by Julia Quinn
“It is quite possible,” he continued, clearly pleased with the hanging-on-every-word silence that filled the room, “that Lord Newbury will marry you immediately. He will need to defend his honor, and the quickest way to do so would be to plow you well and good.”
Annabel drew back, then felt even sicker as Mr. Grimston looked her up and down.
“You do look the sort to breed quickly,” he said.
“Indeed,” Lady Twombley added with a flick of her wrist.
“I beg your pardon,” Annabel said stiffly.
“Or,” Mr. Grimston added, “Mr. Grey will seduce you.”
“What?”
This caught Lady Twombley’s interest instantly. “Do you really think so, Basil?” she asked.
He turned to her, completely turning his back on Annabel. “Oh, to be certain. Can you think of a better way for him to exact his revenge against his uncle?”
“I’m going to have to ask the two of you to leave,” Annabel said.
“Oh, I thought of a third!” Lady Twombley chimed, as if Annabel had not just attempted to evict her.
Mr. Grimston was all ears. “Really?”
“The earl could choose someone else, of course. Miss Winslow is hardly the only unmarried girl in London. No one would think less of him for looking elsewhere after what happened last night at the opera.”
“Nothing happened at the opera,” Annabel ground out.
Lady Twombley looked at her pityingly. “It doesn’t matter if anything happened or not. Surely you realize that?”
“Go on, Cressida,” Mr. Grimston said.
“Of course,” she said, as if bestowing a gift. “If Lord Newbury chooses someone else, Mr. Grey will have little reason to pursue Miss Winslow.”
“What happens then?” Annabel asked, even though she knew she should not.
They both looked at her with identically blank expressions. “Why, you’ll be a pariah,” Lady Twombley said, as if nothing could have been more obvious.
Annabel was speechless. Not so much at the words, but at the delivery. These people had come into her home—her grandparents’ home, but really, it was hers for the time being—and insulted her in every possible manner. That they were most probably correct in their predictions only made it worse.
“We are so sorry to be the bearers of unpleasant news,” Lady Twombley cooed.
“I think you should go,” Annabel said, standing. She would have liked to have made the request in a quite different manner, but she was all too aware that her reputation was now hanging by a thread, and these people—these awful, horrible people—had the power to pull out their little scissors and cut.
“Of course,” Lady Twombley said, coming to her feet. “You will be overset, I’m sure.”
“You do look flushed,” Mr. Grimston added. “Although that might just be the burgundy of your gown. You would do well to find a shade with a touch less blue to it.”
“I shall take that under advisement,” Annabel said tightly.
“Oh, you should, Miss Winslow,” Lady Twombley said, sailing to the door. “Basil has such a cunning eye for fashion. Truly.”
And just like that they were gone.
Almost.
They had just made it to the front hall when Annabel heard her grandmother’s voice. At—good heavens, Annabel looked at the clock—half ten! What on earth could have got Lady Vickers out of bed at such an hour?
Annabel spent the next ten minutes standing near the open doorway, listening to her grandmother receive the gospel according to Grimston and Twombley. What joy, she thought flatly, to hear it all again. In such impeccable detail. Finally, the front door opened and closed, and one minute later Lady Vickers stormed into the room.
“I need a drink,” she announced, “and so do you.”
Annabel did not argue.
“Annoying weasely little pair they are,” her grandmother said, tossing back her brandy in one gulp. She poured another, took a sip, then poured one for Annabel. “But they’re right, dash it all. It’s a fine mess you’ve got yourself into, my girl.”
Annabel touched her lips to the brandy. Drinking at half ten. What would her mother say?
Her grandmother shook her head. “Foolish, foolish girl. What were you thinking?”
Annabel hoped that was a rhetorical question.
“Well, I suppose you didn’t know any better.” Lady Vickers topped off her glass and sat in her favorite chair. “You’re lucky your grandfather is such a good friend to the earl. We’ll save the match yet.”
Annabel nodded dutifully, wishing…
Wishing…
Just wishing. For anything. For something good.
“Thank heavens Judkins had the sense to alert me to all your visitors,” her grandmother went on. “I tell you, Annabel, it makes very little difference what sort of husband you take on, but a good butler is worth his weight in gold.”
Annabel could not even begin to think of a response.
Her grandmother took another drink from her glass. “Judkins said Rebecca and Winifred were here earlier?”
Annabel nodded, assuming that meant the Ladies Westfield and Challis.
“We are going to be inundated. Just inundated.” She looked over at Annabel with narrowed eyes. “I hope you’re prepared.”
Annabel felt something desperate uncurling in her belly. “Can’t we say we’re not at home?”
Lady Vickers snorted. “No, we can’t say we’re not at home. You got yourself into this mess, and you’ll take it like a lady, which means holding your head high, receiving every guest, and remembering each word so that it might be dissected later for analysis.”
Annabel sat, then stood when Judkins entered, announcing the next set of visitors.
“You’d best finish that brandy,” her grandmother said to her. “You’re going to need it.”
Chapter Twelve
Three days later
If you don’t do something to repair what you’ve done, I shall never speak to you again.”
