind the sonnets, she could not stop the flutter in her stomach at the thought.
After she had thought she had hurt him, he had sent her sonnets.
The carriage pulled up at her parents’ house and there was abruptly no more time for reflection. Servants scurried past them with bags and paintings and everything needed to settle the heir back in his own room, and the sense of urgency sent her anxiety spiking once again.
Henry was here. And he was going to learn, if he did not already know, of her engagement to Jacob—and the circumstancesbehindthat engagement, which felt more shameful. She knew nothing had occurred in the garden, but something had occurred in the library.
Somethingmorehad occurred in the closet. It was a memory she did her best not to dwell on, because it made her think aboutotherthings he could do for her. Perhaps the act she had read about.
Never had the prospect of ruining herself felt so appealing.
But he had shown no signs of wanting to continue what they had started, and that was for the best. At least, that was what she continued to tell herself. If she was going to marry another man, she could not afford to involve herself with the Marquess, no matter how much she thought she might want to.
