Ten Things I Love About You (14 page)

“D’you want to have a go at it?” another of the young men asked, holding a pistol out toward Mr. Grey.

He gave them a dry smile and reached for the gun. “Thank you.”

And then, right before Annabel’s extremely wide eyes, he lifted his arm, squeezed the trigger, and handed the gun back to its owner.

“There,” he announced curtly. “You’re done.”

“But—”

“It’s over,” he said, then turned toward Annabel with an utterly placid face. “Shall we continue our stroll?”

Annabel got out a yes, but she wasn’t sure it was terribly clear, as her head was snapping back and forth between Mr. Grey and the target. One of the young men had run out to see how he’d done and was presently yelling something and sounding extremely surprised.

“It was a bull’s-eye!” he yelled, running toward them. “Dead center.”

Annabel’s lips parted in amazement. Mr. Grey hadn’t even aimed. Or at least he hadn’t
seemed
to aim.

“How’d you do that?” the young men were asking. And then one of them added, “Could you do it again?”

“No,” he answered curtly, “and don’t forget to clean up after yourselves.”

“Oh, we’re not done yet,” one of the young men said—rather foolishly, in Annabel’s opinion. Mr. Grey’s tone was light, but only an idiot would have missed the hard glint in his eyes.

“We’ll set up another target,” he continued. “We have until half two. You don’t really count, since you’re not part of the games.”

“Excuse me,” Mr. Grey said smoothly to Annabel. He let go of her arm and walked back to the other men. “May I have your gun?” he asked one of them.

Silently it was handed over, and once again Mr. Grey lifted his arm, and with no apparent concentration, squeezed the trigger.

One of the wooden posts supporting the target splintered—no, it evaporated—and the entire thing went tumbling to the ground.

“Now you’re done,” Mr. Grey said, handing the gun back to its owner. “Good day.”

He walked back to Annabel’s side, took her arm, and said, before she could ask, “I was a sniper. In the war.”

She nodded, fairly certain she now knew how the French had been defeated. She looked back at the target, now surrounded by men, then back at Mr. Grey, who appeared completely unconcerned. Then, because she couldn’t stop herself, she turned back to target, dimly aware of his pressure on her arm as he tried to pull her away. “That was … that was …”

“Nothing,” he said. “Nothing at all.”

“I wouldn’t call it nothing,” she said gingerly. He didn’t seem to want praise, but at the same time, she couldn’t
not
say something.

He shrugged. “It’s a talent.”

“Er, a useful one, I should think.” She wanted to look back one more time, but she wasn’t going to be able to see anything, and anyway,
he
hadn’t looked back even once.

“Would you like an ice?” he asked.

“I beg your pardon?”

“An ice. I’m feeling a bit warm. We could go to Gunter’s.”

Annabel made no response, still flummoxed by the abrupt change of conversation.

“We’ll have to bring Olivia, of course, but she’s good enough company.” He frowned thoughtfully.
“And she’s probably hungry. I’m not sure she had breakfast this morning.”

“Well, of course …” Annabel said, although not because she knew what he was talking about. He was looking at her expectantly, and she was clearly supposed to make a reply.

“Excellent. Gunter’s it shall be.” He grinned at her, his eyes sparkling in that now familiar way, and Annabel wanted to grab him by the shoulders and shake. It was as if the entire episode with the guns and target had never happened.

“Do you like orange?” he asked. “The orange is particularly good, second only to the lemon, although they don’t always serve that.”

“I like orange,” she said, again because a response seemed appropriate.

“The chocolate is also quite delicious.”

“I do like chocolate.”

And so it went, a conversation about nothing at all, all the way to Gunter’s. Where, Annabel was not particularly proud to say, she forgot all about the incident in the park. Mr. Grey insisted upon ordering one of every flavor, and Annabel insisted that it would be rude not to taste them all (except for rose, which she never could abide; it was a
flower,
for heaven’s sake, not a flavor). Then Lady Olivia declared herself unable to tolerate the smell of the bergamot ice, which meant that of course Mr. Grey had to wave it under her nose. Annabel couldn’t recall the last time she’d had so much fun.

