Ten Things I Love About You

  “Come,” Annabel said urgently. “There is a sweet shop just over…” Where?

  “On Clifford Street?” Nettie suggested.

  “Yes! Yes, I think there is.” Annabel hurried forth, barely watching where she was going, trying to hold back the tears that were burning behind her eyes. She had to get hold of herself. She could not enter an establishment, even a humble sweet shop, looking like this. She needed to take a breath, and calm herself down, and—

  “Oh, Miss Winslow!”

  Annabel froze. Dear God, she did not want to talk to anyone. Please, not now.

  “Miss Winslow!”

  Annabel took a deep breath and turned. It was Lady Olivia Valentine, smiling at her as she handed something to her own maid and walked forward.

  “How lovely to see you,” Olivia said brightly, “I’d heard—Oh, Miss Winslow, whatever can be wrong?”

  “It’s nothing,” Annabel lied. “I just—”

  “No, it’s clearly something,” Olivia said firmly. “Here, come with me.” She took Annabel’s arm and led her back a few steps. “This is my home,” she informed her. “You may rest here.”

  Annabel did not argue, grateful to have somewhere to go, grateful to have someone to tell her what to do.

  “You need tea,” Olivia said, settling her into a drawing room. “I need tea just looking at you.” She rang for a maid and ordered a tea ser vice, then sat beside her, taking one of Annabel’s hands between hers. “Annabel,” she said. “May I call you Annabel?”

  Annabel nodded.

  “Is there something I can help you with?”

  Annabel shook her head. “I wish you could.”

  Olivia chewed nervously on her lower lip and then asked, her voice careful, “Was it my cousin? Did Sebastian do something?”

  “No!” Annabel exclaimed. “No. No. No, please, he has not. He has been everything that is kind and generous. If it weren’t for him…” She shook her head again, but she did it too quickly this time, and it jarred her so much that she had to put a hand on her forehead. “If it weren’t for Mr. Grey,” she said, once she felt settled enough to speak evenly, “I should be an outcast.”

  Olivia nodded slowly. “Then I can only assume it is Lord Newbury.”

  Annabel gave a tiny nod. She looked down at her lap, at her hands, one still clasped in Olivia’s, the other clenched in a fist. “I’m being very silly, and very selfish.” She took a breath and tried to clear her throat, but it came out as an awful choking sound. The sound one made right before one cried. “I just don’t…want…”

  She didn’t finish the sentence. She didn’t have to. She saw the pity in Olivia’s eyes. “He has asked, then,” Olivia said softly.

  “No. Not yet. But he is at my grandparents’ house right now. I saw his carriage. I saw him go in.” She looked up. She didn’t want to think about what Olivia might see in her face, in her eyes, but she knew she could not speak to her lap forever. “I am a coward. I saw him, and I ran. I just thought—if I don’t go home, then he can’t ask me to marry him, and then I can’t say yes.”

  “Can’t you say no?”

  Annabel shook her head, utterly defeated. “No,” she said, wondering why she sounded so exhausted. “My family…We need…” She swallowed, closing her eyes against the pain of it. “After my father died, it was very difficult, and—”

  “It’s all right,” Olivia said, stopping her with a gentle squeeze of her hands. “I understand.”

  Annabel smiled through her tears, so grateful for this woman’s kindness, and yet unable to stop thinking that she couldn’t understand. Not Olivia Valentine, with her loving husband and wealthy, titled parents. She could not possibly know the pressure that was bearing down on Annabel’s shoulders, the knowledge that she could save her family, and all she had to do was forsake herself.

  Olivia let out a long breath. “Well,” she said efficiently, “we can delay it all by a day, at least. You can remain here for the afternoon. I should like the company.”

  “Thank you,” Annabel said.

  Olivia patted her hand and then stood. She walked over to the window and looked out.

  “You can’t see my grandparents’ house from here,” Annabel said.

  Olivia turned, smiling. “I know. I was just thinking. I do some of my best thinking at windows. Perhaps I shall take a walk in an hour or so. To see if the earl’s carriage still sits in front of Vickers House.”

