She wiggled again. “What about you?”
“It’s better I . . . don’t.”
“Why?”
Instead of answering, he kissed her again, drawing her into his mouth and sucking as he crooked his fingers one last time. She shattered, shuddering on the table, the picture of wanton beauty, a hectic flush on her cheeks. He could imagine it extended down her chest to her breasts, too, which even through her clothes he could see were heavy, the nipples peaked.
She would be his every undoing.
Watching her climax, he didn’t care.
If things were different—if he could love her, if she could love him—he would have offered for her there and then, just so he could keep her with him. So he could know the heaven that would be sinking inside her.
But he was cursed to be unlovable, and she was too good for someone like him. Too pure, too sweet, too loving. She deserved a gentleman who could give her the world.
They had an agreement.
Annabelle sat up, her hair slipping loose from its pins the way it had once before, and she smiled at him. Widely, openly, without restraint. And he knew he was totally lost.
She was not Madeline; she was better in every way. Honest, genuine, sincere. When she had thought she’d offended—no,hurt—him, she’d come to his house with the intention of apologising. Madeline had wielded her beauty like a well-honed weapon, but Annabelle was oblivious to her charms, and he had no doubt she meant everything she said.
He could not ruin her.
His hand curled into a fist at the urge to brush her hair back from her face.
“Jacob,” she said, her smile slipping into confusion at his expression. “What’s wrong?”
He tugged her skirts back into place, searching for his usual brusqueness. Why now, of all times, had it failed him? She wrought tenderness from him he had thought died along with Madeline. “Annabelle,” he said, then sighed. “I think it’s time for you to leave.”
Her lips parted, shock crossing her features. “Now?”
“Now.”
“Did I do something wrong? I know I did not—”
Unable to help himself, he leaned in to kiss her again, swallowing those words before they could pierce him. “You did nothing wrong,” he said when he pulled away. “Nothing. But you can’t stay here. What if your brother finds out?”
Henry Beaumont. Another obstacle to handle.
“He thinks I’m with Lady Bolton,” she said confidently.
“Then return and be with her.” He helped her to her feet, supporting her when her legs crumpled a little under her. “I appreciate you coming here today, but what just happened . . .” This was the hardest thing he had ever done. “It can never happen again.”
Hurt crossed her features. “Because you don’t want it to?”
“Do not talk to me about what I do and do not want.” His voice was rough, but she did not flinch away. “You will be happier when you find another man. Better Cecil had lived and you had married him.”
“But I don’t want—” she started.
“He wanted you.” It was a peculiar kind of pain in his chest as he reached out and stroked down her cheek. She looked at him with large, trusting eyes. “And he could have given you what you were looking for.”
“I never wanted to marry,” she said, although she sounded unsure. “I never thought marriage was—that one person could ever . . .”
He needed to look away from her fragile beauty, like the wings of a butterfly. So easily crushed. “You should go home, love.”
“What if I want to stay?”
There were so many rules he had broken already—both his own and societal—that the thought was painfully tempting. He could keep her here in this house, turning all those ugly memories into something wonderful.
