Ten Things I Love About You

by Julia Quinn

  She stared down at him. He was still reclining on the blanket—a blanket! He had a blanket?

  This could not be good.

  “Why do you want to know?” she heard herself ask. Which seemed to her to be proof that she’d lost complete sight of her sanity. Clearly she should have stepped around him and run back to the house. Or stepped over him. Or on him. But above all, she should not have engaged in conversation. Even if she ran right across the amorous couple in the garden, that had to be less dangerous to her reputation than being caught alone with a strange man on the heath.

  If he was planning to attack and ravish, though, he gave no indication of being in a hurry to do so. He just shrugged and said, “I’m curious.”

  She looked at him for a moment. He did not look familiar, but it was dark. And he was speaking as if they had been introduced. “Do I know you?” she asked.

  He smiled mysteriously. “I don’t think so.”

  “Should I?”

  At that he laughed, then said firmly, “Absolutely not. But that doesn’t mean we can’t have a perfectly delightful conversation.”

  From this Annabel deduced that he was a rake and well aware of it, certainly not appropriate company for an unmarried lady. She glanced in the direction of the house. She ought to go. She really ought.

  “I don’t bite,” he assured her. “Or anything else you’d need to worry over.” He sat up and patted the blanket beside him. “Have a seat.”

  “I’ll stand,” she said. Because she hadn’t completely lost her sense. At least she hoped not.

  “Are you certain?” He gave her a winning smile. “It’s much more comfortable down here.”

  Said the spider to the fly. Annabel only barely managed to avoid letting out a squeak of nervous laughter.

  “Are you avoiding someone?” he asked.

  She’d been looking back toward the house again, but at this her head whipped around.

  “It happens to the best of us,” he said, almost apologetically.

  “Are you avoiding someone, then?”

  “Not precisely,” he allowed, cocking his head in a way that was almost like a shrug. “It’s more that I’m waiting my turn.”

  Annabel had really wanted to appear impassive, but she felt her eyebrows rise.

  He looked at her, his lips curved into the tiniest smile. There was nothing wicked in his expression, and yet she felt it all the same, a shiver of anticipation, a hint of excitement pressing through her.

  “I could give you the details,” he murmured, “but I suspect it wouldn’t be proper.”

  Nothing that evening had been proper. It could hardly get worse.

  “I don’t mean to make assumptions,” he continued smoothly, “but based upon the hue of your gown, I can only deduce that you are unmarried.”

  She gave a quick nod.

  “Which means that under no circumstances should I be telling you that I was out here with a woman who is not my wife.”

  Oh, she should be scandalized. She really should. But she couldn’t quite manage it. He was just so charming. He oozed it. He was grinning at her now, like they were sharing a secret joke, and she couldn’t help it—she wanted to be in on the joke. She wanted to be part of his club, his group, his anything. There was something about him—a charisma, a magnetism—and she knew, she just knew that if she could travel back in time, and in space, she supposed, to Eton or wherever he’d spent his formative years, he would have been the boy whom everyone wanted to be near.

  Some people were just born with it.

  “Who are you avoiding?” he wondered. “The most likely candidate would be an overly eager suitor, but that wouldn’t explain your flight all the way out here. It’s just as easy to lose oneself in a crowd, and far less dangerous to one’s reputation.”

  “I shouldn’t say,” she murmured.

  “No, of course not,” he agreed. “That would be indiscreet. But it will be much more fun if you do.”

  She pressed her lips together, trying not to smile.

  “Will anyone be missing you?” he asked.

  “Eventually.”

  He nodded. “The person you’re avoiding?”

  Annabel thought of Lord Newbury, and his pricked pride. “I imagine I have a little bit of time before he starts searching.”

  “He?” the gentleman said. “The plot thickens.”

  “Plot?” she countered with a grimace. “That’s a poor choice of words. It’s not a book anyone would wish to read. Trust me.”

  He chuckled at this, then patted the blanket again. “Do sit. It’s offending every one of my gentle manly principles that you’re up there while I’m reclining.”

  She gave him her best imitation of arch confidence. “Perhaps you should stand.”

  “Oh no, I couldn’t possibly do that. It would make it all so formal, don’t you think?”

  “Considering that we have not been introduced, formality might be just the thing.”

  “Oh no,” he objected. “You have it all backwards.”

  “Then I should introduce myself?”

  “Don’t do that,” he said with the barest hint of drama. “Whatever you do, don’t tell me your name. It’s likely to awaken my conscience, and that’s the last thing we want.”

  “You do have a conscience, then?”

  “Sadly, yes.”

  That was a relief. He wasn’t going to pull her off into the darkness, and he wasn’t going to maul her as Lord Newbury had done. Regardless, she ought to return to the party. Conscience or no, he was not the sort of gentleman with whom a young unmarried lady ought to be alone. Of that she was absolutely certain.

  Again, she thought of Lord Newbury, who was the sort of man she was supposed to be with.

  She sat down beside him.

  “Excellent choice,” he applauded.

  “It’s just for a moment,” she murmured.

  “Of course.”

