Ten Things I Love About You (10 page)

“Miss Winslow took ill,” Olivia told him, “and Lady Louisa accompanied her home. The two aunts departed as well.”

Harry gave a shrug, since he was generally more interested in the opera than gossip, and picked up his program.

Sebastian turned to Olivia, who had resumed her glare. “Are you still scolding me?”

“You should have known better,” Olivia said in a hushed voice.

Sebastian glanced over at Harry. He was immersed in the libretto, seemingly oblivious to the conversation.

Which, knowing Harry, meant he heard every word.

Sebastian decided he didn’t care. “Since when have you become Miss Winslow’s champion?” he asked.

“I’m not,” she said, shrugging her elegant shoulders. “But it is obvious she is new to town and in need of guidance. I applaud Lady Louisa for taking her home.”

“How do you know Lady Louisa took her home?”

“Oh, Sebastian,” she said, giving him an impatient look. “How can you even ask?”

And that was the end of it. Until he arrived at the club.

Which was when all hell broke loose.

Y
ou bastard!”

Sebastian was normally an observant fellow, blessed with quick reflexes and a healthy sense of self-preservation, but his mind had been uncharacteristically stuck on a single topic—the curve of Miss Winslow’s lips—and he had not been paying much attention to his surroundings as he entered the club.

Thus he had not seen his uncle.

Or his uncle’s fist.

“What the hell?”

The force of the blow slammed Sebastian into a wall, which led his shoulder to be only slightly less painful than his eye, which was probably already turning black.

“Since the moment you were born,” his uncle seethed, “I have known you to be without morals or discipline, but
this—
”

This?
What
this?

“This,” his uncle continued, his voice shaking with fury, “is beneath even you.”

Since the moment I was born,
Seb thought with something that was almost exasperation.
Since the moment I was born.
Well, his uncle was right about that, at least. Back to his earliest memories, his uncle had been angry and hard, always insulting, always finding new ways to make a boy feel small. Sebastian had later realized that the rancor was inevitable. Newbury had never liked Sebastian’s father, who had been but eleven months his junior. Adolphus Grey had been taller, more athletic, and better-looking than his older brother. Probably smarter, too, although Sebastian had to admit, his father had never been one for books.

As for Seb’s mother, Lord Newbury had thought her appallingly beneath the family.

Sebastian, he considered the spawn of the devil.

Seb had learned to live with it. And occasionally live up to it. Really, he hadn’t much cared. His uncle was a nuisance, rather like a pesky, albeit large, insect. The strategy was the same: avoid, and if that proved impossible, swat.

But he didn’t say this. Because really, what would be the point? Instead he staggered to his feet, dimly aware that an audience was gathering. “What the devil are you talking about?”

“Miss Vickers,” Newbury hissed.

“Who?” Seb asked distractedly. He should probably pay more attention to whatever his uncle was blathering on about, but damn, his eye
really
hurt.
The bloody bruise would probably show for a week. Who knew the old bag had it in him?

“Her name ain’t Vickers,” someone said.

Sebastian removed his hand from his eye, blinking carefully. Bloody hell. His vision was still blurry. What his uncle lacked in muscle he made up for in heft, and he’d apparently put all of it behind his punch.

Several gentlemen were standing near, presumably hoping that a fight would break out, which of course it would not. Sebastian would never hit his uncle, no matter how roundly he deserved it. If he hit Newbury, it would surely prove too lovely a sensation to resist, and then Seb would have to beat him to a pulp. Which would be very bad form.

Besides, he did not lose his temper. Ever. Everyone knew that, and if they didn’t, they should.

“Who, pray tell, is Miss Vickers?” Sebastian asked, molding his body into an insolent slouch.

“She’s not a Vickers,” someone said. “Her mother was a Vickers. Her father was someone else.”

“Winslow,” the earl bit off. “Her name is Winslow.”

Seb felt his fingers begin to tingle. His right hand might have formed a fist. “What about Miss Winslow?”

“Do you pretend not to know?”

Seb shrugged, though the casual motion took all of his concentration. “I pretend nothing.”

His uncle’s eyes glittered nastily. “She will soon be your aunt, dear nephew.”

The breath whooshed from Sebastian’s body,
and he thanked whatever god or architect had made sure there was a wall nearby for him to lean a shoulder against.

Annabel Winslow was Lord Vickers’s granddaughter. She was that lush, voluptuous creature Newbury was panting after, the one so fertile she sent birds into fits of song.

