by Julia Quinn
He looked down at her with a vaguely condescending air. “You’re very hard on your fellow man, Miss Winslow.”
She bristled. “I don’t think it is too much to ask.”
He nodded slowly. “All the same, I think I might have rather my uncle hadn’t said what he meant Wednesday night.”
Annabel swallowed, feeling a bit queasy. And certainly guilty.
“I suppose I appreciate his honesty. On a purely philosophical level, of course.” He gave her precisely half a smile. “Practically speaking, however, I do think I’m prettier without the eye patch.”
“I’m sorry,” she said. It wasn’t quite the right thing to say, but it was the best she could think of. And at least it wasn’t wrong.
He waved off her apology. “All new experiences are good for the soul. Now I know exactly what it is like to be punched in the face.”
“This is good for your soul?” she asked dubiously.
He shrugged, looking out over the crowd. “One never knows when one will need to know how to describe something.”
Annabel found this to be an extremely odd statement, but she didn’t say anything.
“Besides,” he said breezily, “were it not for misunderstandings, we would be sadly lacking in great literature.”
She looked at him questioningly.
“Where would Romeo and Juliet be?”
“Alive.”
“True, but think of the hours of entertainment the rest of us would have lost.”
Annabel smiled. She couldn’t help it. “I prefer comedies myself.”
“Do you? I suppose they are more entertaining. But then one would never experience the heightened sense of drama afforded by tragedies.” He turned to her with that expression of his she was growing so accustomed to—the polite mask he wore for society, the one that labeled him a bored bon vivant, oxymoron though it was. And indeed, he let out a slightly affected sigh before saying, “What would life be without bleak moments?”
“Rather lovely, I think.” Annabel considered her recent bleak moment, at the hands—or rather, paws—of Lord Newbury. She’d have been quite happy to have done without.
“Hmmm.” That was all he said, or rather, hmmmed. Annabel felt a strange need to fill the silence, and she blurted out, “I was voted Winslow Most Likely to Speak Her Mind.”
That caught his attention. “Really?” His lips twitched. “And who might we count among the electorate?”
“Er, the other Winslows.”
He chuckled.
“There are eight of us,” she explained. “Ten with my parents, well, nine now that my father has passed, but still, more than enough for a decent vote.”
“I’m sorry about your father,” he said.
She nodded, waiting for the familiar lump to form in her throat. But it didn’t. “He was a good man,” she said.
He nodded in acknowledgment, then asked, “What other titles have you won?”
She gave a guilty grimace. “Winslow Most Likely to Fall Asleep in Church.”
He laughed loudly at that.
“Everyone’s looking,” she whispered urgently.
“Don’t mind it. It’s all to your benefit in the end.”
Right. Annabel smiled awkwardly. This was all about their performance, wasn’t it?
“Anything else?” he asked. “Not that anything could possibly be better than the last.”
“I came in third for Winslow Most Likely to Outrun a Turkey.”
He did not laugh this time, but this appeared to require a valiant effort on his part. “You are a country girl,” he said.
She nodded.
“Is it so very difficult to outrun a turkey?”
“Not for me.”
“Go on,” he urged. “I find this fascinating.”
“That’s right,” she said. “You have no siblings.”
“A lack for which I have never been so bereft as tonight. Just think of the titles I might have won.”
“Grey Most Likely to Join a Pirate Ship?” she suggested, with a nod toward his patch.
“Privateer, if you please. I’m much too refined for piracy.”
She rolled her eyes a bit, then offered: “Grey Most Likely to Get Lost on a Heath?”
“You are a cruel woman. I knew where I was the entire time. I was thinking Grey Most Likely to Win a Fortune at Darts.”
“Grey Most Likely to Open a Lending Library?” she tried.
He laughed. “Grey Most Likely to Butcher an Opera.”
Her mouth fell open. “Do you sing?”
“I tried once.” He leaned down confidentially. “It was a moment never to be repeated.”