  “It’s not you,” she said, feeling a bit cheeky. But she didn’t want him to think that she was staying because of him.

  “It’s not?”

  “Over there.” She pointed toward the side garden, flicking her wrist in a little wave. “There’s a man and a woman, er…”

  “Enjoying each other’s company?”

  “Exactly.”

  “And you can’t get back to the party.”

  “I’d really rather not interrupt.”

  He gave her a commiserating nod. “Awkward.”

  “Very much so.”

  He frowned thoughtfully. “A man and a man would be more awkward, I think.”

  Annabel gasped, although she didn’t really feel the indignation she ought. It was far too intoxicating to be near him, to feel included in his wit.

  “Or a woman and a woman. I wouldn’t mind watching that.”

  She turned away, instinctively wanting to hide her blush, then feeling silly because it was so dark, and he probably couldn’t see it, anyway.

  Or maybe he could. He seemed like the kind of man who could tell when a female was blushing based on the scent of the wind, or the alignment of the stars.

  He was a man who knew women.

  “I don’t suppose you got a good look at them?” he asked, then added, “Our amorous friends.”

  Annabel shook her head. “I was really more preoccupied with getting away.”

  “Of course. Very sensible of you. It’s too bad, though. If I knew who they were, I might have a better idea of how long they would take.”

  “Really?”

  “Not all men are created equal, you know,” he said modestly.

  “I suspect I should not pursue that statement,” she said daringly.

  “Not if you truly are sensible.” He smiled at her again, and good heavens, but it took her breath away.

  Whoever this man was, he had been visited many times by the gods of dentistry. His teeth were white and even, and his grin was wide and infectious.

  It was bloody unfair. Her own bottom teeth wer
e a jumble, as were all of her siblings’. A surgeon had once said he could fix them, but when he’d come after her with a pair of pliers, Annabel had taken off running.

  But this man—he had a smile that crept to his eyes, lighting his face, lighting the whole room. Which was a ridiculous statement, because they were outside. And it was dark. Still, Annabel would have sworn that the air around them had begun to shimmer and glow.

  Either that or she’d drunk her punch from the wrong bowl. There had been one for young ladies and one for everyone else, and Annabel was quite sure that she…or at least fairly sure. It had been the one on the right. Louisa had said it was the right, hadn’t she?

  Well, she had a half-half chance, at the very least.

  “Do you know everyone?” she asked, because, really, she had to. And he had been the one to introduce the subject.

  His brows rose with incomprehension. “I beg your pardon.”

  “You asked for a description of the couple,” she explained. “Do you know everyone, or only the ones who behave with impropriety?”

  He laughed aloud. “No, I don’t know everyone, but, sadly—even more sadly than the existence of my conscience—I know almost everyone.”

  Annabel considered some of the people she had met in the last few weeks and gave a wry smile. “I can see where that might be dispiriting.”

  “A lady of intelligence and discernment,” he said. “My favorite kind.”

  He was flirting with her. Annabel fought back against the frisson of delight that seemed to roll across her skin. He really was quite beautiful, this man. His hair was dark, probably somewhere between walnut and chocolate, and it was dashing and unruly in the way that all the young gentlemen spent hours trying to achieve. His face was…Well, Annabel was no artist and never had learned how to describe a face, but his was somehow uneven and perfect at the same time.

  “I’m very glad you have a conscience,” she whispered.

  He looked over at her and even leaned forward a touch, his eyes alight with amusement. “What did you say?”

  She felt herself blush, and this time she knew he could see it. What was she supposed to say now? I’m so glad you have a conscience because if you decided to kiss me, I do believe I’d let you?

  He was everything Lord Newbury was not. Young, handsome, witty. A little bit dashing, quite a lot dangerous. He was the sort of gentleman young ladies swore to avoid but secretly dreamed about. And for the next few moments, she had him all to herself.

  Just a few more minutes. She would allow herself a few more minutes. That was all.

  He must have realized that she was not going to tell him what she’d said, so instead he asked (again, as if this were an ordinary conversation), “Is this your first season?”

  “It is.”

  “And are you enjoying yourself?”

  “That would depend upon when you asked me that question.”

  He smiled wryly. “An indisputable truth, I am sure. Are you enjoying yourself right now?”

  Annabel’s heart flipped in her chest. “Very much so,” she said, unable to believe how even her voice sounded. She must be getting better at the playacting that passed for conversation in town.

  “I am so pleased to hear it.” He leaned toward her ever so slightly, his head dipping to the side in a gesture that was almost self-deprecating. “I do pride myself on being an excellent host.”

  Annabel glanced down at the blanket, then looked back up at him with dubious eyes.

  He gazed at her warmly. “One must be a good host, no matter how humble the domicile.”

  “Surely you are not trying to tell me that you make your home on Hampstead Heath.”

  “Gad no. I’m much too fond of my creature comforts for that. But it would be amusing, don’t you think, for a day or two?”

  “Somehow I suspect that the novelty of it all would fade with the morning light.”

  “No,” he mused. His eyes took on a faraway expression, and he said, “Perhaps a bit after that, but not by the morning light.”

