by Julia Quinn
“I myself am insanely jealous,” Mr. Grey murmured.
“Of Harry?” Lady Olivia asked, turning to him with surprise.
“I can imagine no greater bliss than to lie about, reading novels all day.”
“Very good novels at that,” Louisa put in.
Lady Olivia chuckled, but she did say, “He does a bit more than read. There is the small matter of the translation.”
“Pfft.” Mr. Grey dismissed this with a flick of his hand. “A mere trifle.”
“To translate into Russian?” Annabel asked dubiously.
He turned to her with an expression that might have been condescending. “I was employing hyperbole.”
He’d spoken softly, though, and Annabel did not think that either Louisa or Lady Olivia heard him. They were chatting about something or other and had moved off a bit to the right, leaving Annabel with Mr. Grey. Not alone—not even remotely alone—but it somehow felt like it, nonetheless.
“Have you a given name, Miss Winslow?” he asked softly.
“Annabel,” she replied, her voice prim and curt and really rather unpleasant.
“Annabel,” he repeated. “I would say that it suits you, except of course, how would I know?”
She clamped her lips together, but her toes were wiggling in her boots.
He smiled wolfishly. “Since we’ve never met.”
Still she kept her mouth shut. She did not trust herself to speak.
This only seemed to amuse him more. He tilted his head in her direction, the very model of a polite English gentleman. “I shall be delighted to see you again this evening.”
“Will you?”
He chuckled. “How tart! Positively lemonish of you.”
“Lemonish,” she said flatly. “Really.”
He leaned in. “Why, I wonder, do you dislike me so much?”
Annabel shot a frantic glance at her cousin.
“She can’t hear me,” he said.
“You don’t know that.”
He looked over at Louisa and Lady Olivia, who were now kneeling next to Frederick. “They’re much too busy with the dog. Although…” He frowned. “How Olivia is going to get back to standing in her state is beyond me.”
“She’ll be fine,” Annabel said without thinking.
He turned to her with raised brows.
“She’s not far enough along.”
“Normally I would assume that such a statement comes from a voice of experience, but as I know that you have no experience, except me, I—”
“I am the oldest of eight,” Annabel snapped. “My mother was with child throughout my entire childhood.”
“An explanation I had not considered,” he admitted. “I hate when that happens.”
Annabel wanted to dislike him. She really did. But he was making it difficult, with his lopsided grin and self-effacing charm. “Why did you accept Louisa’s invitation to the opera?” she asked.
He looked at her blankly, even though she knew his brain was whirring along at triple speed. “It’s the Fenniwick box,” he said, as if there could be no other explanation. “I’m not likely to get such a good seat again.”
It was true. Louisa’s aunt had raved about the location.
“And of course you looked so miserable,” he added. “It was hard to resist.”
She shot him a dirty look.
“Honesty in all things,” he quipped. “It’s my new credo.”
“New?”
He shrugged. “As of this afternoon, at least.”
“And until this evening?”
“Certainly until I reach the opera house,” he said with a wicked smile. When she did not return the expression, he added, “Come now, Miss Winslow, surely you are in possession of a sense of humor.”
Annabel nearly groaned. There were so many reasons this conversation was not funny she hardly knew where to start. There were so many reasons it was not funny it was almost funny.
“You needn’t worry,” he said quietly.
She looked up. His face had gone serious. Not dark, not grave, just…serious.
“I won’t say anything,” he said.
Somehow she knew that he was telling the truth. “Thank you.”
He leaned over and kissed her hand again. “I do believe that today, Tuesday, is a lovely day to make the acquaintance of a young lady.”
“It’s Wednesday,” she told him.
“Is it? I’m terrible with dates. It’s my only flaw.”
She really wanted to laugh. But she didn’t dare draw attention. Louisa and Lady Olivia were still chatting away, and the longer they were distracted the better.
“You’re smiling,” he said.
“No, I’m not.”