Fun. Pure, simple, fun. A very good thing, indeed.

Two days later

B
y the time Annabel had finished dancing with Lord Rowton, which followed her dance with Mr. Berbrooke, which followed her dance with Mr. Albansdale, which followed her dance with a
different
Mr. Berbrooke, which followed her dance with Mr. Cavender, which followed her dance with—good heavens!—a Russian prince, which followed her dance with Sir Harry Valentine, which followed her dance with Mr. St. Clair, which (she had to take a breath here, just thinking about it!) followed her dance with Mr. Grey …

Suffice it to say that if she had not previously understood the fickle nature of London society,
she did now. She did not know how many of the gentlemen had invited her to dance because Mr. Grey had asked them to, and how many had asked her because all of the other gentlemen seemed to be doing so, but one thing was clear: She was the latest rage. For this week, at least.

Their walk in the park had done its trick, as had the outing at Gunter’s. Annabel had been seen by all the
ton
with Sebastian Grey acting (in his words) like a lovesick fool. He had made sure that all the biggest gossips had seen him kissing her hand, and laughing at her jokes, and, for those who approached them in conversation, gazing adoringly (but not lustfully) at her face.

And yes, he had actually used the word “lustfully.” Which would have shocked her except that he had such an amusing way of saying things. All she could do was laugh, which, he informed her, was only fair because he could not have it getting out that he was laughing at her jokes and not vice versa.

Which made her laugh again.

They had repeated the charade the next afternoon, and the one after that, too, taking a picnic with Sir Harry and Lady Olivia. Mr. Grey had returned her to her grandparents’ home with strict instructions not to arrive at the Hartside ball that evening until half nine at the earliest. The Vickers carriage rolled to a halt at nine forty-five, and when she stepped into the ballroom five minutes later, Mr. Grey just happened to be standing near the door, in conversation with a gentleman she did not recognize. When he saw
her, however, he immediately broke away and came to her side.

That he walked past three extremely beautiful women to get there was not, Annabel suspected, an accident.

Two minutes later they were dancing. And five minutes after that she was dancing with the gentleman he’d been chatting with. And so on and so forth, straight through the Russian prince, both Berbrookes, to Lord Rowton. Annabel was not sure that she wished to live her life as the most popular girl in town, but she had to admit that for one evening at least, it was marvelously good fun.

Lady Twombley had approached, all venom and bile, but even she could not twist the gossip into anything unpleasant. She was no match for Lady Olivia Valentine, who (Annabel was informed) had casually mentioned that Mr. Grey might truly be smitten to three of her closest friends.

“The three with no discretion whatsoever,” Sir Harry had murmured.

Lady Olivia, Annabel was coming to realize, had a very astute grasp on the mechanics of gossip.

“Annabel!”

Annabel saw Louisa waving to her, and as soon as she curtsied to Lord Rowton and thanked him prettily for the dance, she made her way over to her cousin’s side.

“We are twins,” Louisa declared, motioning to their gowns, which were of an almost identical pale sage hue.

Annabel could not help but laugh. Surely two cousins had never been made less alike.

“I know,” Louisa said. “It’s a dreadful color on me.”

“Of course not,” Annabel assured her, except that, maybe a little bit, it was.

“Don’t lie,” Louisa said. “As my cousin, it is your duty to tell the truth when no one else will.”

“Very well, it is not your
best
color …”

Louisa sighed. “I am without color.”

“Of course not!” Annabel exclaimed, except that tonight, in the sage green that looked so terrible on her, maybe a little bit, she was. Louisa’s skin was always pale, but the dim light and the dress seemed to suck every last bit of pink from her cheeks. “I quite liked the blue you wore to the opera. It was very fetching on you.”

“Do you think so?” Louisa asked, almost hopefully. “I
felt
fetching in it.”

“Sometimes I think that is half the battle,” Annabel told her.

“Well,
you
must be extremely fetching in sage,” Louisa said. “You are quite the belle of the ball.”

“It has nothing to do with the color of my dress,” Annabel said, “as you well know.”

“Mr. Grey has been very busy,” Louisa stated.

