“Do you dislike me so much?”
An unidentifiable expression flickered across his face, but a heartbeat later, he gave a wry smile and clasped her hand, fingers wrapping almost to her wrist. “Very well. Friends it is.”
A more unusual pairing had not been seen. Annabelle shook his hand and rose, taking a deep breath. “Good day, my lord,” she said, hoping he would play along. “My name is Lady Annabelle Beaumont.”
A surprised laugh lit his eyes, turning them from ebony to honey and chocolate, and he stood to join her. “Lord Sunderland at your service.”
She curtsied, letting him keep her hand. With his eyes on her, too much like the ball, he kissed her knuckles. “It’s a pleasure to finally meet you,” she said. “I’ve heard so many things.”
“All bad, no doubt.” He tucked her hand into the crook of her arm. “Would you like a tour of my home? I have an expansive library.”
A smile spread across her face. So many people heard but they didn’t listen. With Jacob, she feltseen. “You do?”
“Do you like libraries, my lady?”
“Very much.” She grinned up at him and he glanced down at her with an indulgent smile. As they passed through the hall and receiving rooms, he played the part of host, regaling her with stories—some true and some not, she fancied. His clothes were still wet, but he made no move to change them, and there was a softness to him she hadn’t seen before. This was the man who had sent her the sonnets, not the man who had glared at her from a boxing ring with bloodied knuckles.
This was the gentleman, not the fighter.
She found herself intrigued by both. The juxtaposition of one against the other. Soft and hard; rough and gentle. Sophisticated and brutal.
“When I was thirteen, I came with my mother to London and while she was entertaining, I added tiny additions to the paintings.” He pointed to a small, obscene drawing in one corner. “No one noticed for a few years, and by the time my father did notice, I was too old for him to punish.”
Annabelle remembered what Lady Bolton had told her about Jacob and his childhood—specifically that there was some question as to his heritage. “Did your father often punish you?”
Acting as though he didn’t hear, Jacob opened a large door and ushered her through. “And this is the library,” he said. Annabelle had wanted to pursue the subject of his family, but with the library in front of her, all other thoughts left her head.
Nathanial had an excellent library, well-stocked and spacious. He often spent time there doing his accounts and sitting by the fire. Theo sometimes joined him with a book. It was a space for relaxation more than for reading, despite the books that lined the shelves.
This was a space directly designed for reading.
Large windows eliminated any gloom, and ladders were placed against the tall bookcases so one could reach any books they wished. Small, cosy chairs were tucked away in corners, and although there was a table, it was stacked high with books. Silk bookmarks were tangled in a pile, and half-burned candles lined shelves that had been designed especially for them, burn-marks marring the wood above.
Unlike in Nathanial’s library, the fireplace was not the focal point of the room.
Annabelle’s breath rushed out of her as she turned, taking in every detail. The thick velvet curtains could be drawn as necessary to ward away the cold, and the chairs looked worn. Comfortable and cosy.
Jacob, she noticed, didn’t look at the space as she did. There was a muscle ticking in his jaw and a dark light in his eyes that reminded her of how she felt when she viewed a ballroom being prepared for a ball. Instantly put in mind of the torture she would have to endure.
“Is this not a room that holds happy memories for you?” she whispered, forgetting her joy in the wake of his grim endurance.
He frowned as he glanced down at her. “Nothing in this house holds happy memories for me, little bird.”
“Annabelle.”
“Annabelle,” he repeated, tongue curling around her name in a way that sounded almost obscene. Their eyes locked and the air was sucked from the room, nothing in the space between them but desire that sizzled like a flame. She was old enough, aware enough, to know what it was, to put a name to it, to acknowledge she felt it when she looked at him.
After they’d kissed in the closet and he had dismissed her, she had told herself she would never let something like that happen again. Now, she wasn’t so sure she would be able to stop it. There was a feeling of creeping inevitability here—they had been resisting it for so long, but now they were alone.
He had loved Madeline. He had loved her enough to marry her. The thought made her simultaneously warm and cold.
“You said kissing me took the edge off,” she whispered, forgetting the role she’d given herself. Friend. Stranger. “What did you mean?”
His jaw tensed. “I just said that to hurt you.” Hesitation cracked across his expression. “Forgive me.”
She already had. When he’d come to Nathanial’s library and knelt before her, when he had apologised, she had forgiven him then, though she had not meant to.
“We’ve started afresh,” she reminded him. “No more apologies.”
