Ten Things I Love About You

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

  Chapter Fifteen

  Two days later

  By 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 ser vice,” 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 bre
athe. 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!”

  “Mrs. Carruthers,” he said, giving her a respectful nod. “How lovely to see you.”

  “I just heard the most amazing bit of news,” Mrs. Carruthers said.

  Annabel braced herself for something dreadful, probably involving her, but Mrs. Carruthers focused all of her breathless attention on Mr. Grey and said, “Lady Cosgrove tells me you are in possession of autographed books by Mrs. Gorely.”

  That was all? Annabel was almost disappointed.

  “I am,” Mr. Grey confirmed.

  “You must tell me where you got them. I am a devoted fan, and I could not consider my library complete if I did not have her signature.”

  “Er, it was in a bookshop in, ah, Oxford, actually, I think.”

  “Oxford,” Mrs. Carruthers said, visibly disappointed.

  “I don’t think it would be worth a trip to look for more,” he said. “There was only the one set of autographed copies, and the bookseller told me that he had never seen others.”

  Mrs. Carruthers brought the knuckle of her index finger to her mouth, pursing her lips in thought. “It is so intriguing,” she said. “I wonder if she is from Oxford. Perhaps she is married to a professor.”

  “Is there a professor there by the name of Gorely?” Annabel asked.

  Mrs. Carruthers turned to her and blinked, as if only just then realizing she was there, standing beside Mr. Grey.

  “So sorry,” he murmured, and made the introductions.

  “Is there?” Annabel asked again. “It would seem to me that that would be the most efficient way of determining if she is a professor’s wife
.”

  “It is unlikely that Gorely is her real name,” Mrs. Carruthers explained officiously. “I cannot think of a lady who would allow her name to be put on a novel.”

  “If it’s not her real name,” Annabel wondered, “does the autograph even have value?”

  This was met with silence.

  “Furthermore,” Annabel continued, “how do you even know it’s her signature? I could have signed her name on the title page.”

  Mrs. Carruthers stared at her. Annabel could not tell if she was aghast at her questions or merely annoyed. After a moment the older woman turned determinedly back to Mr. Grey and said, “Should you ever come across another autographed set, or even a single book, please purchase it and know that I will reimburse you.”

  “It would be my pleasure,” he murmured.

  Mrs. Carruthers nodded and walked away. Annabel watched her depart, then said, “I don’t think I endeared myself to her.”

  “No,” he agreed.

  “I thought my question about the value of the signature was pertinent,” she said with a shrug.

  He smiled. “I am beginning to understand your obsession with people saying what they actually mean.”

  “It is not an obsession,” she protested.

  He quirked a brow. The movement was obscured by his eye patch, but that somehow made it all the more provoking.

  “It’s not,” Annabel insisted. “It is common sense. Just think of all the misunderstandings that could be avoided if people merely spoke to one another instead of telling one person who might tell another who might tell another, who might—”

  “You are confusing two issues,” he cut in. “One is convoluted prose, the other is merely gossip.”

  “Both are equally insidious.”