“You want to. The corners of your mouth are puckering.”
“They are not!”
He gave her a sly grin. “They are now.”
He was right, the fiend. He’d managed to make her laugh—or at least make her smile in the struggle not to laugh—in under a minute.
Was it any wonder she’d asked him to kiss her?
“Annabel!”
Annabel turned with relief at the sound of Louisa’s voice.
“My aunt is waving us over,” Louisa said, and sure enough, Lady Cosgrove was starting across the grass at them, looking very stern.
“I expect she doesn’t approve of your talking to me,” Mr. Grey said, “although I would think that Olivia’s presence would be enough to make me palatable.”
“I’m not that respectable,” Lady Olivia said.
Annabel’s lips parted in shock.
“She is completely respectable,” Louisa hastily whispered to Annabel. “She’s just, oh, never mind.”
Once again, everyone knew everything about everyone else. Except Annabel.
Annabel just sighed. Or not really. She couldn’t sigh in such a close gathering; it would be hopelessly uncouth. But she wanted to sigh. Something inside of her felt like it sighed.
Lady Cosgrove arrived on the scene and immediately took Louisa’s arm. “Lady Olivia,” she said with a cordial nod. “Mr. Grey.”
They returned the greeting, Mr. Grey with a smart bow and Lady Olivia with a curtsy so graceful it ought to be criminal.
“I have invited Lady Olivia and Mr. Grey to join us at the opera tonight,” Louisa said.
“Of course,” Lady Cosgrove said politely. “Lady Olivia, please do give my regards to your mother. I have not seen her in an age.”
“She has had a bit of a cold,” Lady Olivia replied, “but she is almost recovered. I am sure she would be delighted if you called upon her.”
“Perhaps I shall do that.”
Annabel watched the exchange with interest. Lady Cosgrove had not cut Mr. Grey, but she had managed not to speak a word in his direction after first greeting him. It was curious. She had not thought he was such a persona non grata. After all, he was heir to the earldom of Newbury, even if only the heir presumptive.
She would have to ask Louisa about this. When she was done killing her for inviting him to the opera.
Further pleasantries were exchanged, but it was apparent that Lady Cosgrove meant to remove her charges and depart. Not to mention Frederick, who looked as if he’d like to conduct some business in the shrubbery.
“Until this evening, Miss Winslow,” Mr. Grey said, leaning over her hand once again.
Annabel tried not to react as the touch of his lips on her hand sent a tingle up her arm. “Until this evening,” she repeated.
And as she watched him stroll away, she could not remember when she had looked forward to anything more.
Chapter Nine
Sebastian was rather surprised by how much he was looking forward to the opera that evening. Not that he wasn’t a fan; he was, even if he had now seen The Magic Flute enough times to recite both of the Queen of the Night’s arias from memory.
Another item to add to his list of useless talents.
He wasn’t quite sure why the theatrical companies of Great Br
itain kept insisting upon performing the same opera over and over again. He supposed it was for the benefit of the scores of Englishmen too stubborn to learn a foreign language. It was easier, in Seb’s opinion, to follow along with a comedy than a tragedy. Or at the very least, know when to laugh.
But as much as he wanted to see the opera from the exalted position of the Fenniwick box, he wanted to see her more.
Miss Winslow.
Miss Annabel Winslow.
Annabel.
He liked that name. There was something bucolic about it, something that smelled clean, like grass.
He did not know many women who would find such a comparison complimentary, but somehow he suspected Miss Winslow would.
Other than that, he knew little about her, save for the fact that she’d befriended the daughter of a duke. It was a smart move for any young lady looking to elevate herself in the ranks of society, but Miss Winslow and Lady Louisa had seemed truly to enjoy each other’s company.
Another point in Miss Winslow’s favor. Sebastian never could abide those who faked friendship to advance their position.
He also knew that she had an unwanted suitor. This was nothing out of the ordinary; most young ladies of acceptable looks and/or fortune had an unwanted suitor or two. What was interesting was that she had actually fled the party to avoid the man. It could mean that he was particularly heinous.
