Ten Things I Love About You (6 page)

“Your
name,”
he bit off.

“Before you tell me yours?”

He exhaled, a long frustrated whoosh of air, then raked his hand over his scalp. “Was it my imagination, or did we have a perfectly civil conversation not ten minutes earlier?”

She opened her mouth to speak, but he didn’t let her. “No, no,” he continued, perhaps a little too grandly, “it was quite more than civil. I might even dare to call it pleasant.”

Her eyes softened, not to the point where he might have considered her malleable—oh very well, not even
close
to that, but they softened nonetheless.

“I shouldn’t have asked you to kiss me,” she said.

But he noticed that she did not apologize for it. And he noticed that he was very glad that she did not.

“Surely you understand,” she continued quietly, “that it is much more important that I learn your identity than the other way around.”

He looked down at her hands. They weren’t balled, or fisted, or frozen into claws. Hands always
gave people away. They tensed, or they shook, or they clutched at each other as if they might—through some sort of impossible witchcraft—save themselves from whatever dark fate awaited them.

This girl was holding the fabric of her skirt. Tightly. She was nervous. Still, she was holding herself with remarkable dignity. And Sebastian knew that she spoke the truth. There was nothing she could do that would ruin him, while he, through one loose or false word, could destroy her forever. It was not the first time he’d been inordinately glad not to have been born female, but it was the first time he’d been presented with such clear proof that men truly did have it easier.

“My name is Sebastian Grey,” he said, dipping his head toward her in a respectful bow. “I am very pleased to make your acquaintance, Miss—”

But he couldn’t possibly have gone on, because she gasped, then blanched, then looked positively ill.

“I assure you,” he said, not certain whether the sharp note in his voice was amusement or irritation, “that my reputation is not as black as that.”

“I shouldn’t be here with you,” she said frantically.

“That, we already knew.”

“Sebastian Grey. Oh dear God,
Sebastian Grey.”

He watched with some interest. Some annoyance, too, but that was to be expected. Really, he wasn’t as bad as all
that.
“I assure you,” he said, starting to feel a bit put out by the number of times he was needing to begin his sentences in such a fashion, “I have no intention of allowing
your reputation to be destroyed through your association with me.”

“No, of course not,” she said, then ruined the whole thing with a panicked burst of laughter. “You wouldn’t want to do that. Sebastian Grey.” She looked up at the sky, and he half expected her to shake her fist at the gods. “Sebastian Grey,” she said.
Again.

“Do I take this to mean you’ve been warned about me?”

“Oh yes,” came her too-fast reply. And then she snapped back to attention, looking him directly in the eye. “I have to go. Now.”

“As you might recall I’ve been telling you,” he murmured.

She looked toward the side garden, grimacing at the thought of passing through a lovers’ lawn. “Head down,” she said to herself. “Barrel through.”

“Some live their entire lives by that motto,” he said cheerfully.

She looked at him sharply, clearly wondering if he’d gone mad in the last two seconds. He shrugged, unwilling to apologize. He was finally beginning to feel like himself again. He had every right to feel cheerful.

“Do you?” she asked.

“Absolutely not. I prefer life to have a bit more style. It’s all about the subtleties, don’t you think?”

She stared at him. Blinked a few times. Then said, “I should go.”

And she went. She put her head down and barreled through.

Without telling him her name.

The following afternoon

Y
ou’re terribly quiet today,” Louisa said.

Annabel smiled weakly at her cousin. They were walking Louisa’s dog in Hyde Park, accompanied—theoretically—by Louisa’s aunt. But Lady Cosgrove had come across one of her many acquaintances, and while she was still in sight, she was no longer in earshot.

“I’m only tired,” Annabel said. “I had difficulty sleeping after all the excitement of the party.” It wasn’t the whole truth, but neither was it a lie. She’d lain awake for hours the night before, making elaborate studies of the insides of her eyelids.

She refused to stare at the ceiling. On principle. She’d always felt that way. In the quest for sleep, open eyes were a clear admission of defeat.

Still, no matter where she looked, it was impossible to escape the magnitude of what she’d done.

Sebastian Grey.

Sebastian Grey.

The words rang like a miserable moan in her head. On the list of men she ought not to be kissing, he had to rank at the top, along with the King, Lord Liverpool, and the chimney sweep.

And frankly, she suspected he was higher up the list than the chimney sweep.

She hadn’t known very much about Mr. Grey before the Trowbridge party, just that he was Lord Newbury’s heir, and the two men did not tolerate each other’s company. But once word had got out that Lord Newbury was pursuing her, everyone seemed to have something to tell her about the earl and his nephew.

Oh very well, not everyone, since most of society wasn’t the least bit interested in her, but everyone
she
knew had an opinion.

