Ten Things I Love About You (16 page)

“I am the oldest of eight. My mother was with child almost the whole of my youth.”

“Eight? My heavens. I am one of but three myself.”

“It is why Lord Newbury wishes to marry me,” Annabel said flatly. “My mother was one of seven. My father, one of ten. Not to mention that according to gossip, I am so fertile that birds sing when I draw near.”

Olivia winced. “You heard that.”

Annabel rolled her eyes. “Even I thought it was funny.”

“It’s good you can have a sense of humor about it.”

“One has to,” Annabel said with a fatalistic shrug. “If one doesn’t, then …” She sighed, unable to finish the statement. It was too depressing.

She slumped, letting her gaze settle on the ornate curve of the foot of a nearby end table. She stared at it until it grew fuzzy, then split into two. Her eyes must be crossing. Or she could be going
blind. Maybe if she went blind then Lord Newbury wouldn’t want her anymore. Could one go blind by keeping one’s eyes crossed for days?

Maybe. It might be worth trying.

She tilted her head to the side.

“Annabel? Miss Winslow? Are you all right?”

“Fine,” Annabel said automatically, still staring at the table.

“Oh, the tea is here!” Olivia exclaimed, clearly relieved to break the awkward silence. “Here we are.” She sat down and placed a cup in a saucer. “How do you take yours?”

Annabel reluctantly pulled her gaze from the table and blinked, allowing her eyes to uncross.

“Milk please. No sugar.”

Olivia waited for the tea to finish steeping, chattering away about this and that and nothing in particular. Annabel was happy—no, grateful—to just sit and listen. She learned about Olivia’s sister-in-law, who didn’t much enjoy coming to town, and her twin brother, who was (on odd days) the spawn of the devil. On even days, Olivia had said, her eyes flicking heavenward, “I
suppose
I love him.”

As Annabel sipped the hot liquid, Olivia told her about her husband’s work. “He used to translate
awful
documents. Just dreadfully boring. One would think that papers for the War Office would be filled with intrigue, but trust me, that is not the case.”

Annabel sipped and nodded, sipped and nodded.

“He complains about the Gorely books all the
time,” Olivia continued. “The writing really
is
dreadful. But I think he secretly loves translating them.” She looked up, as if she’d just thought of something. “Actually, he has Sebastian to thank for the job.

“ “Really? How is that?”

Olivia’s mouth opened, but it was several moments before she actually said, “Honestly, I don’t quite know how to describe it. But Sebastian gave a reading for Prince Alexei. Who I believe you met last night.”

Annabel nodded. Then frowned. “He gave a reading?”

Olivia looked as if she still couldn’t quite believe it. “It was remarkable.” She shook her head. “I still can’t quite believe it. He had the housemaids in tears.”

“Oh my.” She really did need to read one of these Gorely books.

“At any rate, Prince Alexei fell in love with the story.
Miss Butterworth and the Mad Baron.
He asked Harry to translate it so that his countrymen can read it, too.”

“It must be quite a story.”

“Oh, it is. Death by pigeons.”

Annabel choked on her tea. “You’re joking.”

“No. I swear to you, Miss Butterworth’s mother is pecked to death by pigeons. And this, the poor woman, after being the only member of her family—except for Miss Butterworth, of course—to survive the plague.”

“Bubonic?” Annabel asked, wide-eyed.

“Oh, no, sorry, it was pox. I
wish
it had been bubonic.”

“I need to read one of those books,” Annabel said.

“I can give you one.” Olivia set her tea down and stood, walking across the room. “We have many copies here. Harry sometimes marks the pages, so we’ve had to buy multiples.” She opened up a small cabinet and bent down to look inside. “Oh, dear, I forgot I’m getting a bit unwieldy.”

Annabel started to rise to her feet. “Do you need help?”

“No, no.” Olivia let out a little groan as she straightened. “Here we are.
Miss Sainsbury and the Mysterious Colonel.
I believe it is Mrs. Gorely’s debut effort.”

“Thank you.” Annabel took the book and looked down at it, running her fingers over gilt letters on the front. She opened to the first page and read the opening.

She slammed it shut.

“Is something wrong?” Olivia asked.

“No, just … nothing.” Annabel drank more tea. She wasn’t sure she wanted to read about a girl making momentous decisions just then. Especially not one who had brothers and sisters depending on her. “I think I will read it later,” she said.

“If you want to read now I’m more than happy to leave you to your peace,” Olivia said. “Or I could join you. I’m still only halfway through today’s newspaper.”

