Annabelle waited in the small parlour. The room was somewhat grimy—when she swiped her finger along the mantelpiece, it had come away dusty—but she was conscious a large part of her wanted to remain here. Despite the dirt.

Despite the fact Jacob would be there. Presumably sharing the same bed she was. The thought gave her jitters, and she poured herself a glass of wine. If they were snowed in as she suspected they would be, she would be sleeping in the same bed as a man for the first time in her life.

Sharing a bed with Jacob. A man who had a reputation for seduction and yet had not so much as attempted to seduce her.

Theo had told her of what she should expect from a union with a husband, and it had spectacularly failed to happen. He had shown no interest in her at all, and although she was, not she would admit, an expert on the subject, she had not thought he’d disliked it when they had kissed. But if he had not, why did he not want more from her? She had been assured that he would, that all men did from their wives at the point of marriage.

Was there something wrong with her? Were her lips satisfactory but her body repulsive? The thought stung, even though she dismissed it almost immediately, and to steady her nerves, she sipped at her wine.

Revolting. Still. She took another drink. Then, as she looked out into the driving snow, so thick she could not even see the street below, she took another and poured herself another glass. The spiced wine had once been hot, and she let it warm her from the inside out. Having a glass in her hands gave her something to do, and before she knew what she had done, she had consumed three full glasses.

Odd how her head was not quite in the right place. She placed a hand on the back of a chair for support and placed the glass carefully on the table, which was almost where she thought it was. Jacob had been gone quite a while, and she was feeling stranger and stranger as time passed. Perhaps he wasn’t intending to return at all.

Just as she had resolved to enter the storm after him, the door opened and he entered, brushing snow from his shoulders and hair. His mouth was set, his expression thunderous, and his eyes were such a deep brown that they looked almost black.

Now, a little inebriated, Annabelle could admit to things she had been unwilling to before. She liked the way he looked. The darkness of his eyes drew her in, as though if she could only look hard enough, she could be able to find the light there, too.

“You’re back,” she said with such obvious relief, his scowl melted into a frown of confusion. “I didn’t know if you would come back?”

“And leave you here alone? I’m not a scoundrel, Annabelle. Well,” he corrected himself, “not that much of a scoundrel.”

“Yes you are,” Annabelle said, surprising them both. “You have been a scoundrel for as long as you have been in Society. Perhaps longer. Did you seduce milkmaids when you lived at home with your father? Kitchen maids?”

He flung himself into a chair and watched her with a gaze that was half amusement, half irritation. “I seduced no maids.”

“I am surprised.”

“But there was a village girl,” he mused, “with the sweetest red cheeks and loveliest . . .” He made a crude gesture. “I used to sneak away to see her.”

“Did you love her?”

“Love? Good God no. My relationship with her was not about love.”

She pulled a chair out so she could sit close by, facing him, and rested her elbows on the table, propping her chin on her hands. “Then what was it about?”

His eyes smouldered. “You know, little bird.”

“Oh.” Perhaps she did know. That was what he had come to the library for when he had found her. She tilted her head as she watched him, and he looked at her right back, his gaze assessing. When he picked up the pitcher of wine, he laughed.

“Now I understand. How many of these have you had?”

“Only three. You were gone a long time.”

“I suppose I was,” he said, mouth twitching into a lopsided smile. “Well, if we are to be stuck here, then I suppose I should join you.”

She beamed at him, holding out her glass. “An excellent idea.”

“And get you drunker?” He snorted, but despite his protestations, he poured them both another glass. “This is to be your last one, mind. I’ve no desire to carry you to bed.”

She giggled, taking another sip. The wine, which had been so disgusting to her at first, now seemed almost pleasant. “Is the prospect of bedding me so very horrendous?”

He spluttered, spitting wine across the table. “The prospect of—where did you hear that term?”

“Henry was giving Oliver some advice about going to Oxford,” she said. “They didn’t know I could hear.”

“Ah, Oxford.” Jacob nodded sagely. “I can see how bedding might come into it.”

“Well I do not.”