“Indeed.”

They stood for a moment, watching the rest of the crowd, and then Louisa said, “It was very good of him to intercede.”

Annabel nodded and murmured her agreement.

“No, I mean it was
very
good of him.”

Annabel turned to face her.

“He did not have to do it,” Louisa said, her
voice not quite stern, but … almost. “Most gentlemen would not have done.”

Annabel watched her cousin closely, searching her face for some sort of hidden meaning. But Louisa wasn’t looking at her. Her chin was lifted, and she was still glancing out over the crowd, her head moving so very slightly, as if she were looking for someone.

Or maybe just looking.

“What his uncle did …” Louisa said softly. “It was inexcusable. No one would have faulted him for striking back.”

Annabel waited for more. An explanation. Instructions. Anything. Finally she let out a pent up breath. “Please,” she said. “Not you, too.”

Louisa turned. “What do you mean?”

“Exactly that.
Please
just say what you mean. It is exhausting trying to determine what everyone is saying to me when it has nothing to do with the words that are actually coming out of their mouths.”

“But I was,” Louisa said. “You need to understand how remarkable his behavior has been. After what his uncle did to him, and so publicly, he could not have been blamed had he wished to wash his hands of the entire affair and leave you to your scandal.”

“No, you see,
that,”
Annabel exclaimed, relieved that Louisa had finally explained what she meant, even if the topic was less than pleasing.
“That
is what I was talking about. Perfectly clear.
That
is what I wanted to hear.”

“What did you want to hear?”

Annabel nearly jumped back a foot. “Mr. Grey!” she squeaked.

“At your service,” he said, giving her a jaunty bow. He was wearing a patch over his injured eye, which on most men would have been ridiculous. He, however, looked utterly dashing and dangerous, and Annabel really wished she had not overheard two ladies commenting that they’d like to be plundered by
that
pirate.

“You look so intent,” he said to her. “I must know what you were talking about.”

Annabel saw no reason not to be almost completely honest. “Merely that I find it exhausting to interpret what everyone says here in London.”

“Ah,” he said, “you danced with Prince Alexei. Don’t mind him. He has a very thick accent.”

Louisa giggled.

Annabel fought the urge to shoot her a dirty look. “No one says what they actually mean,” she said to Mr. Grey.

He regarded her with a remarkably blank expression, then said, “Did you expect it to be otherwise?”

Another snort emerged from the general vicinity of Louisa’s mouth. Followed by several discreet and delicate coughs, since Louisa would never be so bold as to laugh loudly in public.

“I rather enjoy speaking in riddles,” Mr. Grey said.

Annabel felt something pulse in her chest. It might have been surprise. Or maybe disappointment. She looked at him, quite unable to mask her expression, and said, “You do?”

His eyes held hers for a breathlessly long moment, and he said, sounding almost baffled, “No.”

Annabel’s lips parted, but she did not speak. She did not breathe. Something unusual had just passed between them, something remarkable.

“I think …” he said slowly. “I think I should ask you to dance.”

Annabel nodded, almost dazed.

He held out his hand, then drew it back, signaling for her to wait where she was. “Don’t move,” he said. “I will be right back.”

They were standing near to the orchestra, and Annabel watched as he made his way to the conductor.

“Annabel!” Louisa hissed.

Annabel started. She’d forgot that her cousin was there. She’d forgot that anyone was there. For a few perfect moments, the room had been empty. There had been nothing but her, him, and the soft whoosh of their breath.

“You’ve already danced with him,” Louisa said.

Annabel nodded. “I know.”

“People will talk.”

Annabel turned and blinked, trying to set her cousin’s face into focus. “People are already talking,” she said.

Louisa opened her mouth as if she planned to say more, but then she just smiled. “Annabel Winslow,” she said softly, “I do believe you are falling in love.”

That snapped Annabel right out of her daze. “I am not.”

“Oh, you are.”

“I hardly know him.”

“Apparently you know enough.”

Annabel saw that he was making his way back, and something akin to panic rose in her chest. “Louisa, you hush your mouth. This is all for show. He is doing me a
favor.”

