Ten Things I Love About You (11 page)

“Ladies’ fashion?” Annabel asked.

“All fashion,” Mr. Grimston replied, glancing disdainfully about the room.

Annabel would have liked to have resented him for the expression, but she had to agree—it was all a bit oppressively mauve.

“We see you appear in fine health,” Lady Twombley said, lowering herself onto a sofa without being asked.

Annabel immediately followed suit. “Yes, of course, why wouldn’t I be?”

“Oh my heavens,” Lady Twombley’s eyes became the picture of genteel shock and she placed a hand over her heart. “You haven’t heard. Oh, Basil, she hasn’t heard.”

“Heard
what?”
Annabel ground out, although truth be told, she wasn’t sure she wanted to
know. If it gave Lady Twombley this much joy, it could not be good.

“If it had happened to me,” Lady Twombley went on, “I should have taken to my bed.”

Annabel looked over at Mr. Grimston to see if he might be willing to actually tell her what Lady Twombley was talking about, but he was busy looking bored.

“Such an insult,” Lady Twombley murmured. “Such an insult.”

To me?
Annabel wanted to ask. But she didn’t dare.

“Basil saw the whole thing,” Lady Twombley said with a wave toward her friend.

Now approaching panic, Annabel turned to the gentleman, who sighed and said, “It was quite a to-do.”

“What happened?” Annabel finally cried out.

Finally satisfied with the level of Annabel’s distress, Lady Twombley said, “Lord Newbury attacked Mr. Grey.”

Annabel felt the blood drain from her face. “What? No. That’s not possible.” Mr. Grey was young and supremely fit. And Lord Newbury was … not.

“Punched him right in the face,” Mr. Grimston said, as if it were not anything out of the ordinary.

“Oh my goodness,” Annabel said, her hand covering her mouth. “Is he all right?”

“One presumes,” Mr. Grimston replied.

Annabel looked from Lady Twombley to Mr. Grimston and back again. Damn and blast, they were going to make her ask
again.
“What happened
next?” she asked, not without irritation.

“Words were exchanged,” Mr. Grimston said with a polite yawn, “then Lord Newbury threw his drink in Mr. Grey’s face.”

“I should have liked to have seen that,” Lady Twombley murmured. Annabel shot her a horrified look, and she just shrugged. “What we cannot prevent,” she said, “we might as well witness.”

“Did Mr. Grey hit him in return?” Annabel asked Mr. Grimston, and to her own horror she realized she was a bit giddy inside. She shouldn’t wish for one person to cause another pain, and yet—

The thought of Lord Newbury being knocked to the floor … after what he’d tried to do to her …

She had to try very hard to keep her eagerness off her face.

“He did not,” Mr. Grimston said. “Others were surprised by his restraint, but I was not.”

“He is quite a rogue,” Lady Twombley said, leaning forward with a meaningful glint in her eyes, “but he’s not a
rash
sort, if you know what I mean.”

“No,” Annabel bit off, thoroughly out of patience with her vague comments, “I don’t.”

“He cut him,” Mr. Grimston said. “Not quite the cut direct. Even he wouldn’t dare, I reckon. But I do believe he called into question his lordship’s manhood.”

Annabel gasped.

Lady Twombley laughed.

“The way I see it,” Mr. Grimston continued, “one of two things is likely to occur.”

For once, Annabel thought, she wasn’t going to
have to prod. Judging from the rapacious gleam in his eye, there was no way Mr. Grimston was going to keep his thoughts to himself.

“It is quite possible,” he continued, clearly pleased with the hanging-on-every-word silence that filled the room, “that Lord Newbury will marry you immediately. He will need to defend his honor, and the quickest way to do so would be to plow you well and good.”

Annabel drew back, then felt even sicker as Mr. Grimston looked her up and down.

“You do look the sort to breed quickly,” he said.

“Indeed,” Lady Twombley added with a flick of her wrist.

“I beg your pardon,” Annabel said stiffly.

“Or,” Mr. Grimston added, “Mr. Grey will seduce you.”

“What?”

This caught Lady Twombley’s interest instantly. “Do you really think so, Basil?” she asked.

