Ten Things I Love About You (24 page)

“I do look a great deal like my mother,” she said, unable to take her eyes off him.

“You’re a Vickers,” he concluded with a benign smile.

She tried to suppress a smile of her own. “For what that’s worth.”

“Quite a lot, I think,” he said, leaning down to kiss the corner of her mouth. “Do you think she’s asleep yet?”

She shook her head.

He kissed the other side of her mouth. “What about now?”

She shook her head again.

He pulled back, and she could only laugh as he silently counted from one to ten, mouthing each number while his eyes flicked up toward the ceiling.

She watched him with amusement, laughter bubbling up inside of her but not quite coming out. When he was done, he looked back down at her, his eyes aglow like that of a young boy waiting for Christmas. “What about now?”

Her lips parted, and she meant to scold, to tell him to be patient, but it just wasn’t in her. She was so in love with him, and she was going to marry him, and so many things had happened that day to make her realize that life was to be lived and people were to be cherished, and if she had a chance at happiness, she was going to grab it with both hands and never let go.

“Yes,” she said, reaching up to entwine her arms around his neck. “I think she’s asleep now.”

I
f he were writing the story, Sebastian thought, as he swept Annabel into his arms, this would be the end of the chapter. No, the chapter would have ended at least three pages earlier, with no hint of intimacy or seduction and certainly nothing about the mind-shattering lust that surged through him the moment Annabel put her hands at the back of his neck and tilted her face up toward his.

One wasn’t allowed to put such things to paper, after all.

But he wasn’t writing the story, he was living it, and as he lifted her into his arms and carried her to the bed, he decided this was a very good thing, indeed.

“I love you,” he whispered, laying her down. Her hair was loose, a dark wavy mass of delight. He wanted to trace every curl, to let each one wrap itself around his fingers. He wanted to
feel them against his skin, tickling his shoulders, sweeping across his chest. He wanted to feel all of her, against all of him, and he wanted that every day for the rest of his life.

He settled down on the bed, a little bit next to her, a little bit on top, forcing himself to take a moment just to savor, and enjoy, and give thanks. She was looking up at him with all the love in the world in her eyes, and it humbled him, left him without words, without anything but this amazing sense of reverence and responsibility.

He belonged with someone now. He belonged
to
someone. His actions … they were no longer his alone. What he did, what he said … they meant something to someone else now. If he hurt her, if he disappointed her …

“You look so serious,” she whispered, lifting her hand to touch his cheek. Her hand was cold, and he turned into it, kissing the palm.

“I always have cold hands,” she said.

He felt himself smile. “You say it like it’s a deep, dark secret.”

“My feet get cold, too.”

He dropped one soft, serious kiss on her nose. “I vow to spend the rest of my life keeping your hands and feet warm.”

She smiled, that big, gorgeous, magnificent smile of hers, the kind that so often turned into her big, gorgeous, magnificent laugh. “I vow to …”

“To love me even if I lose my hair?” he suggested.

“Done.”

“To play darts with me even though I will always win?”

“I’m not so sure about that …”

“To …” He paused for a moment. “That’s all, actually.”

“Really? Nothing about eternal devotion?”

“Included in the one about my hair.”

“Lifelong friendship?”

“Right there with the darts.”

She laughed. “You are an easy man to love, Sebastian Grey.”

He gave her a modest smile. “I try my best.”

“I have a secret, though.”

“Really?” He licked his lips. “I love secrets.”

“Bend down,” she instructed.

He did.

“Closer.” And then: “Closer.”

He brought his ear very close to her lips. “I obey you in all ways.”

“I’m
very
good at darts.”

He started to laugh. Quietly—a big, shaking thing that moved from his belly to his toes and back. Then he brought his mouth even closer to her ear. Close enough to touch, to let the heat of his breath wash over her. And he whispered, “I’m better.”

She reached up and took his head between her hands, shifting it so that
her
mouth was at
his
ear.

“You
are
bossy,” he said before she could get a word in.

