“But to write a book as a woman, when ladies’ education is far more genteel and they do not have the same connections as men in the business world, seems a harder task.”
He raised his eyebrows at her, a light igniting in his eyes. “You have strong opinions on female novelists. Fine, let us agree with you on one point: it is not considered genteel for a woman to author a book, and thus ladies have more opposition. But it is becoming more common.”
“I hope it will become very common in the future,” Annabelle said seriously. When he smiled, as though in approval, she felt some of her nerves loosen. This was the first time she had conversed with a gentleman about something she was interested in, and the novelty excited her.
“I have a large library,” he said eventually. “I believe you might take quite some enjoyment in it. I add to it whenever possible.”
“You do?” Annabelle could not stop herself beaming. Nathanial’s library was well-stocked but he was not assiduous in keeping it fully up to date, which necessitated her many visits to Hatchards, spending what little pin money she received on books instead of bonnets and ribbons.
She was not like her sister, dreaming of romance at every turn. Love could not be death-defying—death was the one constant. And marriage, trapped with a man she did not like, sounded akin to torture; the idea of managing a house filled her with nothing but dread. But books—they were her true love.
Books truly were death-defying.
“I wonder,” the Marquess said as he looked down into her face, “whether I might have the honour of calling on you in the next few days.”
She could hardly refuse. “I am always at home in the morning, sir.”
“I shall be sure to bring a book I think you might enjoy.”
Well, this was new. And not entirely unpleasant. Although she was not sure if she looked forward to conversing with him or merely the prospect of another book to add to her collection. Had she done the unthinkable and found a man she would be interested in spending time with?
The irony that he had appeared just after she had resolved it was impossible did not escape her. Of course, she still had no intentions of marrying, but . . .
One day, she wanted a library of her very own.
The dance ended and the Marquess bowed over her hand. She expected him to follow her across the ballroom, but he glanced over her shoulder and his eyes narrowed.
“Excuse me,” he said, his voice clipped and angry. “There is something I must attend to. Until next time, my lady.”
Confused, Annabelle stared after him, but only for a moment. When she turned, she saw her mother searching for her with yet another gentleman in tow, so she skirted the edges of the room. Her mother was standing close to the plant pots, so Annabelle finally took her chance and escaped through the double doors. Talking about reading made her want to read, so she hurried along to the library. It would be quieter there, too.
There was no dancing in libraries. Books demanded nothing from her but her enjoyment.
The room was dark as she slipped inside, and she did not alleviate it, though she knew there were candles and oil lamps she could light. Her favourite place was on the window seat, looking out into the chilly night beyond. Across the lawn, she thought she saw Theo and Nathanial emerge from the hothouse. It was the wrong time of year for them to be admiring the flowers, given that none were growing, but she knew Theo had ambitious plans. Perhaps they were discussing them.
She tipped her head back to the moon, pale and distant. “What will it take to persuade Mama I don’t want to marry?” she asked no one in particular.
She received no answer.
* * *
Jacob watched his brother march across the ballroom to him, and he almost smiled. The moment he had entered the ballroom, whispers had fanned out in all directions, and dowagers held onto their daughters a little tighter.
If there had ever been a time he wasn’t notorious in Society, he couldn’t remember it.
“What the devil are you doing here?” Cecil demanded, taking Jacob’s arm and steering him towards the patio doors. Jacob paused along the way to pick up a glass of wine. He tossed it back in one and put it on a footman’s tray.
“A pleasure to see you too,” he said, leaning against the wall. “You wished to see me?”
“Not here.”
“Gracious. Could it be that I, your esteemed brother, am a disappointment?”
Cecil’s jaw tightened, looking remarkably like their father. To his relief, Jacob bore no resemblance to the man who had raised him. “You stole my carriage and had the nerve to deliver the remnants to my front door,” Cecil snapped.
“You’re welcome.”
“I would like to know how you are going to pay for its repairs.”