  She wanted to ask him what he meant, but she didn’t know quite how to do it. He looked so lost in his own thoughts it almost seemed rude to interrupt. And so she waited, watching him with a curious expression, knowing that if he turned to her, he would see the question in her eyes.

  He never did turn to her, but after a minute or so, he said, “It’s different in the morning. The light is flatter. Redder. It catches the mist in the air, almost as if it creeps up from underneath. Everything is new,” he said softly. “Everything.”

  Annabel’s breath caught. He sounded so wistful. It made her want to remain right where she was, on the blanket beside him, until the sun started to rise on the eastern horizon. He made her want to see the heath in morning light. He made her want to see him in the morning light.

  “I should like to take a bath in it,” he murmured. “The morning light, and nothing else.”

  It should have been shocking, but Annabel sensed that he wasn’t talking to her. Throughout the conversation he’d prodded and teased, testing how far he could go before she turned prude and ran away. But this…It was perhaps the most suggestive thing he’d said, and yet she knew…

  It hadn’t been for her.

  “I think you’re a poet,” she said, and she was smiling, because for some reason, this brought her great joy.

  He let out a short snort of laughter. “That would be lovely, were it true.” He turned back in her direction, and she knew that the moment was gone. Whatever hidden part of himself he’d dipped into, he’d put it back, boxed it up tight, and once again he was the devil-may-care charmer, the man all the girls wanted to be with.

  The man all the men wanted to be.

  And she didn’t even know his name.

  It was best that way, though. She’d find out who he was eventually, and he’d do the same, and then he’d pity her, the poor girl forced to marry Lord Newbury. Or maybe he’d scorn her instead, thinking that she was doing it for the money, which of course she was.

  She gathered her legs underneath her, not exactly kneeling but rather resting on her right hip. It was her favorite way to sit, utterly wrong for London but without a doubt the way her body liked to arrange itself. She gazed in front of her, realizing that she was looking away from the house. There was something fitting about that. She wasn’t sure which way a compass would point, though; was she facing west, toward home? Or east, to the Continent, where she’d never been and likely never would go. Lord Newbury didn’t seem the type to enjoy travel, and as his interest in her was limited to her childbearing talents, she rather doubted he would allow her to venture forth without him.

  She’d always wanted to see Rome. She probably would never have gone, even if there had been no Lord Newbury lusting over her wide, birthing hips, but there had always been the chance.

  She closed her eyes for a moment, almost in mourning. She was already thinking as if the marriage was a fait accompli. She’d been telling herself that she might still refuse, but that was just the desperate corner of her brain trying to assert itself. The practical part of her had already accepted it.

  So there it was. She really would marry Lord Newbury if he asked. As repulsive and horrifying as it was, she’d do it.

  She sighed, feeling utterly defeated. There would be no Rome for her, no romance, no a hundred other things she couldn’t even bring herself to think about. But her family would be provided for, and as her grandmother had said, perhaps Newbury would die soon. It was a wicked, immoral thought, but she didn’t think she could enter the marriage without clutching onto it as her salvation.

  “You seem rather pensive,” came the warm voice from beside her.

  Annabel nodded slowly.

  “Penny for them.”

  She smiled wistfully. “Just thinking.”

  “Of all the things you need to do,” he guessed. Except it didn’t sound like a question.

  “No.” She was quiet for a moment, and then said, “All the thi
ngs I’m never going to get to do.”

  “I see.” He was quiet for a moment, and then he said, “I’m sorry.”

  She turned suddenly, shaking the fog from her eyes and settling on his face with a frank gaze. “Have you ever been to Rome? It’s a mad question, I know, because I don’t even know your name, and I don’t want to know your name, at least not tonight, but have you ever been to Rome?”

  He shook his head. “Have you?”

  “No.”

  “I have been to Paris,” he said. “And Madrid.”

  “You were a soldier,” she stated. Because what else would he have been, seeing such cities at such a time?

  He gave a little shrug. “It’s not the most pleasant way to see the world, but it does get the job done.”

  “This is the farthest I have ever been from home,” Annabel said.

  “Here?” He looked at her, blinked, then pointed his finger straight down. “This heath?”

  “This heath,” she confirmed. “I think Hampstead is farther from home than London. Or maybe it’s not.”

  “Does it matter?”

  “It does, actually,” she said, surprising herself with her answer, because obviously it didn’t matter.

  And yet it felt like it should.

  “One can’t argue with that kind of certainty,” he said in a smile-tinged murmur.

  She felt herself grin. “I very much enjoy being certain.”

  “Don’t we all?”

  “The best of us, perhaps,” she said archly, getting into the spirit of their game.

  “Some say it’s foolhardy to be so eternally certain.”

  “Some?”

  “Oh, not me,” he assured her, “but some.”

  She laughed, deep and true, all the way from her belly. She was loud, and uncouth, and it felt wonderful.

  He chuckled along with her, then asked, “Rome, I assume, is on your list of things you’ll never get to do?”

  “Yes,” she said, her lungs still quivering from merriment. It no longer seemed so sad, that she would never see Rome. Not when she’d just laughed so hard and so well.

  “I’ve heard it can be dusty.”