Sebastian looked up from his eggs into the magnificently furious face of his cousin’s wife. Olivia wasn’t often angry, and truly, it was a sight to behold.
Although all things considered, he’d have rather beheld it turned upon someone else.
Seb looked toward Harry, who was reading the newspaper over his own breakfast. Harry just shrugged, the motion clearly indicating that he did not judge this to be his problem.
Sebastian took a sip of his tea, swallowed, then looked back up at Olivia with a carefully blank countenance. “I beg your pardon,” he said cheerfully. “Were you speaking to me?”
“Harry!” she exclaimed, letting out a huff of indignation. But her husband just shook his head, not even looking up.
Olivia’s eyes narrowed menacingly, and Seb decided he was quite glad not to be in Harry’s future shoes, when he had to face down his wife that evening.
Although really, one would hope Harry would be shoeless by that point.
“Sebastian!” Olivia said sternly. “Are you even listening to me?”
He blinked her face into focus. “I hang on your every word, dear cousin. You know that.”
She yanked out the chair across from him and sat down.
“Don’t you want breakfast?” he asked mildly.
“Later. First I—”
“I would be happy to fix your plate,” he offered. “You don’t want to go without the proper sustenance in your condition, you know.”
“My condition isn’t the problem at hand,” she said, pointing a long, graceful finger in his direction. “Sit.”
Seb tilted his head quizzically. “I am sitting.”
“You were thinking of getting up.”
He turned to Harry. “How do you tolerate her?”
Harry looked up from the newspaper for the first time that morning and smiled slyly. “There are certain benefits,” he murmured.
“Harry!” Olivia squeaked.
Sebastian was pleased to se
e that she blushed. “Very well,” he said, “what have I done now?”
“It is Miss Winslow.”
Miss Winslow. Seb tried not to frown as he thought of her. Which was ironic because he’d spent the better part of two days frowning as he tried not to think of her. “What about Miss Winslow?”
“You did not mention that she was being courted by your uncle.”
“I did not know that she was being courted by my uncle.” Did his words sound a little tight? That would not do. He needed to get a firmer grip on his aspect and attitude.
There was a beat of silence. And then: “You must be very angry with her.”
“On the contrary,” Sebastian said nonchalantly.
Olivia’s pretty little lips opened in surprise. “You’re not angry with her?”
Seb shrugged. “It requires far too much energy to be angry.” He looked up from his food, giving her a bland smile. “I have better things to do with my time.”
“You do? I mean, of course you do. But wouldn’t you agree—”
Sebastian thought that he needed to do something about this niggle of irritation jabbing him under his ribs. It was really rather unpleasant, and he found it so much easier to glide along, letting insults roll off his back. But really, did Olivia think he sat about eating bonbons all day?
“Sebastian? Are you listening to me?”
He smiled and lied, “Of course.”
Olivia let out a noise that was somewhere between a groan and a growl. But she plodded on. “Very well, you’re not angry with her, although, in my opinion, you have every right to be. Still—”
“If you were being pursued by my uncle,” Sebastian cut in, “wouldn’t you wish for a few last moments of merriment? I say this not to be boastful—although I am rather good company, if I may say so myself—but I really don’t think it can be disputed. I’m a far more pleasant companion than Newbury.”
“He has a point,” Harry said.
Olivia scowled. “I thought you weren’t listening.”
“I’m not,” he replied. “I am merely sitting here while my ears are assaulted.”
“How do you put up with him?” Sebastian murmured.
Olivia grit her teeth. “There are benefits,” she ground out.
Although Sebastian rather thought Harry might not be getting any benefits that evening.
“So there it is,” Sebastian said to Olivia. “I forgive her. She should have said something, but I understand why she did not, and I rather suspect that any one of us would have done the same.”
There was a pause, and then Olivia said, “That is very generous of you.”
He shrugged. “It’s not good for the constitution to carry a grudge. Just look at Newbury. He’d not be nearly so fat and florid if he didn’t hate me so much.” He turned back to his breakfast, wondering what Olivia might make of that little leap of logic.
She waited approximately ten seconds before continuing on. “I am relieved to hear that you do not harbor her any ill will. As I said, she is in need of your help. After your little scene at White’s—”
“What?” Sebastian snapped, barely resisting the urge to slam his hand on the table. “Hold this minute. It was not my scene at all. If you wish to take someone to task, go find my uncle.”
“Very well, I’m sorry,” Olivia said, with enough discomfort that he believed her. “It was entirely your uncle’s doing, I realize that, but the end result is the same. Miss Winslow is in a terrible spot, and you are the only person who can save her.”
Sebastian took another bite of his food, then carefully wiped his mouth. There were at least ten things about Olivia’s statement that he could have taken exception to, were he the sort of gentleman to take exception to statements made by females in a huff. The first being:
One: Miss Winslow’s spot was not so terrible because Two: she was apparently very close to becoming the Countess of Newbury, which Three: came with all sorts of fortune and prestige, despite also coming with the Earl of Newbury, whom no one could possibly judge as a prize.