“Of course you don’t,” he muttered, and tossed his wine back. Annabelle had noticed he did that a lot, drinking the whole in one gulp rather than savouring the flavour. “Drink up, little bird, and let us discuss something else.”

“I’ve imagined it,” she said, and flushed a deep red as his head shot up, eyes dark and fixed on her. “Bedding, I mean. Or what I know of it. With you.”

His throat bobbed as he swallowed, for once lost for words. “With me?”

“I fancy I don’t know the particulars, but I presumed you would teach me.”

“Teach you.” He mouthed the words rather than said them, but there was a rough note to his whisper. “Be careful what you wish for, Annabelle.”

“I have a question.” She leant closer, the wine giving her the confidence to ask the question she’d long been wondering. “Did you enjoy kissing me?”

“A dangerous question,” he murmured.

“And one with a simple answer. Did you?”

His gaze didn’t stray from hers. “Yes.”

“Then why have you not done it again?”

One moment he was sitting, the next he was standing before her, one hand sliding possessively around the back of her neck, his fingers cruel. Her breath came sharply. “Do you want me to?” he said, eyes razor sharp, in danger of slicing all the way through her. “Is that what you want from me as your husband?”

Her body quivered, aflame with longing she had never experienced before and didn’t know how to process. “Yes,” she whispered.

***

Jacob should have known better than this. She was a flame, and he was singeing himself on her heat, but damn it, he was only human, and she had made her feelings plain.

She was close to being drunk, if she was not already, but he wanted her.

If he had been a better man, he could have resisted, pulled away, told her that theirs was not a relationship of this nature. But he was not that man, and she tasted too good to for his own sanity when he kissed her again. Roughly, because she did not deserve his softness. If instruction was what she craved, he would give it to her; he would show her the best ways to please him, and he would show her what it meant to lie with a man. What pleasure could be in store.

No, that was dangerous thinking. If he went down that road—

He would have to stop it, somehow, before it went that far.

They would be sharing a bed tonight.

He groaned in frustration, already knowing the outcome and unable to fight against it any longer. Her mouth was soft and warm below his, parting in invitation, and he took everything she offered, demanded more when she broke away for breath. At any moment, he expected her to plead mercy, or claim that he was being too violent with her.

She did not.

Her tongue tasted of wine and sugar as she tentatively returned his caresses. When he caught her bottom lip between her teeth, she let out a soft moan that went straight to his groin. They were still fully dressed, still in a private parlour that was liable to be walked in on at any given second, and he throbbed with need.

“Jacob,” she said against his mouth. He liked the sound of his name on her lips, liked it altogether too much when it was breathy with desperate want. “Jacob.”

He licked her neck. “I haven’t even touched you yet.”

She shuddered in his arms. “Then touch me.”

“Your wish is my command.” Picking her up by the waist, he placed her on the table, shoving up her skirts until he glimpsed pale legs. Images of them wrapped around him crossed his mind, and bit back a groan at the knowledge it would be impossible to sink into her fully and still prevent children.

Annabelle’s hands shook as she grasped his lapels, holding on so tightly he knew his valet would never remove the creases. He stepped between her legs, pushing her skirts still further back, and her eyes turned glassy.

Damn. He couldn’t remember the last time he’d been this aroused. He was so hard it almost hurt, and he pressed his cock against her inner thigh, needing the pressure, the friction. Her eyes widened and she glanced down, her face hungry yet anxious.

“Is that . . .?” She wet her lips. “I don’t know what to do.”

“Let me be plain with you,” he said, slipping himself free from his breeches. She let out a small gasp, and he caught her chin, tipping her head back so she met his gaze. “This does not mean I like you.”

For a moment, he thought she might take offence at that, but her nostrils merely flared. “The sentiment is wholeheartedly returned.”

He hesitated, but honesty was the best policy here; he did not make it a habit to lie to his lovers. “What we shall do today will not be a true consummation. But it will be enough.” He took her hand and guided her to hold him, wrapping her fingers tightly around his shaft. At the contact, he pulsed harder, and she rubbed her thumb across the skin.

“It’s soft,” she said wonderingly. “Yet hard underneath. Like silk across wood.”

