“Luckily for both of us,” he said, leaning past her to select a strawberry of his own, “you delight in scandal.”
She slowly drew her fan along his arm before strolling away. “Don’t come after me too soon, darling,” she said over her shoulder. “I have some semblance of a reputation to maintain.”
In answer, he merely picked up a glass of champagne and tossed it back. Then he picked up another, turned, and raised it to Cecil. It was petty revenge, he knew, and barely worth his time, but his life had become a study in how best to embarrass his brother. Especially after his father had died.
Especially after Madeline.
After the appropriate amount of time passed, he made his way unobtrusively from the room. The hallway beyond was large, with a stairway leading to an overlooking gallery in the shape of an L, and a corridor to his left led back, he suspected, to the main body of the house.
Where would Clarissa have gone? Would she have dared find an unoccupied bedroom upstairs? That seemed a dangerous venture. Downstairs, therefore, she must be; he followed the gallery into the main body of the house. The first door he came across had well-oiled hinges, allowing him to peer inside soundlessly. It was a library, large and cast in shadow. Here, the sound of the ballroom had faded, and he could almost believe he had not just come from music and light and dancing.
Jacob had not, over the years, spent a great deal of time in libraries. Given Cecil was the bookish one, and Jacob had resolved to be as little like Cecil as possible, this was easily done. Added to this his father’s propensity to beat him in the library when the mood took him, it had become a matter of survival.
Still, there was a considerable chance that Clarissa, who knew nothing of his past other than his feud with his brother, was hiding at the darkened end of the room.
His scars burned as he prowled across the soft carpet, gaze fixed on a shadow by the window. She was gazing out across the gardens, no doubt bored and waiting for him to arrive. Without giving her any warning, he took her shoulders and spun her around, barely giving himself time to take in her expression of shock before he kissed her.
Her lips parted under his, soft and surprised. A small noise escaped her throat and she placed both hands against his chest as though to push him away, but when he licked her lower lip to encourage her mouth open, she stiffened then softened. Never quite returning his kiss, but not ending it, either. For a reason beyond his understanding, desire kicked in his belly. Usually, Clarissa kissed differently—expertly, as though it was an exercise in pure skill rather than passion.
He came to the conclusion at the same time as she shoved him back, and he looked down into a face he did not immediately recognise. Dark eyes he suspected might be blue, a full mouth different from Clarissa’s pert lips, and an expression of outrage that didn’t belong to any lady he dallied with.
“How dare you,” she gasped, fully confirming that she was not who he had thought she was. “Do you know who I am?”
He allowed his gaze to travel across her face, amused by the way her throat worked as she swallowed. “You,” he said, his voice low and rough, “are not Clarissa.”
Chapter Three
Annabelle had been kissed once before. He was the son of the local baronet and he had been besotted with her. When she was fifteen, he had pressed his damp lips against hers, and after it was over, she had cried, believing for certain that kissing was not something she would ever enjoy.
Now she was nineteen, and a stranger had done much the same thing to her. Except his mouth had been warm and dry, and his tongue had brushed against hers in a way that had, briefly, made her body stop responding to all commands. Even now, staring down at her with his face half crafted dark, she could see enough to know he was ludicrously handsome—his eyes were pools of ink and his mouth a wicked slash that made her heart beat altogether too fast when she looked at it.
Stop looking at it.
His smile grew and he tilted his head, casting more of his features into the moonlight; the curve of his cheek, the strong, hard line of his jaw. He looked familiar, but she couldn’t place him.
“No,” she said as tartly as she could. “I amnotClarissa. Why are you walking around my sister’s house without invitation?”
He blinked, the smile turning from amused to predatory. “Your sister?”
“The Duchess of Norfolk. This is her house and her library.” Annabelle drew herself up and glanced at the door. If she was to make an escape, it would have to be past him, and she did not fancy her chances. “You are trespassing.”
“What makes you think I didn’t receive an invitation?” the man asked. “But I am more intrigued by you, little bird. What did you say your name was?”
“I didn’t.”
“And yet if your sister is the Duchess of Norfolk, that can only make you one person.” A gleam entered his eye, as cold and unfeeling as the moon above them. “You are Lady Annabelle Beaumont.”
“And what if I am?”
He moved, boxing her into the corner. His breath smelt like wine, and panic burst over her like fireworks. If he was inebriated, she could only guess at what he was capable of. After all, her father had drunkenly gambled away her dowry. Anything was possible.
“If you are,” he mused, looking the very vision of ease while her heart fluttered like a trapped bird, “that would make you the person I was looking for.”
“I’ve already said I am not Clarissa.”
“No indeed.” He chuckled. “You are something far better.”
“Leave,” she said stiffly. “If you do, I will tell no one of this.”