He turned to her, completely turning his back on Annabel. “Oh, to be certain. Can you think of a better way for him to exact his revenge against his uncle?”

“I’m going to have to ask the two of you to leave,” Annabel said.

“Oh, I thought of a third!” Lady Twombley chimed, as if Annabel had not just attempted to evict her.

Mr. Grimston was all ears. “Really?”

“The earl could choose someone else, of course. Miss Winslow is hardly the only unmarried girl in London. No one would think less of him for
looking elsewhere after what happened last night at the opera.”

“Nothing happened at the opera,” Annabel ground out.

Lady Twombley looked at her pityingly. “It doesn’t matter if anything happened or not. Surely you realize that?”

“Go on, Cressida,” Mr. Grimston said.

“Of course,” she said, as if bestowing a gift. “If Lord Newbury chooses someone else, Mr. Grey will have little reason to pursue Miss Winslow.”

“What happens then?” Annabel asked, even though she knew she should not.

They both looked at her with identically blank expressions. “Why, you’ll be a pariah,” Lady Twombley said, as if nothing could have been more obvious.

Annabel was speechless. Not so much at the words, but at the delivery. These people had come into her home—her grandparents’ home, but really, it was hers for the time being—and insulted her in every possible manner. That they were most probably correct in their predictions only made it worse.

“We are so sorry to be the bearers of unpleasant news,” Lady Twombley cooed.

“I think you should go,” Annabel said, standing. She would have liked to have made the request in a quite different manner, but she was all too aware that her reputation was now hanging by a thread, and these people—these awful, horrible people—had the power to pull out their little scissors and cut.

“Of course,” Lady Twombley said, coming to her feet. “You will be overset, I’m sure.”

“You do look flushed,” Mr. Grimston added. “Although that might just be the burgundy of your gown. You would do well to find a shade with a touch less blue to it.”

“I shall take that under advisement,” Annabel said tightly.

“Oh, you should, Miss Winslow,” Lady Twombley said, sailing to the door. “Basil has such a cunning eye for fashion. Truly.”

And just like that they were gone.

Almost.

They had just made it to the front hall when Annabel heard her grandmother’s voice. At—good heavens, Annabel looked at the clock—half ten! What on earth could have got Lady Vickers out of bed at such an hour?

Annabel spent the next ten minutes standing near the open doorway, listening to her grandmother receive the gospel according to Grimston and Twombley. What joy, she thought flatly, to hear it all again. In such impeccable detail. Finally, the front door opened and closed, and one minute later Lady Vickers stormed into the room.

“I need a drink,” she announced, “and so do you.”

Annabel did not argue.

“Annoying weasely little pair they are,” her grandmother said, tossing back her brandy in one gulp. She poured another, took a sip, then poured one for Annabel. “But they’re right, dash it all. It’s a fine mess you’ve got yourself into, my girl.”

Annabel touched her lips to the brandy. Drinking at half ten. What would her mother say?

Her grandmother shook her head. “Foolish, foolish girl. What were you thinking?”

Annabel hoped that was a rhetorical question.

“Well, I suppose you didn’t know any better.” Lady Vickers topped off her glass and sat in her favorite chair. “You’re lucky your grandfather is such a good friend to the earl. We’ll save the match yet.”

Annabel nodded dutifully, wishing …

Wishing …

Just wishing. For anything. For something good.

“Thank heavens Judkins had the sense to alert me to all your visitors,” her grandmother went on. “I tell you, Annabel, it makes very little difference what sort of husband you take on, but a good butler is worth his weight in gold.”

Annabel could not even begin to think of a response.

Her grandmother took another drink from her glass. “Judkins said Rebecca and Winifred were here earlier?”

Annabel nodded, assuming that meant the Ladies Westfield and Challis.

“We are going to be inundated. Just inundated.” She looked over at Annabel with narrowed eyes. “I hope you’re prepared.”

Annabel felt something desperate uncurling in her belly. “Can’t we say we’re not at home?”