Or that she was given to foolish behavior.
Or that said suitor had made an unwanted advance.
Or that she had overreacted.
Sebastian considered the options as he rode to the opera house. If he were writing the story (and he did not discount the possibility that someday he might; it did sound like something out of a Gorely novel), how would he do it?
The suitor would have to be dreadful. Very rich, perhaps with a title—someone who could exert pressure on her poor, penniless family. Not that he had the slightest clue if Miss Winslow’s family was poor and penniless, but it did make for a better plot that way.
He would have attacked her in a darkened corner, away from the party. No, that wouldn’t do. It would be too early in the novel for such drama, and probably too lurid for his audience. His readers did not actually want to see a woman fending off an unwanted advance; they only wanted to read about people gossiping about it after the fact.
Or at least that was what his publisher told him.
Very well, if she hadn’t been attacked, then perhaps she had been blackmailed. Sebastian felt himself perk up. Blackmail was always a good story element. He used it almost every time.
“Guv!”
Sebastian blinked and looked up. He hadn’t even realized that he’d arrived at the opera house. He’d taken a hired hack, unpleasant though it was. He did not keep a carriage of his own, and he’d told Olivia that she and Harry need not pick him up on their way. Better to give the not-quite-newlyweds some time alone.
Harry would thank him for it later, Seb was sure.
Sebastian hopped down, paid the driver, and made his way inside. He was a bit early, but there were already quite a few people milling about, seeing and being seen in their glittered finery.
He made his way slowly through the crowd, chatting with acquaintances, smiling, as he always did, at the young ladies who least expected it. The evening was promising all sorts of delight, and then, just when he’d almost made it across to the stairs—
His uncle.
Sebastian stiffened, barely suppressing his groan. He did not know why he was surprised; it made perfect sense that the Earl of Newbury would be attending the opera, especially if he was on the prowl for a new wife. Still, he had been in such a good mood. It seemed almost criminal that his uncle should be here to spoil it.
Normally, he’d have changed his course so as to avoid him. Seb was no coward, but really, why go out of one’s way to encounter unpleasantness?
Unfortunately, there was no escaping him this time. Newbury had seen Sebastian, and Sebastian knew he knew that he’d seen him, too. More to the point, about four other gentlemen had seen them see each other, and while Seb did not consider himself a coward for staying out of Newbury’s way, he was aware that others might.
He was not so deluded as to think that he did not care for the good opinion of others. He’d be damned if he was going to allow half of London to whisper that he was afraid of his uncle.
And so, since avoidance was not possible, he employed tactics of the opposite pole, and made sure his path led right to Newbury’s side.
“Uncle,” he said, pausing briefly to acknowledge him.
His uncle scowled, but he was clearly so surprised by the direct hit that he did not have time to plan a scathing retort. Instead he gave a curt nod accompanied by a grunt, since he was obviously unable to make his mouth form Sebastian’s name.
“Delightful to see you as always,” Sebastian said with a broad smile. “I had not realized you enjoyed music.” And then, before Newbury could do anything more than grind his teeth, he gave a nod of farewell and walked away.
All in all, a successful encounter. Which would be made only better once the earl realized his nephew was sitting in the Fenniwick box. Newbury was a horrible snob and would certainly be furious that Sebastian was sitting in a better location.
Which hadn’t been his intention in accepting Lady Louisa’s invitation, but really, who was he to argue with an unexpected boon?
When Sebastian reached the box, he saw that Lady Louisa and Miss Winslow had already arrived, along with the Ladies Cosgrove and Wimbledon, who, if his memory served, were sisters to the Duke of Fenniwick. Who was not present, despite his name being the one attached to the box.
Sebastian noted that Lady Louisa was flanked by both aunts. Miss Winslow, on the other hand, had been left out to dry, seated in the front row by herself. Undoubtedly, Ladies C and W were acting to protect their charge from his insidious influence.