He laughed under his breath. “Wood is apt.”

“And it’s hot.”

“It is.” With his hand, he showed her how to pleasure him, stroking in long, sensual movements that made every single muscle in his body clench. The way she looked at him, too, as though his body were an epiphany, made it increasingly hard to think.

He did not like her, but he liked this, and too much. If he allowed himself to get carried away, there was a chance he would forget himself, and if he got her with child there would be no going back.

Annabelle trailed her fingers along his shaft, exploring the skin there, the almost angry purple of his head, the bead of moisture at the tip which she took onto her finger, examined, and placed into her mouth.

Lord, he was not strong enough for this.

She might think she was modest, but when it came to this, she would not be. The heat in her eyes, all naked lust, did not belong to a woman who would be satisfied with mediocrity.

So why did the thought make him harder?

He pushed her skirts back still further as she continued to explore, running her fingers up the protruding veins, and he skimmed his fingertips along the soft skin of her inner thighs. “Once,” he told himself as much as her. “There will be this once. Nothing more.”

“Do you not wish our marriage to be consummated?”

“Stop saying ‘consummated’.” To distract them, he spread her legs, baring her to him. Already, he could see her pink skin was slick. “Have you ever touched myself?”

As though on instinct, she glanced down at herself. “There? I—no. Not like . . . No.”

So she was untouched. Pure. Just as he had known she would be, but although the thought of her touching herself sent him near wild, the primal part of his brain rejoiced at the idea no one, not even herself, had explored this before him. He was the first. He would claim her.

No. Those were dangerous, unhelpful thoughts.

Once. There could only be this once.

“Keep going,” he said, touching the hand that finally wrapped around his shaft. “No matter what I do to you, I want you to keep going.” He flashed her a wicked smile. “Or I’ll stop.”

“I—” Before he could finish the sentence, he slid his fingers through the slick flesh between her legs. She was so wet already, swollen with need. At the feel of him, she gasped, and her hips jerked. This was the biggest mistake he was ever going to make. And yet, as her small hand moved on him and he thrust into it helplessly, he knew he was not going to stop until the mistake was fully made.

“Jacob,” she gasped.

“I said keep going.” He slid a single finger inside her, feeling the way she tightened and tensed, like a fish caught on a hook. This was not the culmination of all his fantasies regarding Annabelle—they were many and varied and involved more than mere hands. But as he pushed against her, and as she stroked him with increasingly irregular movements, he could scarcely believe how good he found the simple touch.

As, judging by the gasping moans that spilled from her mouth like moonlight through the clouds, did she.

“Quiet,” he whispered, leaning in and kissing the side of her mouth. “We don’t want anyone hearing.”

She tipped her head back and did her best to regulate her breathing—and he, knowing this, did all the more to tempt her. It became a game between them; he would tease her, coaxing soft moans from her sweet lips, and she would resist the urgings of her body. The sight was oddly erotic, made all the more so because of her innocence.

But it could not last forever. Release gathered at the base of his spine, and she began to flutter around him, little contractions that promised that she, too, was close.

He would not finish before her, of that he was certain, even if he must remove himself from her grasp. That was a matter of pride. Her head tipped back and her eyes were heavy with desire and alarm mingled.

“Jacob,” she said, taking his wrist in her free hand and gripping. “Something is—”

“Your climax.” He did not stop, drawing her still closer to the edge. “You’ll like it.”

“Climax.” She tested the word in her mouth and it took everything in him not to spill at the sight of her contemplating the meaning of the word even as her body trembled below him. “What about you?”

“I will follow you,” he said tightly. “Relax, little bird, and it shall find you.”

Her head tipped back, exposing her throat. “Annabelle. Call me Annabelle.”

“Let it come, Annabelle. Don’t hold back.”

At the sound of her name, or perhaps the insistence of his fingers, she convulsed around him. Jacob watched as her pupils swelled and her eyelids dropped low over her eyes. She let out a moan that was more like a long, low “oh”, and the sight of her, trapped in bliss that he had given her, was everything he needed for release to find him, too.