To say nothing of Four: Sebastian was the one sporting a black eye and Five: he was also the one who’d had a drink thrown in his face, all because Six: she had not seen fit to tell him that she was being courted by his uncle despite the fact that Seven: she knew damn well of the connection, because Eight: she had nearly passed out from shock when he’d told her his name that night on the heath.
But perhaps he really ought to focus more on the second part of Olivia’s statement, the bit about his being the only person who could save Miss Winslow. Because Nine: he saw no reason why this might be the case, and Ten: he also didn’t see why he should care.
“Well?” Olivia demanded. “Do you have any thoughts on the matter?”
“Quite a few, actually,” he said equably. He went back to his food. After a few moments he looked back up. Olivia was gripping the table so hard her knuckles were turning white, and the look on her face…
“Careful there,” he murmured. “You’re going to curdle the milk.”
“Harry!” she fairly yelled.
Harry lowered the newspaper. “While I do appreciate your soliciting my opinion, I am quite certain I have nothing to offer this conversation. I doubt I’d even recognize Miss Winslow if I stumbled across her in the street.”
“You spent an entire evening in the opera box with her,” Olivia said in disbelief.
Harry considered this. “I suppose I might recognize the back of her head, were that the view she offered to me.”
Sebastian chuckled, then very quickly straightened his expression. Olivia was not amused. “Oh very well,” he said, holding his hands toward her in supplication. “Tell me how this is all my fault and what I may do to fix it.”
Olivia stared at him for one last endless second before saying quite primly, “I am glad you asked.”
Harry choked on something down the table. Probably his laughter. Sebastian hoped it was his tongue.
“Do you have any idea what people are saying about Miss Winslow?” Olivia asked.
As Sebastian had spent the last two days holed up in his rooms, working on getting the fictional Miss Spencer out from under her fictional Scotsman’s fictional bed, he did not, in fact, know what people were saying about Miss Winslow.
“Well?” Olivia demanded.
“I do not,” he admitted.
“They are saying”—she leaned forward here, and her expression was such that Sebastian just barely resisted the urge to lean back—“that it is only a matter of time before you seduce her.”
“She would not be the first lady about whom that has been said,” Seb pointed out.
“It’s different,” Olivia said between her teeth, “and you know that it is. Miss Winslow is not one of your merry widows.”
“I do love a good merry widow,” he murmured, just because he knew it would vex her.
“People are saying,” she ground out, “that you will ruin her just to thwart your uncle.”
“I am quite certain that is not my plan,” Sebastian said, “and I expect the rest of society will figure that out once they realize I have not even called upon her.”
And he did not intend to. Yes, he quite liked Miss Winslow, and yes, he’d spent far too much of his waking hours pondering the various ways he’d like to tie her to a bed, but he had absolutely no intention of following through on that particular fantasy. He might have forgiven her, but he had no plans for any further contact. As far as he was concerned, if Newbury wanted her, Newbury could have her.
Which was what he said to Olivia, although with perhaps a bit more delicacy. This, however, only earned him a furious glare, followed by, “Newbury doesn’t want her any longer. That is the problem.”
“For whom?” Seb asked suspiciously. “If I were Miss Winslow, I’d see that as something more akin to a solution.”
“You are not Miss Winslow, and furthermore, you are not a lady.”
“Thank God,” he said, with no small bit of feeli
ng. Beside him, Harry rapped three times on the table.
Olivia scowled at both of them. “If you were a lady,” she said, “you would understand what a disaster this is. Lord Newbury has not called upon her even once since your altercation.”
Sebastian’s brows rose. “Really?”
“Really. Do you know who has called upon her?”
“I do not,” he replied, because it wasn’t as if she was going to withhold the information, anyway.
“Everyone else. Everyone!”
“Quite a busy drawing room,” he murmured.
“Sebastian! Do you know whom ‘everyone’ includes?”
He briefly considered a sarcastic answer, then decided, out of motives of pure self-preservation, that he ought to hold his tongue.
“Cressida Twombley,” Olivia fairly hissed. “And Basil Grimston. They have been there three times.”
“Three ti—How do you know this?”
“I know everything,” Olivia said dismissively.
This, he believed. If Olivia had been in town before she’d met Miss Winslow in the park, none of this would have happened. She would have known that Annabel Winslow was Lady Louisa’s cousin. She’d probably have known her birthday and favorite color as well. She certainly would have known that Miss Winslow was a Vickers granddaughter, and thus his uncle’s prey.
And Sebastian would have steered himself far far away. That kiss on the heath would be nothing but a dim (albeit delightful) memory. He certainly would not have accepted the invitation to the opera, and he would not have sat next to her, and he would not know that her eyes—such a clear, focused gray—took on a hint of green when she dressed in that color. He would not know that her sensibilities were remarkably like his, or that she caught the inside of her lower lip between her teeth when she was concentrating on something. Or that she was not terribly good at sitting still.
Or that she smelled faintly of violets.
If he had but known who she was, none of those pesky bits of information would be jiggling about in his brain, taking up useful space from something important. Like a thorough analysis of roundarm versus underarm bowling in cricket. Or the precise wording of Shakespeare’s sonnet “Alack! What poverty my Muse brings forth,” which he’d been misquoting in his head for at least a year now.