  “You shouldn’t,” Annabel said. “Your condition…”

  “Does not prevent me from walking,” Olivia finished with a cheeky expression. “In fact, I should enjoy the air. I was miserable for the first three months, and according to my mother, I’ll likely be miserable for the last three, so I had better enjoy this middle time.”

  “It’s the best part of a pregnancy,” Annabel confirmed.

  Olivia cocked her head to the side, giving Annabel a quizzical look.

  “I am the oldest of eight. My mother was with child almost the whole of my youth.”

  “Eight? My heavens. I am one of but three myself.”

  “It is why Lord Newbury wishes to marry me,” Annabel said flatly. “My mother was one of seven. My father, one of ten. Not to mention that according to gossip, I am so fertile that birds sing when I draw near.”

  Olivia winced. “You heard that.”

  Annabel rolled her eyes. “Even I thought it was funny.”

  “It’s good you can have a sense of humor about it.”

  “One has to,” Annabel said with a fatalistic shrug. “If one doesn’t, then…” She sighed, unable to finish the statement. It was too depressing.

  She slumped, letting her gaze settle on the ornate curve of the foot of a nearby end table. She stared at it until it grew fuzzy, then split into two. Her eyes must be crossing. Or she could be going blind. Maybe if she went blind then Lord Newbury wouldn’t want her anymore. Could one go blind by keeping one’s eyes crossed for days?

  Maybe. It might be worth trying.

  She tilted her head to the side.

  “Annabel? Miss Winslow? Are you all right?”

  “Fine,” Annabel said automatically, still staring at the table.

  “Oh, the tea is here!” Olivia exclaimed, clearly relieved to break the awkward silence. “Here we are.” She sat down and placed a cup in a saucer. “How do you take yours?”

  Annabel reluctantly pulled her gaze from the table and blinked, allowing her eyes to uncross. “Milk please. No sugar.”

  Olivia waited for the tea to finish steeping, chattering away about this and that and nothing in particular. Annabel was happy—no, grateful—to just sit and listen. She learned about Olivia’s sister-in-law, who didn’t much enjoy coming to town, and her twin brother, who was (on odd days) the spawn of the devil. On even days, Olivia had said, her eyes flicking heavenward, “I suppose I love him.”

  As Annabel sipped the hot liquid, Olivia told her about her husband’s work. “He used to translate awful documents. Just dreadfully boring. One would think that papers for the War Office would be filled with intrigue, but trust me, that is not the case.”

  Annabel sipped and nodded, sipped and nodded.

  “He complains about the Gorely books all the time,” Olivia continued. “The writing really is dreadful. But I think he secretly loves translating them.” She looked up, as if she’d just thought of something. “Actually, he has Sebastian to thank for the job.”

  “Really? How is that?”

  Olivia’s mouth opened, but it was several moments before she actually said, “Honestly, I don’t quite know how to describe it. But Sebastian gave a reading for Prince Alexei. Who I believe you met last night.”

  Annabel nodded. Then frowned. “He gave a reading?”

  Olivia looked as if she still couldn’t quite believe it. “It was remarkable.” She shook her head. “I still can’t quite believe it. He had the housemaids in tears.”

  “Oh my.” She really did need to read one of these Gorely books. r />
  “At any rate, Prince Alexei fell in love with the story. Miss Butterworth and the Mad Baron. He asked Harry to translate it so that his countrymen can read it, too.”

  “It must be quite a story.”

  “Oh, it is. Death by pigeons.”

  Annabel choked on her tea. “You’re joking.”

  “No. I swear to you, Miss Butterworth’s mother is pecked to death by pigeons. And this, the poor woman, after being the only member of her family—except for Miss Butterworth, of course—to survive the plague.”

  “Bubonic?” Annabel asked, wide-eyed.

  “Oh, no, sorry, it was pox. I wish it had been bubonic.”

  “I need to read one of those books,” Annabel said.