He was handsome. (The nephew, not the earl.)

He was a rogue. (Again, the nephew.)

He was probably penniless and spent a great deal of time with his cousins on the other side of his family. (Definitely the nephew, and in fact, it had better be the nephew, because if Annabel married Lord Newbury and he turned out to be penniless, she was going to be
livid.)

Annabel had left the ball straightaway after the disastrous interlude on the heath, but apparently Mr. Grey had not. He must have made quite an impression on Louisa, because this morning, good heavens, it was all she could talk about.

Mr. Grey this, and Mr. Grey that, and how was it possible that Annabel hadn’t seen him at the
party? Annabel had shrugged and made some sort of
I can’t imagine
type of comment, but it didn’t matter because Louisa was still nattering on about his smile and his eyes which were
gray
and oh wasn’t it just the most marvelous coincidence and oh yes, everyone had noticed that he departed on the arm of a married woman!

This last bit did not surprise Annabel. He’d told her quite plainly that he’d been cavorting with a married woman before she’d tripped over him.

But Annabel had a feeling that this was a
different
married woman. The one on the blanket had been careful of her reputation, departing the scene well before Mr. Grey. No one who practiced such discretion would be so brazen as to leave on his arm. Which meant it had to be someone else, which meant he’d been with
two
married women. Good heavens, he was even worse than people said.

Annabel pressed her fingers to her temples. No wonder her head hurt. She was thinking too hard. Too hard, and about items too frivolous. If she had to develop an obsession, couldn’t it be about something worthwhile? The new Cruel and Improper Treatment of Cattle Act would have done nicely. Or the plight of the poor. Her grandfather had been ranting about both this week, so Annabel had no excuse for not developing an interest.

“Is your head bothering you?” Louisa asked. But she wasn’t paying much attention. Frederick, her ridiculously fat basset hound, had spotted a fellow canine in the distance and was yanking on the lead. “Frederick!” she yelped, tripping a step or two before she found her footing.

Frederick stopped, although it wasn’t clear if it was due to Louisa’s hold on the lead or outright exhaustion. He let out a huge sigh, and frankly, Annabel was surprised that he didn’t collapse on the ground.

“I think someone has been sneaking him sausages again,” Louisa grumbled.

Annabel looked elsewhere.

“Annabel!”

“He looked so
hungry,”
Annabel insisted.

Louisa motioned toward her dog, whose belly slid along the grass.
“That
looks hungry?”

“His eyes looked hungry.”

Louisa gave her a skeptical look.

“Your dog is a very good liar.”

Louisa shook her head. She was probably rolling her eyes, too, but Annabel was watching Frederick, who was letting out a bored yawn.

“He’d be quite good at cards,” Annabel said absently. “If he could speak. Or had thumbs.”

Louisa gave her another one of those looks. She was very good at them, Annabel thought, even if she saved them for family.

“He’d win against you,” Annabel said.

“That’s hardly a compliment,” Louisa answered.

It was true. Louisa was abysmal at cards. Annabel had tried everything—piquet, whist,
vingt-et-un.
For someone who was so good at keeping every emotion off her face in public, Louisa was dreadful when it came to games. Still, they played, mostly because Louisa was so bad it made it fun.

She was a good sport, Louisa.

Annabel looked down at Frederick, who had,
after about thirty seconds of standing in place, plopped his bottom down on the grass. “I miss my dog,” she said.

Louisa looked over her shoulder toward her aunt, who was still engrossed in conversation. “What was his name again?”

“Mouse.”

“That was very unkind of you.”

“Naming him Mouse?”

“Isn’t he a greyhound?”

“I could have named him Turtle.”

“Frederick!” Louisa yelped, rushing forward to remove something—in all honesty, Annabel preferred not to know what—from his mouth.

“It’s better than Frederick,” Annabel said. “Good heavens, that’s my brother’s name.”

“Let go, Frederick,” Louisa muttered. Then, still grabbing at whatever was in his mouth, she looked back over at Annabel. “He deserves a dignified name.”

“Because he’s such a dignified dog.”

Louisa raised a brow, looking every inch a duke’s daughter. “Dogs deserve proper names.”

“Cats, too?”

Louisa let out a dismissive
pfft.
“Cats are entirely different. They catch
mice.”

Annabel opened her mouth to ask how, exactly, that pertained to proper names, but before she made a sound, Louisa grabbed her forearm, hissing her name.

“Ow.” Annabel reached down and tried to pry Louisa’s fingers loose. “What is it?”

“Over there,” Louisa whispered urgently. Her
head jerked toward the left, but in a way that said she was trying to be discreet. Except she wasn’t. At all.
“Sebastian Grey,”
Louisa finally hissed.