Lady Vickers snorted. “No, we can’t say we’re not at home. You got yourself into this mess, and
you’ll take it like a lady, which means holding your head high, receiving every guest, and remembering each word so that it might be dissected later for analysis.”

Annabel sat, then stood when Judkins entered, announcing the next set of visitors.

“You’d best finish that brandy,” her grandmother said to her. “You’re going to need it.”

Three days later

I
f you don’t do something to repair what you’ve done, I shall never speak to you again.”

Sebastian looked up from his eggs into the magnificently furious face of his cousin’s wife. Olivia wasn’t often angry, and truly, it was a sight to behold.

Although all things considered, he’d have rather beheld it turned upon someone else.

Seb looked toward Harry, who was reading the newspaper over his own breakfast. Harry just shrugged, the motion clearly indicating that he did not judge this to be his problem.

Sebastian took a sip of his tea, swallowed, then looked back up at Olivia with a carefully blank
countenance. “I beg your pardon,” he said cheerfully. “Were you speaking to me?”

“Harry!” she exclaimed, letting out a huff of indignation. But her husband just shook his head, not even looking up.

Olivia’s eyes narrowed menacingly, and Seb decided he was quite glad not to be in Harry’s future shoes, when he had to face down his wife that evening.

Although really, one would hope Harry would be shoeless by that point.

“Sebastian!” Olivia said sternly. “Are you even listening to me?”

He blinked her face into focus. “I hang on your every word, dear cousin. You know that.”

She yanked out the chair across from him and sat down.

“Don’t you want breakfast?” he asked mildly.

“Later. First I—”

“I would be happy to fix your plate,” he offered. “You don’t want to go without the proper sustenance in your condition, you know.”

“My condition isn’t the problem at hand,” she said, pointing a long, graceful finger in his direction. “Sit.”

Seb tilted his head quizzically. “I
am
sitting.”

“You were thinking of getting up.”

He turned to Harry. “How do you tolerate her?”

Harry looked up from the newspaper for the first time that morning and smiled slyly. “There are certain benefits,” he murmured.

“Harry!” Olivia squeaked.

Sebastian was pleased to see that she blushed. “Very well,” he said, “what have I done now?”

“It is Miss Winslow.”

Miss Winslow.
Seb tried not to frown as he thought of her. Which was ironic because he’d spent the better part of two days frowning as he tried
not
to think of her. “What about Miss Winslow?”

“You did not mention that she was being courted by your uncle.”

“I did not know that she was being courted by my uncle.” Did his words sound a little tight? That would not do. He needed to get a firmer grip on his aspect and attitude.

There was a beat of silence. And then: “You must be very angry with her.”

“On the contrary,” Sebastian said nonchalantly.

Olivia’s pretty little lips opened in surprise. “You’re
not
angry with her?”

Seb shrugged. “It requires far too much energy to be angry.” He looked up from his food, giving her a bland smile. “I have better things to do with my time.”

“You do? I mean, of course you do. But wouldn’t you agree—”

Sebastian thought that he needed to do something about this niggle of irritation jabbing him under his ribs. It was really rather unpleasant, and he found it so much easier to glide along, letting insults roll off his back. But really, did Olivia think he sat about eating bonbons all day?

“Sebastian? Are you listening to me?”

He smiled and lied, “Of course.”

Olivia let out a noise that was somewhere between
a groan and a growl. But she plodded on. “Very well, you’re not angry with her, although, in my opinion, you have every right to be. Still—”

“If you were being pursued by my uncle,” Sebastian cut in, “wouldn’t you wish for a few last moments of merriment? I say this not to be boastful—although I am rather good company, if I may say so myself—but I really don’t think it can be disputed. I’m a far more pleasant companion than Newbury.”

“He has a point,” Harry said.

Olivia scowled. “I thought you weren’t listening.”

“I’m not,” he replied. “I am merely sitting here while my ears are assaulted.”

“How do you put up with him?” Sebastian murmured.

Olivia grit her teeth. “There are benefits,” she ground out.

Although Sebastian rather thought Harry might not be getting any benefits that evening.

“So there it is,” Sebastian said to Olivia. “I forgive her. She should have said something, but I understand why she did not, and I rather suspect that any one of us would have done the same.”