“No, no. I’ll start it tonight.” She smiled ruefully. “It will be a welcome distraction.”

Olivia started to say something, but just then they heard someone entering the front door.

“Harry?” Olivia called out.

“Only me, I’m afraid.”

Annabel froze. It was Mr. Grey.

“Sebastian!” Olivia called out, shooting a nervous glance at Annabel. Annabel shook her head frantically. She didn’t want to see him. Not now, when she was feeling so fragile.

“Sebastian, I wasn’t expecting you,” Olivia said, hurrying toward the drawing-room door.

He stepped in, leaning down to kiss her cheek. “Since when do you expect me or not expect me?”

Annabel slouched down in her seat. Maybe he wouldn’t see her. Her dress was almost the same blue as the sofa. Perhaps she’d blend in. Perhaps he’d gone blind from having crossed his eyes for days. Perhaps—

“Annabel? Miss Winslow?”

She smiled weakly.

“What are you doing here?” He walked swiftly
across the room, his brow knitted with concern. “Is something wrong?”

Annabel shook her head, unable to speak. She’d thought she had herself under control. She’d been
laughing
with Olivia, for heaven’s sake. But one look at Mr. Grey and everything she’d been trying so hard to keep down rose right back up, pressing behind her eyes, clenching at her throat.

“Annabel?” he asked, kneeling down in front of her.

She burst into tears.

S
ebastian had seen Annabel only once the previous evening after her dance with his uncle. Her eyes had been shuttered and she had seemed subdued, but there had been nothing that might have predicted
this.
She was sobbing as if the world were about to crash on her shoulders.

Seb felt as if he’d been punched in the stomach.

“Good God,” he said, turning to Olivia. “What happened to her?”

Olivia pursed her lips and didn’t say anything. She just tilted her head toward Annabel. Seb had the impression he had just been scolded.

“It’s nothing,” Annabel sobbed.

“It’s not nothing,” he said. He looked at Olivia again, giving her an urgent—and annoyed—expression.

“It’s not nothing,” Olivia confirmed.

Seb swore under his breath. “What did Newbury do?”

“Nothing,” Annabel said, shaking her head. “He didn’t do anything … because … because …”

Sebastian swallowed, not liking the queasy feeling building in his belly. His uncle did not have a reputation for baseness or cruelty, but nor had any woman ever had cause to call him gentle. Newbury was the sort who inflicted pain through carelessness, or more accurately, selfishness. He took what he wanted because he thought he deserved it. If his needs conflicted with someone else’s, frankly, he didn’t much care.

“Annabel,” he said, “you have to tell me what happened.”

But she was still crying, gulping down big huge breaths, and her nose …

He handed her his handkerchief.

“Thank you,” she got out, and used it. Twice.

“Olivia,” he snapped, whipping around to face her, “will you tell me what the hell is going on?”

Olivia walked over and crossed her arms, looking righteous as only a woman could. “Miss Winslow believes that your uncle is about to propose marriage.”

He let out a long breath. He was not surprised. Annabel was everything his uncle wanted in a bride, moreso now that he thought Sebastian wanted her, too.

“Here now,” he said, trying to be comforting. He took one of her hands and squeezed. “It’ll all work out. I’d be crying, too, if he asked me to marry him.”

She looked as if she might laugh, but then she just cried again.

“Can’t you say no?” he asked. “Can’t she say no?” he asked Olivia.

Olivia crossed her arms. “What do you think?”

“If I’d known what to think, I’d hardly have asked, would I?” he bit off, coming to his feet.

“She is the oldest of eight, Sebastian. Eight!”

“For the love of God,” he exploded, “will you just say what you mean?”

Annabel looked up, momentarily silenced.

“I now understand your feelings precisely,” he told her.

“There is no money left,” Annabel said in a small voice. “My sisters have no governess. My brothers are going to be sent home from school.”

“What about your grandparents?” Surely Lord Vickers had enough money to pay a few tuition bills.

“My grandfather hasn’t spoken to my mother for twenty years. He never forgave her for marrying my father.” She paused for a moment, taking a shaky breath and then using the handkerchief. “He only took me in because my grandmother insisted upon it. And she only did so because … well, I don’t know why. I think she thought it would be amusing.”

Seb looked over at Olivia. She was still standing there with her arms crossed, looking rather like a warrior mother hen. “Excuse me,” he said to Annabel, and then he grabbed Olivia’s wrist and dragged her across the room. “What would you have me do?” he hissed.