Annabel had heard the hearts-dropping-to-the-stomach expression before, and she’d said it, too, but this was the first time she actually understood it. Her entire body felt wrong, as if her heart was in her stomach and her lungs were in her ears, and her brain was somewhere east of France.

“Let’s go,” she said. “Please.”

Louisa looked surprised. “You don’t want to meet him?”

“No.” Annabel didn’t care that she sounded desperate. She just wanted to be gone.

“You’re joking, aren’t you? You must be curious.”

“I’m not. I assure you. I mean, yes, of course I am, but if I am going to meet this man, I don’t want to do it like this.”

Louisa blinked a few times. “Like what?”

“I’m just—I’m not prepared. I—”

“I suppose you’re right,” Louisa said thoughtfully.

Thank God.

“He will probably think you have loyalties toward his uncle and will prejudge you accordingly.”

“Exactly,” Annabel said, latching onto this like a lifesaver.

“Or he’ll try to talk you out of it.”

Annabel cast a nervous glance toward the spot where Louisa had seen Mr. Grey. Subtly, of course, and without actually turning around. If she could just escape before he saw her …

“Of course, I think you
should
be talked out of it,” Louisa continued. “I don’t care how much money Lord Newbury has, no young lady should be forced to—”

“I haven’t agreed to anything yet,” Annabel practically cried. “Please, may we just go?”

“We have to wait for my aunt,” Louisa said, frowning. “Did you see where she went?”

“Louisa.”

“What is
wrong
with you?”

Annabel looked down. Her hands were shaking. She couldn’t do this. Not yet. She couldn’t face the man she’d kissed who happened to be the heir to the man she didn’t want to kiss but whom she probably was going to marry. Oh yes, and she could not forget that if she did marry the man she didn’t want to kiss, she was likely to provide him with a new heir, thus cutting off the man she did want to kiss.

Oh, he was
really
going to like her.

She was going to have to be introduced to Mr. Grey eventually, there was no avoiding it. But did it have to be now? Surely she deserved a little time to prepare.

She hadn’t thought she was such a coward. No, she wasn’t a coward. Any sane person would flee in such a situation, and probably half of the mad ones, as well.

“Annabel,” Louisa said, her voice sounding exasperated. “Why is it so important that we leave?”

Annabel tried to think of a reason. She really did. But there was only the truth, which she was
not prepared to share, so instead she stood there dumbly, wondering how on earth she was going to get out of this fix.

But alas, that particular moment of panic was brief. To be replaced by a far, far more horrific moment of panic. Because it soon became apparent that she
wasn’t
going to get out of the fix. The lady on Mr. Grey’s arm appeared to have recognized Louisa, and Louisa had already waved in greeting.

“Louisa,” Annabel hissed.

“I can’t ignore her,” Louisa whispered back. “It’s Lady Olivia Valentine. Her father is the Earl of Rudland. Mr. Grey’s cousin married her last year.”

Annabel groaned.

“I thought she was out of town,” Louisa said with a frown. “She must have just got back.” Then she turned to Annabel with an earnest expression. “Don’t be fooled by her appearance. She’s very kind.”

Annabel didn’t know whether to be horrified or confused. Don’t be fooled by her appearance? What was that supposed to mean?

“She’s quite beautiful,” Louisa explained.

“What does—”

“No, I mean—” Louisa cut herself off, clearly dissatisfied with her ability to convey the extent of Lady Valentine’s charms. “You’ll have to see for yourself.”

Thankfully, the staggeringly beautiful Lady Olivia didn’t appear to be walking very quickly. Still Annabel judged that she had no more than
fifteen seconds before the two parties intersected. She grabbed Louisa’s arm. “Don’t tell them about Lord Newbury,” she hissed.

Louisa’s eyes widened with astonishment. “Don’t you think they’ll already know?”

“I don’t know. Maybe not. I don’t think everybody knows yet.”

“Of course not, but if anyone does, don’t you think it would be Mr. Grey?”

“Maybe not by name. Everyone refers to me as ‘that Vickers girl.’”

It was true. Annabel was being brought out by Lord and Lady Vickers, and no one had ever heard of her father’s family, which, her grandfather was quick to point out, was how it should be. In his opinion, his daughter would have been far better off if she’d never become a Winslow.

Louisa frowned nervously. “I’m sure they know that I’m a Vickers grandchild as well.”

Annabel grasped Louisa’s hand in full panic. “Then don’t tell them I’m your cousin.”

“I can’t do that!”

“Why not?”

Louisa blinked. “I don’t know. But it can’t possibly be proper.”

“Hang proper. Just do this for me, please.”

“Very well. But I still think you’ve gone a bit strange.”

Annabel could not argue. She’d gone quite a few things in the last day, and really,
strange
was the least of it.