There was a pause, and then Olivia said, “That is very generous of you.”

He shrugged. “It’s not good for the constitution to carry a grudge. Just look at Newbury. He’d not be nearly so fat and florid if he didn’t hate me so much.” He turned back to his breakfast, wondering what Olivia might make of that little leap of logic.

She waited approximately ten seconds before
continuing on. “I am relieved to hear that you do not harbor her any ill will. As I said, she is in need of your help. After your little scene at White’s—”

“What?” Sebastian snapped, barely resisting the urge to slam his hand on the table. “Hold this minute. It was not
my
scene at all. If you wish to take someone to task, go find my uncle.”

“Very well, I’m sorry,” Olivia said, with enough discomfort that he believed her. “It was entirely your uncle’s doing, I realize that, but the end result is the same. Miss Winslow is in a terrible spot, and you are the only person who can save her.”

Sebastian took another bite of his food, then carefully wiped his mouth. There were at least ten things about Olivia’s statement that he could have taken exception to, were he the sort of gentleman to take exception to statements made by females in a huff. The first being:

One:
Miss Winslow’s spot was not so terrible because
Two:
she was apparently very close to becoming the Countess of Newbury, which
Three:
came with all sorts of fortune and prestige, despite also coming with the Earl of Newbury, whom no one could possibly judge as a prize.

To say nothing of
Four:
Sebastian was the one sporting a black eye and
Five:
he was also the one who’d had a drink thrown in his face, all because
Six:
she had not seen fit to tell him that she was being courted by his uncle despite the fact that
Seven:
she knew damn well of the connection, because
Eight:
she had nearly passed out from shock when he’d told her his name that night on the heath.

But perhaps he really ought to focus more on the second part of Olivia’s statement, the bit about his being the only person who could save Miss Winslow. Because
Nine:
he saw no reason why this might be the case, and
Ten:
he also didn’t see why he should care.

“Well?” Olivia demanded. “Do you have any thoughts on the matter?”

“Quite a few, actually,” he said equably. He went back to his food. After a few moments he looked back up. Olivia was gripping the table so hard her knuckles were turning white, and the look on her face …

“Careful there,” he murmured. “You’re going to curdle the milk.”

“Harry!” she fairly yelled.

Harry lowered the newspaper. “While I do appreciate your soliciting my opinion, I am quite certain I have nothing to offer this conversation. I doubt I’d even recognize Miss Winslow if I stumbled across her in the street.”

“You spent an entire evening in the opera box with her,” Olivia said in disbelief.

Harry considered this. “I suppose I might recognize the back of her head, were that the view she offered to me.”

Sebastian chuckled, then very quickly straightened his expression. Olivia was
not
amused. “Oh very well,” he said, holding his hands toward her in supplication. “Tell me how this is all my fault and what I may do to fix it.”

Olivia stared at him for one last endless second before saying quite primly, “I am glad you asked.”

Harry choked on something down the table. Probably his laughter. Sebastian hoped it was his tongue.

“Do you have any idea what people are saying about Miss Winslow?” Olivia asked.

As Sebastian had spent the last two days holed up in his rooms, working on getting the fictional Miss Spencer out from under her fictional Scotsman’s fictional bed, he did not, in fact, know what people were saying about Miss Winslow.

“Well?” Olivia demanded.

“I do not,” he admitted.

“They are saying”—she leaned forward here, and her expression was such that Sebastian just barely resisted the urge to lean back—”that it is only a matter of time before you seduce her.”

“She would not be the first lady about whom that has been said,” Seb pointed out.

“It’s different,” Olivia said between her teeth, “and you know that it is. Miss Winslow is not one of your merry widows.”

“I do love a good merry widow,” he murmured, just because he knew it would vex her.

“People are saying,” she ground out, “that you will ruin her just to thwart your uncle.”

“I am quite certain that is not my plan,” Sebastian said, “and I expect the rest of society will figure that out once they realize I have not even called upon her.”

