“Try targeting a man who doesn’t have two ladies in his company,” Lady Bolton told the girl coolly.
Jacob said nothing, and Annabelle had the awful thought that perhaps Jacob would have taken her up on her offer, or perhaps still would, once they were out of the way.
The idea of it made her want to cry.
They stepped out onto the street into misting rain, and she turned her hot face into the soft moisture, welcoming its coolness.
“Did you really do it?” she asked, not looking at him. “Did you really seduce your brother’s betrothed?”
Jacob was silent long enough that she looked at him, the rain catching on her eyelashes. His shirt was rapidly growing damper, clinging to his body in a positively indecent fashion. He should not be seen without his waistcoat, at the very least, but he didn’t seem to notice as he watched her, his eyes very dark. Lady Bolton wandered away to peer in a nearby shop window, giving them at least the illusion of privacy.
“We shouldn’t have this conversation now,” he said at last. “It is not an easy one to have.”
“Then that’s a yes.” She’d known, but somehow hearing it from his lips was different. “I know you didn’t like your brother, but what about the girl?”
“Madeline?” he scoffed. “Do you think I could have seduced her if she wasn’t willing? Everyone looks to blame the man, and you’re right, I was fully in the wrong for ever approaching her, but she never loved my brother, and he never loved her. She welcomed my attentions because she was lonely and because I offered her what she wanted. And I, who thought myself immune to love, came to love her. Do you think it was merely for fun? That I ruined her out of spite?”
The rain came down harder now, soaking into her shoulders and through to her skin, and all Annabelle could do was look at him. His hair was black as coal in the rain, slicked against his forehead, and there was almost a desperate, pleading look in his eyes.
He had loved her. This Madeline. Regardless of anything else, Annabelle believed that—she had known the moment she had asked Louisa, and the raw agony that flitted across his face was confirmation. But although she had told herself this was what she had hoped for, the reality hit her like a brick to the heart. He, Jacob Barrington, the Devil of St James, had loved a girl named Madeline, and she had broken his heart.
He had loved her.
“You should return home,” he said after a long moment. “Tell no one you were here with me.”
“Wait.” She reached out a hand, finding his wet cuff and holding it. “When will I next see you again?”
“We are engaged, little bird,” he said wryly, reaching out to disentangle her. “I hardly think you could avoid me if you wanted to.”
She didn’t want to. There was more to this story that had put such bleakness in his eyes, and she wanted to hear it and understand it, she wanted to know what it meant to have hated his brother so much he would have betrayed him in this way.
She wanted to know what about Madeline had made him love her so.
But all she said was, “You sent me the sonnets this morning.”
He stiffened on his way back to the tavern entrance. “What of it?”
“Why?”
He glanced back then, bitter, mocking amusement in his voice as he said, “I suppose I wanted to be a little more like my brother.”
* * *
Jacob strode back into the basement. The ring had already been dismantled should any magistrates come knocking. Bettors congratulated him on his victory, and he collected his winnings with a smile he didn’t feel.
Madeline. Annabelle. In his head, they had merged to the point when if he thought of Madeline’s green eyes, he could only think of Annabelle’s blue ones. He should have explained the entire situation, but in the rain with her looking at him as though he had just kicked her favourite puppy, he hadn’t had the words. How did one explain that he had been the reason for her death?
Everyone close to him met their end. Even Cecil had died because of him. Their argument had been the reason for his heart giving out. The strain of being his brother had been too much, and although Jacob did his best to never think about it, sometimes the thought crept up to him at night.
All you will know is misery. That is your curse, Jacob.
If he allowed himself to care about Annabelle the way he had cared for Madeline, he would find a way of cursing her, too. Her brother was already kicking up a fuss about their engagement; if he persisted in getting closer to her, things would only get worse.
Sending her the book of sonnets had been a mistake. He’d been angry at Cecil, angry at her, angry at himself, and that was something he could not risk again. She deserved better than anything he had to offer.
“Barrington!” one of his friends clapped him on the back. “Great fight. Coming for a drink?” He leaned in. “I’ve organised for a few girls to join us.”
A few months ago, he would never have hesitated, but when he closed his eyes, all he could see was Annabelle’s expression when she said she wished she could have married Cecil.