  “I can give you one.” Olivia set her tea down and stood, walking across the room. “We have many copies here. Harry sometimes marks the pages, so we’ve had to buy multiples.” She opened up a small cabinet and bent down to look inside. “Oh, dear, I forgot I’m getting a bit unwieldy.”

  Annabel started to rise to her feet. “Do you need help?”

  “No, no.” Olivia let out a little groan as she straightened. “Here we are. Miss Sainsbury and the Mysterious Colonel. I believe it is Mrs. Gorely’s debut effort.”

  “Thank you.” Annabel took the book and looked down at it, running her fingers over gilt letters on the front. She opened to the first page and read the opening.

  The slanted light of dawn was rippling through the windowpane, and Miss Anne Sainsbury huddled beneath her threadbare blanket, wondering as she often did, how she would find money for her next meal. She looked down at her faithful collie, lying quietly on the rug by her bed, and she knew that the time had come for her to make a momentous decision. The lives of her brothers and sisters depended upon it.

  She slammed it shut.

  “Is something wrong?” Olivia asked.

  “No, just…nothing.” Annabel drank more tea. She wasn’t sure she wanted to read about a girl making momentous decisions just then. Especially not one who had brothers and sisters depending on her. “I think I will read it later,” she said.

  “If you want to read now I’m more than happy to leave you to your peace,” Olivia said. “Or I could join you. I’m still only halfway through today’s newspaper.”

  “No, no. I’ll start it tonight.” She smiled ruefully. “It will be a welcome distraction.”

  Olivia started to say something, but just then they heard someone entering the front door.

  “Harry?” Olivia called out.

  “Only me, I’m afraid.”

  Annabel froze. It was Mr. Grey.

  “Sebastian!” Olivia called out, shooting a nervous glance at Annabel. Annabel shook her head frantically. She didn’t want to see him. Not now, when she was feeling so fragile.

  “Sebastian, I wasn’t expecting you,” Olivia said, hurrying toward the drawing-room door.

  He stepped in, leaning down to kiss her cheek. “Since when do you expect me or not expect me?”

  Annabel slouched down in her seat. Maybe he wouldn’t see her. Her dress was almost the same blue as the sofa. Perhaps she’d blend in. Perhaps he’d gone blind from having crossed his eyes for days. Perhaps—

  “Annabel? Miss Winslow?”

  She smiled weakly.

  “What are you doing here?” He walked swiftly across the room, his brow knitted with concern. “Is something wrong?”

  Annabel shook her head, unable to speak. She’d thought she had herself under control. She’d been laughing with Olivia, for heaven’s sake. But one look at Mr. Grey and everything she’d been trying so hard to keep down rose right back up, pressing behind her eyes, clenching at her throat.

  “Annabel?” he asked, kneeling down in front of her.

  She burst into tears.

  Chapter Seventeen

  Sebastian had seen Annabel only once the previous evening after her dance with his uncle. Her eyes had been shuttered and she had seemed subdued, but there had been nothing that might have predicted this. She was sobbing as if the world were about to crash on her shoulders.

  Seb felt as if he’d been punched in the stomach.

  “Good God,” he said, turning to Olivia. “What happened to her?”

  Olivia pursed her lips and didn’t say anything. She just tilted her head toward Annabel. Seb had the impression he had just been scolded.

  “It’s nothing,” Annabel sobbed.

  “It’s not nothing,” he said. He looked at Olivia again, giving her an urgent—and annoyed—expression.

  “It’s not nothing,” Olivia confirmed.

  Seb swore under his breath. “What did Newbury do?”

  “Nothing,” Annabel said, shaking her head. “He didn’t do anything…because…because…”

  Sebastian swallowed, not liking the queasy feeling building in his belly. His uncle did not have a reputation for baseness or cruelty, but nor had any woman ever had cause to call him gentle. Newbury was the sort who inflicted pain through carelessness, or more accurately, selfishness. He took what he wanted because he thought he deserved it. If his needs conflicted with someone else’s, frankly, he didn’t much care.

  “Annabel,” he said, “you have to tell me what happened.”

  But she was still crying, gulping down big huge breaths, and her nose…

  He handed her his handkerchief.