“Probably wise,” she murmured, “assuming you wish to keep your friends.”
“Or at the very least, allow my friends to keep their hearing.”
She grinned, starting to feel giddy with the joke. “Grey Most Likely to Write a Book!”
He froze. “Why would you say that?”
“I–I don’t know,” she said, perplexed by his reaction. He was not angry, but he had gone utterly serious. “I suppose I think you have a way with words. Didn’t I once say you were a poet?”
“Did you?”
“Before I knew who you were,” she clarified. “On the heath.”
“Oh, right.” He pressed his lips together, thinking.
“And you showed great concern for Romeo and Juliet. The play, that is, not the characters. On that score you were remarkably uncaring.”
“Someone needs to be uncaring,” he said.
“Well put,” she said with a snort.
“I do try.”
Then she remembered. “Oh, and of course there is Mrs. Gorely!”
“There is?”
“Yes, you are such an admirer. I really should read one of her books,” Annabel mused.
“Perhaps I will give you one of my autographed copies.”
“Oh no, you mustn’t do that. You should reserve those for true devotees. I don’t even know if I will like it. Lady Olivia doesn’t seem to.”
“Your cousin does,” he pointed out.
“True. But Louisa also likes those horrible Mrs. Radcliffe novels, which honestly, I can’t abide.”
“Mrs. Gorely is far superior to Mrs. Radcliffe,” he said firmly.
“You’ve read both?”
“Of course. There is no comparison.”
“Hmmm. Well, I should give it a try. Judge for myself.”
“Then I shall give you one of my unautographed copies.”
“You have multiple editions?” My goodness, she hadn’t realized he was as big a fan as that.
He gave a little shrug. “I had them all before I found the autographed set.”
“Oh, of course. I hadn’t considered. Very well, which is your favorite? I shall start with that.”
He thought about that for a moment, then said, with a shake of his head, “I couldn’t possibly choose. I like different things about each of them.”
Annabel grinned. “You sound like my parents, whenever we demanded to know which of us they loved best.”
“It’s rather similar, I suppose,” he murmured.
“If you’ve given birth to a book,” she retorted, pressing her lips together to keep from laughing.
But he wasn’t. Laughing, that was.
She blinked with surprise.
And then he did laugh. More of a chuckle, she supposed, but it was odd, because it was as if he’d been five seconds behind the joke, which was unlike him. Wasn’t it?
“More plain speaking, Miss Winslow?” he asked, a dry smile turning his question into something of an endearment.
“Always,” she said cheerily.
“I think you might—” But then he stopped.
“What?” She was smiling as she said it, but then she saw that he was looking out over her head, toward the door. And he looked grim.
She wet her lips nervously and swallowed. And turned. Lord Newbury had entered the room.
“He looks ang
ry,” she whispered.
“He has no claim on you,” Mr. Grey bit off.
“Neither do you,” she said softly. She looked over toward the side door, the one that led to the ladies’ retiring room. But Mr. Grey put his hand on her wrist and held firm.
“You can’t run,” he said. “If you do, everyone will assume you’ve done something wrong.”
“Or,” she returned, hating this rush of panic that was washing over her, “they might take one look at him and think that any sane young lady would give him a wide berth.”
But of course they wouldn’t. And she knew that. Lord Newbury was walking toward them with steely purpose, and the crowds were parting swiftly to allow him passage. Parting and then reforming, of course, facing in Annabel’s direction. If there was going to be a scene, no one wanted to miss it.
“I will be right here next to you,” Mr. Grey said under his breath.
Annabel nodded. It was amazing—and terrifying—how much comfort that gave her.
Chapter Sixteen
Uncle,” Sebastian said jovially, since he’d long since learned that was the most effective tone to employ, “how delightful to see you again. Although I must say, everything looks different through only one eye.” He smiled blandly. “Even you.”
Newbury gave him a hard stare, then turned to Annabel. “Miss Winslow.”
