Accordingly, because she did not have the time to wait for Jacob to visit her, she took a carriage to Lady Bolton’s house, and from there travelled by hackney to Sunderland Place. The butler answered the door with his nose in the air.
“Good day,” she said calmly, more collected than she felt. Her heart pounded wildly in her chest. She was almost certain she knew his answer, and she was simultaneously dreading hearing it and waiting in breathless anticipation to see him again without the constraints of society and expectation. “I’m here to see Lord Sunderland.”
“Is he expecting you?”
“No, but I wish to see him immediately.”
“Without an appointment, I—”
“I am his fiancee,” she said sharply. “And I insist upon seeing him.”
The butler’s face blanked until it might have been made from stone. Then he nodded and stepped back from the door. “Follow me, my lady.”
After the last time she had been here, the house now looked familiar. But, instead of veering towards the main section of the house, the butler led her to a small parlour, knocking on the closed door.
“Well?” Jacob’s voice came from inside.
“There’s a lady here to see you, my lord.”
Silence. Then the scraping of a chair and the door was flung open. Jacob wore nothing but a shirt and a pair of buckskins, the soft material clinging to his thighs. His hair was a little wild, as though he had been dragging his hands through it, and he frowned at the sight of her.
“I should have known it was you.” He glanced at the butler. “That will be all, Smythe.”
“Very good, sir.”
Annabelle stepped inside the small room, which she saw now was more fashioned as though it was a study than a parlour. There was a large desk, behind which he had evidently been working, and a separate writing desk. Both were piled high with paper. The curtains were thrown open, welcoming in May sunshine, but candle stubs were visible beside the couch in front of the unlit fire.
“I chose to work here instead of my father’s study,” he said by way of explanation.
“Why?”
“Suffice to say, the study did not hold fond memories.”
“Like the library?” she asked softly, her heart aching for him. The scared, hurt boy he must have been all those years ago.
“Yes.”
“I’m sorry.”
He gave a careless shrug and strode to the couch as though eager to put distance between them. The tightness around her chest squeezed. “I gather you’re here to discuss something important.”
“Will you not look at me?” she said as he sat, stretching his long legs out in front of him. “Am I so repulsive to you now?”
His gaze leapt to her face and stayed there. “No,” he said quietly. “No, you are not repulsive.”
“Then why won’t you so much as look at me?”
“Because”—he said each word deliberately, as though he were treading on shattered glass—“neither of us can afford to give in to what we want.”
“Why?”
His breath left him in a hard exhale and his eyes burned, scorching through her dress. “Because we should not want it.”
She stepped closer. “Why?”
His expression hardened, the burning want icing over. “Because you are going to marry someone else, and that should not change.” His voice was a lashing whip, but she merely stepped closer again. There had always been something about him that had failed to intimidate her—because he too was an outsider, perhaps?
Dark, dark, dark.