  “Thank you,” she got out, and used it. Twice.

  “Olivia,” he snapped, whipping around to face her, “will you tell me what the hell is going on?”

  Olivia walked over and crossed her arms, looking righteous as only a woman could. “Miss Winslow believes that your uncle is about to propose marriage.”

  He let out a long breath. He was not surprised. Annabel was everything his uncle wanted in a bride, moreso now that he thought Sebastian wanted her, too.

  “Here now,” he said, trying to be comforting. He took one of her hands and squeezed. “It’ll all work out. I’d be crying, too, if he asked me to marry him.”

  She looked as if she might laugh, but then she just cried again.

  “Can’t you say no?” he asked. “Can’t she say no?” he asked Olivia.

  Olivia crossed her arms. “What do you think?”

  “If I’d known what to think, I’d hardly have asked, would I?” he bit off, coming to his feet.

  “She is the oldest of eight, Sebastian. Eight!”

  “For the love of God,” he exploded, “will you just say what you mean?”

  Annabel looked up, momentarily silenced.

  “I now understand your feelings precisely,” he told her.

  “There is no money left,” Annabel said in a small voice. “My sisters have no governess. My brothers are going to be sent home from school.”

  “What about your grandparents?” Surely Lord Vickers had enough money to pay a few tuition bills.

  “My grandfather hasn’t spoken to my mother for twenty years. He never forgave her for marrying my father.” She paused for a moment, taking a shaky breath and then using the handkerchief. “He only took me in because my grandmother insisted upon it. And she only did so because…well, I don’t know why. I think she thought it would be amusing.”

  Seb looked over at Olivia. She was still standing there with her arms crossed, looking rather like a warrior mother hen. “Excuse me,” he said to Annabel, and then he grabbed Olivia’s wrist and dragged her across the room. “What would you have me do?” he hissed.

  “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

  “Stop playing games. You’ve been glowering at me since I arrived.”

  “She’s upset!”

  “I can see that,” he snapped.

  She poked him in the chest. “Well, then, do something.”

  “It isn’t my fault!” And it wasn’t. Newbury had wanted Annabel long before Sebastian had become embroiled in the affair. She’d likely be in the exact same position if Seb had never met her.

  “She needs to marry, Se
bastian.”

  Oh, for the love of God. “Are you suggesting that I propose to her?” he asked, knowing damn well that was what she was suggesting. “I have known her barely a week.”

  She stared at him as if he were a complete cad. Hell, he felt like one. Annabel was sitting across the room, whimpering into his handkerchief. A man would have to have a heart of stone not to want to help her.

  But marriage? What sort of man married a woman he’d known for—how long had it been?—eight days? Society might think him foolish and flighty, but that was only because he liked it that way. He cultivated that image because…because…well, hell, he wasn’t sure why he did it. Maybe just because it amused him, too.

  But he’d thought Olivia knew him better.

  “I like Miss Winslow,” he whispered. “I do. And I regret that she is in this ghastly situation. Lord knows, I know more than anyone what a miserable existence it must be to live with Newbury. But it is not my doing. Nor is it my problem.”

  Olivia’s eyes bored down on his, full of disappointment.

  “You married for love,” he reminded her.

  Her jaw worked, and he knew he’d scored a hit. He wasn’t, however, quite sure why he felt so guilty about it. Still, he could not stop now. “Would you deny me the same?” he asked.

  Except…

  He looked over at Annabel. She was staring forlornly out the window. Her dark hair was starting to come free of its pins, and one loose curl had made its way down her back, revealing the length to be a few inches below her shoulders.

  It would be longer when it was wet, he thought absently.

  But he would never see it wet.

  He swallowed.

  “You’re right,” Olivia said suddenly.

  “What?” He looked back at her, blinking.

  “You’re right,” she said again. “It was unfair of me to expect you to swoop in and save her. She’s hardly the first girl in London to have to marry someone she doesn’t like.”

  “No.” He looked at her suspiciously. Was she up to something? She might be. Or she might not. Damn. He hated when he couldn’t read a woman.