It all made sense now. He’d been wondering how a country miss should become such close friends with a duke’s daughter. She and Lady Louisa were first cousins. Of course they would be friends.

He thought back to his conversation with
his
cousin, the bit about the fertile hips and singing birds. Miss Winslow’s figure was every bit as spectacular as Edward had described. When Sebastian thought about the way Edward’s eyes had glazed over when he’d described her breasts …

Seb tasted acid. He might have to hit Edward. His uncle was off-limits due to age, but Edward was fair game.

Miss Annabel Winslow was indeed a ripe piece of fruit. And his uncle was planning to marry her.

“You will stay away from her,” his uncle said in a low voice.

Sebastian did not speak. He had no ready quip or retort, so he said nothing. It was better that way.

“Although God knows if I still want her, given her dubious lapse in judgment.”

Sebastian focused on his breathing, which was quickening dangerously.

“You may have looks and youth,” Newbury continued, “but I have the title. And I will be damned before you get your grasping hands on it.”

Seb shrugged. “I don’t want it.”

“Of course you do,” Newbury scoffed.

“I don’t,” Sebastian said carelessly. He was beginning to feel more himself. Amazing what a touch of insolence and attitude could do to restore a man. “I wish you would just hurry up and spawn yourself a new heir. The whole thing is bloody inconvenient.”

Newbury’s face grew even more florid, not that Sebastian would have thought it possible. “Inconvenient? You dare to call the earldom of Newbury inconvenient?”

Seb started to shrug again, then thought it would be better if he inspected his fingernails. After a moment, he looked back up. “I do. And
you
are a nuisance.”

It was perhaps a bit over the line. Very well, it was a good mile over the line, and evidently Newbury agreed, because he blustered incoherently, sending spittle and God knows what else through the air, then finally hurled the contents of his glass into Sebastian’s face. There wasn’t much in it; presumably it had sloshed half out when he’d punched Seb earlier. But it was enough to sting a man’s eyes, and enough to drip from his nose. And as Sebastian stood there, looking like a snot-nosed child in need of a handkerchief, he felt a rage build up inside of him. A rage like nothing he had ever experienced. Even in war, he’d been denied this bloodlust. He was a sniper, trained to be cool and calm, to pick off the enemy from afar.

He acted, but he didn’t engage.

His heart pounded in his chest, his blood
rushed in his ears, and yet he still heard the collective gasp, still saw the men gathered around, waiting for him to retaliate.

And he did. But not with his fists. That would never do.

“Out of respect for your age and fragility,” he said icily, “I will not strike you.” He took a step away and then, quite unable to keep all of his fury in check, he turned back around and added, more in his usual offhanded tone, “Besides, I know you are desirous of a son. If I knocked you to the floor, and truthfully, we all know that I would …” Sebastian sighed, as if lamenting a sad, sad tale. “Well, I’m not sure your virility would survive the blow.”

There was a deathly silence, followed by Newbury’s ramblings and rantings, but Sebastian heard none of it. He simply turned on his heel and left.

It was easier that way.

By the following morning it was all over town. The first of the vultures arrived at Vickers House at the unseemly hour of ten. Annabel was up and about; she frequently was, having found it difficult to shed her country hours. She was so surprised to hear that two countesses were calling for her that she didn’t even think to suggest to the butler that she might not be receiving.

“Miss Winslow,” came the officious voice of Lady Westfield.

Annabel immediately rose and curtsied, then repeated the gesture toward Lady Challis.

“Wherever is your grandmother?” Lady Westfield
asked. She strode into the drawing room with singular purpose. Her mouth was flattened into an unpleasant line, and her entire bearing seemed to suggest that she smelled something foul.

“She is still abed,” Annabel answered, remembering that the Ladies Westfield and Vickers were good friends. Or perhaps just friends. Or maybe not that, but they spoke frequently.

Which counted for something, Annabel supposed.

“Then one can only imagine she does not know,” Lady Challis said.

Annabel turned to Lady Challis, who was a good twenty-five years younger than her companion and yet still managed to boast a pinched and prickly mien.

“Does not know what, my lady?”

“Don’t play coy, gel.”

“I’m not.” Annabel looked from face to sanctimonious face. What were they talking about? Surely a mere
conversation
with Mr. Grey did not warrant such censure. And she’d left during the intermission, just as Louisa had insisted she must.

“You are a bold girl,” Lady Challis said, “playing the uncle off the nephew.”

“I–I don’t know what you mean,” Annabel stammered. But of course she did.