Louisa gave an uncharacteristically cavalier shrug. “If you say so.”

“Louisa,” Annabel hissed, but her cousin was stepping aside for Mr. Grey, who had returned.

“It is a waltz,” he announced, as if he hadn’t just asked the conductor to play one.

He held out his hand.

She almost took it. “Louisa,” she said. “You should dance with Louisa.” He searched her face.

“And then with me,” she said softly. “Please.”

He bowed, then turned to Louisa, but she murmured her regrets, tilting her head gently in Annabel’s direction.

“It has to be you, Miss Winslow,” he said softly.

She nodded and stepped forward, allowing him to take her hand in his. Around her she heard whispers, and she felt stares, but when she looked up and saw him gazing down at her, his eyes so clear and gray, it all melted away. His uncle … the gossip … none of it mattered. She would not let it.

They walked to the center of the ballroom, and she turned to face him, trying to ignore the shiver of anticipation that slid through her when he placed his other hand at the small of her back.
Annabel had never understood why the waltz had once been considered so scandalous.

Now she knew.

He was holding her properly, a full twelve inches between them. No one could have found fault with their behavior. And yet Annabel felt as if the air around them had been heated, as if her skin had been rubbed with some strange, shimmering magic. Each breath seemed to fill her lungs differently, and she was acutely aware of her own body, of how it felt to be inside of it, of how each curve moved and flowed with the music.

She felt like a siren. A goddess. And when she looked up at him, he was staring down at her with a raw, hungry expression. He was aware of her body, too, she realized, and this made her even more tight and taut inside.

For one brief moment she closed her eyes, reminding herself that this was all a sham. They were playacting, rehabilitating her in the eyes of society. Merely by dancing with her, Mr. Grey was making her desirable. And if she felt desired—by him—then she needed to gain a clearer head. He was an honorable man, a generous one, but he was also a consummate actor on the societal stage. He knew exactly how to look at her, smile at her, so that everyone would think he was smitten.

“Why did you ask me to dance with your cousin?” he asked, but his voice sounded odd. Almost a little strangled.

“I don’t know,” she admitted. And she didn’t. Or maybe she simply did not want to admit to herself that she had been scared. “She hadn’t waltzed yet.”

He nodded.

“And wouldn’t it be good for the charade,” she said, trying to think on her feet, “for you to dance with my cousin? You wouldn’t bother with that if you intended only …”

“Only what?” he asked.

She licked her lips. They’d gone dry. “Seduction.”

“Annabel,” he said, surprising her with the use of her given name. “No man looks at you and thinks of anything
but
seduction.”

She looked up at him, startled by the stab of pain his statement had brought. Lord Newbury had wanted her for her curves, for her generous breasts and wide, childbearing hips. And heaven knew she’d never quite got used to the lascivious looks she attracted from all but the most proper of gentlemen. But Mr. Grey … She’d thought, somehow, that he was different.

“What matters,” he said quietly, “is whether they think of anything in addition to that.”

“Do you?” she whispered.

He didn’t answer right away. But then he said, almost as if he were figuring it out for himself, too, “I think I might.”

Her breath caught, and she searched his face, trying to translate his statement into something she might understand. It did not occur to her that perhaps he didn’t understand, either, that he might be just as mystified as she by this strange pull between them.

Or maybe he meant nothing at all. He was that rare kind of man who knew how to be friends with a woman. Perhaps that was all he meant,
that he found her company amusing, that she was good for a laugh and a smile, and maybe even worth getting punched in the face.

Maybe that was all it was.

And then just like that, the dance was over. He was bowing, and she was curtsying, and they were walking back to the edge of the room, toward the lemonade table, for which Annabel was inordinately thankful. She was thirsty, but what she really needed was something in her hands, something to distract her, to keep her from fidgeting. Because her skin still felt hot, and her belly was jumping, and if she didn’t have something to hold on to, she did not think she would be able to keep herself still.

He handed her a glass, and Annabel had just taken her first grateful sip when she heard someone calling his name. She turned and saw a matron of perhaps forty years moving toward them, waving her hand and trilling, “Oh, Mr. Grey! Mr. Grey!”