“My lord.” She curtsied.
“We shall have the next dance.”
It was an order, not a request. Sebastian stiffened, waiting for Annabel to make a cutting reply, but she just swallowed and nodded. He supposed that was understandable. She had little power against an earl, and Newbury had always been an imposing, imperious presence. She probably had her grandparents to answer to, as well. They were friendly with Newbury; she could not shame them by refusing a mere dance.
“Make sure you return her to my side,” Sebastian said, giving his uncle a completely insincere, close-lipped smile.
Newbury returned the expression with an icy glare, and in that instant Sebastian knew he’d made a terrible mistake. He should never have attempted to restore Annabel’s position. She would have been far better off an outcast. She could have returned to her country life, found herself a squire who spoke as plainly as she did, and lived contentedly ever after.
The irony was almost too much to bear. Everyone assumed that Sebastian had gone after her because his uncle wanted her, but the truth had turned out to be the exact opposite.
Newbury had washed his hands of her. Until he thought that Sebastian might actually be serious. And now he wanted her more than ever.
Sebastian had thought there might be a limit to how much his uncle hated him, but apparently not.
“Miss Winslow and I have an understanding,” Newbury said to him.
“Don’t you think that is for Miss Winslow to decide?” Sebastian said lightly.
His uncle’s eyes flared, and for a moment Sebastian thought he might try to strike him again, but Newbury had not been caught by surprise this time, and he must have had a better hold on his temper because he merely spat, “You are impertinent.”
“I merely attempt to restore her to the bosom of society,” Sebastian said softly. Reproachfully. If indeed Newbury had had an understanding with her, he should never have left her to the wolves.
At that, Newbury’s gaze dropped to Annabel’s bosom.
Sebastian felt sick.
Newbury looked back up, his eyes glowing with what could only have been described as pride of ownership.
“You don’t have to dance with him,” Sebastian said quietly. Hang her grandparents, hang all of society’s expectations. No lady should have to dance with a man who looked at her that way in public.
But Annabel just looked at him with the saddest eyes and said, “I think I do.”
Newbury gave him a triumphant smile, took her by the arm, and led her away.
Sebastian watched, burning inside, hating this feeling, hating that everyone was staring at him, waiting to see what he’d do.
He’d lost. Somehow, he’d lost.
He felt lost, too.
The following afternoon
Visitors. Annabel was plagued by them.
Now that both Lord Newbury and Mr. Grey seemed to be interested in her, all of society felt the need to see her for themselves. It did not seem to matter that those very same people had seen her earlier that week when she was an object of pity.
By early afternoon, Annabel was desperate to escape, so she’d made up some ridiculous story about needing a bonnet the exact color of her new lavender dress, and her grandmother had finally waved her hand and said, “Off with you! I can’t listen to another moment of your nonsense.”
That Annabel had never before shown such ardor for fashion did not seem to concern her. Nor did she notice that for someone who was so obsessed with matching a hue exactly, Annabel did not see the need to actually bring the dress with her to the milliner.
Then again, Lady Vickers was deep into her game of solitaire, and even deeper into her decanter of brandy. Annabel could have likely strapped an Indian headdress to her brow and she’d not have said a word.
Annabel and her maid, Nettie, had set out for Bond Street, taking the less-traveled roads to their destination. Annabel would have stayed on the less-traveled roads altogether if she could have done. But she couldn’t very well return without something new that could be put on her head, so she trudged on, hoping the air might help her clear her thoughts.
It didn’t, of course, and the crowds on Bond Street only made it worse. Everyone seemed to be out that day, and Annabel was bumped and jostled, distracted by the buzz of conversation and the whinnies of horses in the street. It was hot, too, and it felt as if there wasn’t quite enough air to go around.
She was trapped. Lord Newbury had made it clear the night before that he still planned to marry her. It was only a matter of time before he made his intentions official.