“Stop that this instant,” Lady Westfield snapped. “You are a Vickers, despite that awful man your mother married, and you are far too intelligent to get away with such cow-headed playacting.”

Annabel swallowed.

“Lord Newbury is furious,” Lady Westfield
hissed. “Furious. And I cannot say that I blame him.”

“I made him no promises,” Annabel said, wishing that her voice sounded a bit more firm. “And I did not know—”

“Do you have any idea the honor he bestowed upon you, just by offering his regard?”

Annabel felt her mouth open and close. And open and close. She felt like an idiot. A fish-faced, muted mule. If she’d been at home she’d have been quick to defend herself, ably summoning retort after retort. But she’d never faced down two furious countesses at home, staring her down with ice-chip eyes over their hard, elegant noses.

It was enough to make a girl want to sit down, were she permitted to sit down in the company of two standing countesses.

“Naturally,” Lady Challis said, “he took measures to protect his reputation.”

“Lord Newbury?” Annabel asked.

“Of course I mean Lord Newbury. The other one hasn’t a care for his reputation and never has.”

But somehow Annabel didn’t think that was true. Mr. Grey was a known rogue, but there was more to him than that. He had a sense of honor, and she suspected he valued this very highly.

Or maybe she was being fanciful, romanticizing him in her mind. How well did she know him, anyway?

Not at all. Theirs was a two-day acquaintance. Two days! She had to regain hold on her common sense. Now.

“What did Lord Newbury do?” Annabel asked warily.

“He defended his honor, as well he should,” Lady Westfield said in what Annabel judged to be an unsatisfactorily vague explanation. “Where is your grandmother?” she repeated, looking sharply about the room as if she might discover her hidden behind a chair. “Someone should wake her. This is not a trifling matter.”

In the month she had been living in London, Annabel had seen her grandmother before noon on but two previous occasions. Neither had ended well.

“We try to wake her only for emergencies,” she said.

“What the devil do you think this is, you ungrateful chit?” Lady Westfield all but yelled.

Annabel flinched as if struck, and she felt words forming in her mouth:
Yes, of course, my lady. Immediately, my lady.
But then she looked back up, right into Lady Westfield’s eyes, and saw something so ugly, so
mean
that it was as if a bolt of electricity shot right up her backbone.

“I will not wake my grandmother,” she said firmly. “And I do hope you haven’t already done so with your yelling.”

Lady Westfield drew back. “Think twice about the way you speak to me, Miss Winslow.”

“I offer you no disrespect, my lady. Quite the opposite, I assure you. My grandmother is not herself before noon, and I’m sure, as her friend, that you do not wish to cause her discomfort.”

The countess’s eyes narrowed, and she looked over at her friend, who seemed equally unsure what to make of Annabel’s statement.

“Tell her we called,” Lady Westfield finally said, her voice clipped into harsh little syllables.

“I shall,” Annabel promised her, dipping into a curtsy just low enough to be reverent without sinking into obsequiousness.

When had she learned such subtleties of curtsying? She must have absorbed more rarefied knowledge in London than she had realized.

The two ladies stalked out, but Annabel barely had time to collapse on the sofa before the butler announced another set of callers: Lady Twombley and Mr. Grimston.

Annabel’s belly went queasy with alarm. She had been introduced to the pair only in passing, but they were well known to her. Horrible gossips, Louisa had said, insidious and cruel.

Annabel leaped to her feet, trying to catch the butler before he admitted them, but it was too late. She’d already received one set of guests; it was not his fault if he assumed she was “at home” for everyone. It would have made little difference, anyway; the drawing room was well within sight of the front door, and she could already see Lady Twombley and Mr. Grimston making their way forward.

“Miss Winslow,” Lady Twombley said, entering in a graceful swish of pink muslin. She was an incredibly lovely young matron, with honey-blond hair and green eyes, but unlike Lady
Olivia Valentine, whose pale good looks radiated kindness and humor, Lady Twombley just looked shrewd. And not in a good way.

Annabel curtsied. “Lady Twombley. How kind of you to call.”

Lady Twombley gestured toward her companion. “You have met my dear friend Mr. Grimston, have you not?”

Annabel nodded. “It was the—”

“Mottram ball,” Mr. Grimston finished.

“Of course,” Annabel murmured, surprised that he remembered. She certainly didn’t.

“Basil possesses the most remarkable memory when it comes to young ladies,” Lady Twombley said with a twitter. “It is probably why he is such an expert on fashion.”