“I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

“Stop playing games. You’ve been glowering at me since I arrived.”

“She’s upset!”

“I can see that,” he snapped.

She poked him in the chest. “Well, then, do something.”

“It isn’t my fault!” And it wasn’t. Newbury had wanted Annabel long before Sebastian had become embroiled in the affair. She’d likely be in the exact same position if Seb had never met her.

“She needs to marry, Sebastian.”

Oh, for the love of God. “Are you suggesting that
I
propose to her?” he asked, knowing damn well that was what she was suggesting. “I have known her barely a week.”

She stared at him as if he were a complete cad. Hell, he felt like one. Annabel was sitting across the room, whimpering into his handkerchief. A man would have to have a heart of stone not to want to help her.

But marriage? What sort of man married a woman he’d known for—how long had it been?—eight days? Society might think him foolish and flighty, but that was only because he liked it that way. He cultivated that image because … because … well, hell, he wasn’t sure why he did it. Maybe just because it amused him, too.

But he’d thought Olivia knew him better.

“I like Miss Winslow,” he whispered. “I do. And I regret that she is in this ghastly situation. Lord knows, I know more than anyone what a miserable existence it must be to live with Newbury. But it is not my doing. Nor is it my problem.”

Olivia’s eyes bored down on his, full of disappointment.

“You married for love,” he reminded her.

Her jaw worked, and he knew he’d scored a hit. He wasn’t, however, quite sure why he felt so guilty about it. Still, he could not stop now. “Would you deny me the same?” he asked.

Except …

He looked over at Annabel. She was staring forlornly out the window. Her dark hair was starting to come free of its pins, and one loose curl had made its way down her back, revealing the length to be a few inches below her shoulders.

It would be longer when it was wet, he thought absently.

But he would never see it wet.

He swallowed.

“You’re right,” Olivia said suddenly.

“What?” He looked back at her, blinking.

“You’re right,” she said again. “It was unfair of me to expect you to swoop in and save her. She’s hardly the first girl in London to have to marry someone she doesn’t like.”

“No.” He looked at her suspiciously. Was she up to something? She might be. Or she might not. Damn. He hated when he couldn’t read a woman.

“It’s not as if you can save them all.”

He shook his head, but without much conviction.

“Very well,” Olivia said briskly. “We can save her for this afternoon, at least. I’ve told her she may remain until evening. Surely Newbury will lose patience before then and go home.”

“He’s at her house right now?”

She gave a curt nod. “She was coming home from … well, I don’t know where. Shopping, I suppose. She saw him get out of the carriage.”

“And she is certain he was there to propose?”

“I don’t believe she wished to remain long enough find out,” Olivia answered acerbically.

He nodded slowly. It was difficult to put himself in Annabel’s shoes, but he supposed he would have done the same.

Olivia looked over at the clock on the mantel. “I have an appointment.”

This he did not believe for a second, but still he said, “I will stay with her.”

Olivia let out a long exhale. “I suppose we’ll need to send a note over to her grandparents. They are going to miss her at some point. Although knowing her grandmother, perhaps not.”

“Say that you’ve invited her to visit,” he suggested. “They cannot object to the connection.” Olivia was one of London’s most popular young matrons; anyone would be delighted to have her take their daughter—or granddaughter—under her wing.

Olivia nodded and went over to Annabel. Sebastian poured himself a drink, and then, after downing it in one swallow, poured himself another. And one for Annabel, too. By the time he brought them over, Olivia had said her goodbyes and was heading out the door.

He held out the drink.

“She has an appointment,” Annabel said.

He nodded. “Take it,” he said. “You might not want it. But you might.”

She took the glass, took a tiny sip, and set it down. “My grandmother drinks too much,” she said, her voice a heartbreaking monotone.

He didn’t say anything, just sat down in the chair closest to the sofa and made some sort of reassuring sound. He wasn’t good with sad women. He didn’t know what to say. Or do.

“She’s not a bad drunk. She just gets a little silly.”

“And amorous?” he asked, quirking a smile. It was a highly inappropriate comment, but he could not bear the sadness in her eyes. If he could make her smile, it would be worth it.

And she did! Just a little. But still, it felt like a victory.

“Oh, that.” She covered her mouth with her hand and shook her head. “I am so sorry,” she said with great feeling. “Honestly, I don’t know when I have ever felt more embarrassed. I have never seen her do that before.”

“It must be my charming aspect and handsome visage.”

She gave him a look.

“You’re not going to say something about my modesty and discretion?” he murmured.