She’d been so relieved when it seemed that he’d decided he did not want her. She knew her family needed the money, but if he did not ask for her hand, she would not have to say yes. Or no.
She would not have to commit herself to a man she found repulsive. Or turn him down, and live forever with the guilt of her own selfishness.
To make matters worse, she’d received a letter that morning from her sister. Mary was the next oldest to Annabel, and they had always been close. In fact, if Mary had not taken ill with a lung ailment that spring, she would have come to London as well. “Two for the price of one,” Lady Vickers had said, when she’d originally offered to see to the girls’ debut. “Everything’s cheaper that way.”
Mary’s letter had been cheerful and bright, filled with news of their home, and their village, and the local assembly, and the blackbird that had somehow got trapped in the church, flapping about and eventually perching on the vicar’s head.
It was lovely, and it made Annabel so intensely homesick she could hardly bear it. Except that hadn’t been all that was in Mary’s letter. There were little bits about economizing, and the governess their mother had had to let go, and the embarrassing supper two weeks earlier when the local baronet and his wife had dropped by unannounced, and there was only one type of meat on the table.
Money was running out. Mary hadn’t said it in so many words, but it was right there, clear as day. Annabel let out a deep, sorrowful breath as she thought of her sister. Mary was probably sitting at home, imagining that Annabel was attracting the attention of some dashingly handsome, impossibly wealthy nobleman. She’d bring him home, glowing with happiness, and he’d shower everyone with money until their problems were solved.
Instead, Annabel had an extremely wealthy, impossibly dreadful nobleman, and a probably poor, unbelievably handsome rogue. Who made her feel…
No. She couldn’t think about that. It did not matter what Mr. Grey made her feel, because Mr. Grey did not plan to offer her marriage, and even if he did, he hardly had the means to help her support
her family. Annabel did not ordinarily place stock in that sort of gossip, but at least twelve of the eighteen callers she’d endured that morning had seen fit to point out that his was a hand-to-mouth existence. Not to mention the scores who had come by after the altercation at White’s.
Everyone had their own opinion of Mr. Grey, it seemed, but the one thing they all agreed upon was that he was not in possession of great wealth. Or really, any wealth at all.
And anyway, he had not proposed. Nor did he intend to.
With a heavy heart, Annabel turned the corner onto Brook Street, allowing Nettie to chatter on about the extravagantly plumed bonnets they’d seen in a Bond Street window. She was about six houses away from home when she saw a grand carriage approaching from the other direction.
“Wait,” she said, holding her hand out to stop Nettie.
Her maid looked at her in askance, but she stopped. And she quieted.
Annabel watched with dread as Lord Newbury plopped down to the pavement and marched up the steps. There could be no doubt as to why he was there.
“Ow! Miss…”
Annabel turned to Nettie, realizing that she’d been gripping the poor girl’s arm like a vise. “I’m sorry,” she said in a rush, quickly letting her go, “but I can’t go home. Not yet.”
“Do you want a different bonnet?” Nettie looked down at the bundle she was carrying. “There was that one with the grapes, but I think it was too dark.”
“No. I just—I just—I can’t go home. Not yet.” Utterly panic-stricken, Annabel grabbed Nettie’s hand and tugged her back the way they’d come, not even pausing to breathe until they were out of sight of Vickers House.
“What is it?” Nettie asked, out of breath.
“Please,” Annabel pleaded. “Please, don’t ask.” She looked around. She was on a residential street. She could not remain there all afternoon. “Ehrm, we’ll go…” She swallowed. Where could they go? She didn’t want to go back to Bond Street. She’d just left, and surely someone who had seen her would still be there to notice her reappearance. “We’ll get a sweet!” she said, too loudly. “That’s just the thing. Aren’t you hungry? I’m famished. Aren’t you?”
Nettie looked at her as if she’d gone mad. And maybe she had. Annabel knew what she had to do. She’d known it for over a week. But she just didn’t want to do it that afternoon. Was it so much to ask?