And he did not intend to. Yes, he quite liked Miss Winslow, and yes, he’d spent far too much of his waking hours pondering the various ways he’d like to tie her to a bed, but he had absolutely
no intention of following through on that particular fantasy. He might have forgiven her, but he had no plans for any further contact. As far as he was concerned, if Newbury wanted her, Newbury could have her.

Which was what he said to Olivia, although with perhaps a bit more delicacy. This, however, only earned him a furious glare, followed by, “Newbury
doesn’t
want her any longer. That is the problem.”

“For whom?” Seb asked suspiciously. “If I were Miss Winslow, I’d see that as something more akin to a solution.”

“You are not Miss Winslow, and furthermore, you are not a lady.”

“Thank God,” he said, with no small bit of feeling. Beside him, Harry rapped three times on the table.

Olivia scowled at both of them. “If you were a lady,” she said, “you would understand what a disaster this is. Lord Newbury has not called upon her even once since your altercation.”

Sebastian’s brows rose. “Really?”

“Really. Do you know who
has
called upon her?”

“I do not,” he replied, because it wasn’t as if she was going to withhold the information, anyway.

“Everyone else. Everyone!”

“Quite a busy drawing room,” he murmured.

“Sebastian! Do you know whom ‘everyone’ includes?”

He briefly considered a sarcastic answer, then decided, out of motives of pure self-preservation, that he ought to hold his tongue.

“Cressida Twombley,” Olivia fairly hissed. “And Basil Grimston. They have been there three times.”

“Three ti—How do you
know
this?”

“I know everything,” Olivia said dismissively.

This, he believed. If Olivia had been in town before she’d met Miss Winslow in the park, none of this would have happened. She would have known that Annabel Winslow was Lady Louisa’s cousin. She’d probably have known her birthday and favorite color as well. She certainly would have known that Miss Winslow was a Vickers granddaughter, and thus his uncle’s prey.

And Sebastian would have steered himself far far away. That kiss on the heath would be nothing but a dim (albeit delightful) memory. He certainly would not have accepted the invitation to the opera, and he would not have sat next to her, and he would not know that her eyes—such a clear, focused gray—took on a hint of green when she dressed in that color. He would not know that her sensibilities were remarkably like his, or that she caught the inside of her lower lip between her teeth when she was concentrating on something. Or that she was not terribly good at sitting still.

Or that she smelled faintly of violets.

If he had but known who she was, none of those pesky bits of information would be jiggling about in his brain, taking up useful space from something important. Like a thorough analysis of roundarm versus underarm bowling in cricket. Or the precise wording of Shakespeare’s sonnet “Alack! What poverty my Muse
brings forth,” which he’d been misquoting in his head for at least a year now.

“Miss Winslow has become a laughingstock,” Olivia said, “and it is not fair. She did not do anything.”

“Neither did I,” Sebastian pointed out.

“But you have the power to fix things. She does not.”

“Alack, what poverty my Position brings forth,” he muttered.

“What?” Olivia said impatiently.

He waved his previous comment away. It wasn’t worth trying to explain. Instead, he gave her a direct look and asked, “What would you have me do?”

“Call upon her.”

Sebastian turned to Harry, who was still pretending to read his newspaper. “Didn’t she just say that all of London thinks I plan to seduce her?”

“She did,” Harry confirmed.

“Good
God,”
Olivia blasphemed, with enough force to cause both men to blink. “The two of you are so obtuse.”

They both stared at her, their very silence confirming her statement.

“Right now it looks as if
both
of you have abandoned her. The earl apparently does not want her, and by all appearances, neither do you. Heaven knows what the society ladies are tittering behind their hands.”

Sebastian could well imagine. Most would say that Miss Winslow overreached, and society
loved nothing more than to watch an ambitious female brought low.

“Right now people are calling upon her out of curiosity,” Olivia said.
“And,”
she added with a meaningful narrowing of her eyes, “cruelty. But make no mistake, Sebastian. When all this is over, no one will have her. Not unless you do the right thing
right now.”

“Please tell me the right thing does not involve a proposal of marriage,” he said. Because really, delightful though Miss Winslow was, he hardly thought he’d behaved in a fashion to warrant it.