She shook her head, the sparkle starting to return to her eyes. “I’ve never been a very good liar.”

He chuckled.

She took another sip of her drink, then set it down. But she didn’t let go. Her fingers tapped against the glass, tracing short quick lines near the rim. She was a fidgeter, his Annabel.

He wondered why this pleased him. He was not
like that. He’d always been able to hold himself preternaturally still. It was probably why he was such a good shot. In the war he’d sometimes had to hold still for hours in his sniper’s perch, waiting for the perfect moment to squeeze the trigger.

“I just want you to know …” she began.

He waited. Whatever it was she was trying to say, it wasn’t easy.

“I just want you to know,” she said again, sounding as if she was trying to muster her courage, “that I know this has nothing to do with you. And I don’t expect—”

He shook his head, trying to save her from having to make a difficult speech. “Hush, hush. You don’t have to say anything.”

“But Lady Olivia—”

“Can be very meddlesome,” he interjected. “Let us just, for now, pretend that—” He cut himself off. “Is that a Gorely book?”

Annabel blinked and looked down. She seemed to have forgotten it was sitting in her lap. “Oh. Yes. Lady Olivia lent it to me.”

He held out his hand. “Which one did she give you?”

“Er …” She looked down.
“Miss Sainsbury and the Mysterious Colonel.”
She handed it to him. “I assume you’ve read it.”

“Of course.” He opened the book to its first pages.
The slanted light of dawn,
he said to himself. He remembered so clearly writing those words. No, that was not true. He remembered
thinking
them. He’d thought out the entire opening before writing it down. He’d gone over it so many times,
editing in his head until he’d got it just the way he wanted it.

That had been his moment. His very own point of division. He wondered if everyone’s lives had a dividing point. A moment which sat clearly between
before
and
after.
That had been his. That night in his room. It hadn’t been any different than the night before, or the one before that. He couldn’t sleep. There was nothing out of the ordinary about that.

Except for some reason—some inexplicable, miraculous reason, he’d started thinking about books.

And then he’d picked up a pen.

Now he got to be in his
after.
He looked at Annabel.

He looked away. He didn’t want to think about her
after.

“Shall I read it to you?” he asked, his voice sounding a little loud. But he had to do something to change the direction of his thoughts. Besides, it might cheer her up.

“All right,” she said, her lips forming a hesitant smile. “Lady Olivia said you’re a wonderful reader.”

There was no
way
Olivia had said
that.
“She did, did she?”

“Well, not exactly. But she did say that you made the housemaids cry.”

“In a good way,” he assured her.

She actually giggled. He felt absurdly pleased.

“Here we are,” he said.
“Chapter One.”
He cleared his throat and went on. “The
slanted light of
dawn was rippling through the windowpane, and Miss Anne Sainsbury huddled beneath her threadbare blanket, wondering as she often did, how she would find money for her next meal.”

“I can picture that exactly,” Annabel said.

He looked up in surprise. And pleasure. “You can?”

She nodded. “I used to be an early riser. Before I arrived in London. The light is different in the morning. It’s flatter, I suppose. And more golden. I’ve always thought—” She cut herself off, cocking her head to the side. Her brows knit together and she frowned. It was the most adorable expression. Sebastian almost thought that if he looked hard enough, he could actually
see
her thinking.

“You know exactly what I mean,” she said.

“I do?”

“Yes.” She straightened, and her eyes flashed with memory. “You said so. When I met you at the Trowbridge party.”

“The heath,” he said with a sigh. It seemed such a delightful, far-off memory now.

“Yes. You said something about the morning light. You said you—” She stopped, blushing furiously. “Never mind.”

“I must say, now I
really
want to know what I said.”

“Oh …” She shook her head quickly. “No.”

“Anna-bel,”
he prodded, liking the way her name took on a musical lilt.

“You said you’d like to take a bath in it,” she said, the words coming out in a single, mortified rush.

“I did?” Strange. He didn’t remember saying that. Sometimes he got lost in his own thoughts. But it did sound like something he’d say.

She nodded.

“Hmmm. Well. I suppose I would.” He tilted his head in her direction, the way he frequently did when about to deliver a
bon mot.
“I should want some privacy, though.”

“Of course.”

“Or maybe not
too
much privacy,” he murmured.

“Stop.”
But she didn’t sound offended. Not quite.

He glanced at her when she thought he wasn’t looking. She was smiling to herself, just a little bit. Enough for him to see her courage, her strength. Her ability to hold herself straight in the midst of adversity.