He smiled. All the better to influence Miss Winslow, who, he could not help but notice, looked positively delicious in her apple-green gown.
“Mr. Grey!” Lady Louisa cried out in greeting.
He bowed. “Lady Louisa, Lady Cosgrove, Lady Wimbledon.” And then, turning slightly, and smiling differently: “Miss Winslow.”
“Mr. Grey,” she said. Her cheeks went a bit pink, barely noticeable in the evening candlelight. But it was enough to make him smile inside.
Sebastian surveyed the seat selection and was instantly glad that he had chosen to come early and alone. His options were up front with Miss Winslow, the final seat in the middle next to the frowning Lady Wimbledon, or in the back, awaiting whomever else might arrive.
“I cannot allow Miss Winslow to sit by herself,” he announced, and promptly took a seat next to her.
“Mr. Grey,” she said again. “I thought your cousins were planning to attend as well.”
“They are. But it was not convenient for them to pick me up en route.” He turned in his seat to include Lady Louisa in the conversation. “As I am not precisely en route.”
“That was very kind of you not to insist upon it,” Lady Louisa said.
“Kindness had nothing to do with it,” he lied. “They would have insisted upon sending the carriage for me before they alighted, and I would have had to be ready a full hour earlier.”
Lady Louisa chuckled, and then, as if the thought had burst quite suddenly into her mind, said, “Oh! I must thank you for the book.”
“It was my pleasure,” he murmured.
“What book?” one of the aunts asked.
“I would have sent one to you, too,” he said to Miss Winslow while Lady Louisa conferred with her aunt, “but I did not know your address.”
Miss Winslow swallowed uncomfortably and said, “Er, that is quite all right. I’m sure I may read Lady Louisa’s when she is done.”
“Oh no,” Lady Louisa said, leaning forward. “I shall never lend this one out. It is signed by the author.”
“Signed by the author?” Lad
y Cosgrove exclaimed. “However did you find an autographed copy?”
Seb shrugged. “I stumbled upon it last year. I thought Lady Louisa might enjoy it.”
“Oh, I do,” she said earnestly. “It is truly one of the most thoughtful gifts I have ever received.”
“You must allow me to see it,” Lady Wimbledon said to Lady Louisa. “Mrs. Gorely is one of my very favorite authors. Such imagination!”
Seb wondered just how many signed Gorely books he might believably have stumbled upon. Clearly this was a better gift than anything else he could afford. He decided he’d better lay the foundation for his story now:
“I found a complete autographed set at a bookshop last autumn,” he said, rather pleased with his inventiveness. He now had three more opportunities for autographed gifts. Who knew when they might come in handy?
“I really cannot ask you to break up the set,” Lady Louisa murmured, clearly hoping that he would tell her it was no bother.
“It’s no bother,” he assured her. “It is the least I can do in exchange for such a wonderful seat for the opera.” He took this opportunity to engage Miss Winslow in the conversation. “You are very fortunate to sit here for your first opera.”
“I am looking forward to it,” she said.
“Enough so that you don’t mind sitting next to me?” he said in a low voice.
He saw her try not to smile. “Indeed.”
“I am told I am quite charming,” he told her.
“Are you?”
“Charming?”
“No.” She tried again not to smile. “Told that you are so.”
“Ah. Occasionally. Not by my family, of course.”
This time she did smile. Sebastian was absurdly pleased.
“Naturally, I live to pester them,” he said.
She laughed. “You must not be the eldest child.”
“Why would you say that?”
“Because we hate pestering.”
“Oh we do?”
She blinked with surprise. “You are the oldest?”
“Only, I’m afraid. Such a disappointment for my parents.”
“Ah, well, that explains it.”
A parry he could not resist. “Pray tell.”
She turned to him, clearly engaged in the conversation. Her expression was perhaps a touch supercilious, but he found he liked a crafty look in her eye.