“Winslow Most Likely to Win at Darts,” was all she said.

“Ah, but by next month you’ll be a Grey.”

She sighed, a happy, wonderful sound. He wanted to spend his whole life listening to
sounds like those. “Wait!” he said suddenly, edging himself away. He’d almost forgotten. He had come to her room that night with a purpose.

“I want to do it again,” he said.

She tilted her head to the side, her eyes showing her confusion.

“When I asked you to marry me,” he told her, “I did not do it properly.”

She opened her mouth to protest, but he put a finger to her lips. “Shush,” he scolded. “I know it goes against your every natural impulse, oldest child that you are, but you are going to be quiet and listen.”

She nodded dutifully, her eyes bright and glistening.

“I have to ask you again,” he said. “I’m only doing it once, well, several times, but only to one woman, and I’ve got to get it right.”

And then he realized he didn’t really know what to say. He was fairly sure he’d rehearsed something in his head, but now, watching her face, watching the way her eyes searched his and her lips moved ever so slightly, even in her silence …

All those words were gone.

He was a man of language. He wrote novels, he conversed with effortless ease, and now, when it mattered most, his words were gone.

There weren’t words, he realized. There weren’t words good enough for what he wanted to tell her. Anything he might say would just be a pale facsimile of what was in his heart. A line drawing instead of a lush canvas with swirls of
oils and color. And Annabel—
his
Annabel—was nothing if not a lush swirl of color.

But he was going to try. He had never been in love before, and he didn’t plan to ever do it again, and right now, while he had her in the candlelight and in his arms, he was going to do it right.

“I am asking you to marry me,” he said, “because I love you. I don’t know how it happened so quickly, but I know that it is true. When I look at you …”

He had to stop. His voice had grown husky, and then choked, and he had to swallow, to give himself a moment to get past the aching lump of emotion that had formed in his throat. “When I look at you,” he whispered, “I just
know.”

And he realized that sometimes the simplest words were all it took. He loved her, and he knew, and that was all there was to it.

“I love you,” he said. “I love you.” He kissed her softly. “I love you, and I would be honored if you would allow me the privilege of spending the rest of my life making you happy.”

She nodded, tears slipping from her eyes. “Only if you will let me do the same,” she whispered.

He kissed her again, this time more deeply. “It would be my pleasure.”

The time for words was over. He moved to his knees, pulling his shirt from his trousers and sweeping it off with one fluid motion. Her eyes widened at the sight of his bare skin, and he shuddered with desire as he watched her reach slowly out to touch him.

And then when she did, when her hand found
his heartbeat, he groaned, unable to believe that one tiny touch could set him afire.

He wanted her. Dear God, he wanted her like nothing he’d ever known, nothing he’d ever imagined. “I love you,” he said, because it was in him, and it had to come out. Again. And again. He said it as he slipped her nightgown from her body, and he said it as he shed the last of his own clothing. He said it when he finally held her against him, completely and utterly, with nothing between them, and he said it when he settled between her legs, preparing to make that final move, to enter her and join them forever.

She was so hot against him, so wet and welcoming, but he held back, forcing himself to stand firm against his raging desire.

“Annabel,” he rasped. He was giving her this last chance to say no, that she wasn’t ready, or she needed words in a church first. It would kill him, but he would stop. And he hoped to God that she understood all of this, because he didn’t think he could manage another word, much less a complete sentence.

He looked down at her face, flush with passion. She was breathing hard, and he could feel every gasp in the rise and fall of her chest. He wanted to take both of her hands and hold them over her head, make her his captive, keep her here for an eternity.

And he wanted to kiss her, tenderly, everywhere.

He wanted to slam into her, showing her in the most primitive way imaginable that she was his, and his alone.

And he wanted to kneel before her, begging her to love him forever.

He wanted everything with her.

He wanted anything with her.

He wanted to hear her say—

“I love you.”

She whispered it, the words coming from deep in her throat, far down to the very center of her being, and it was all that it took to set him free.

He pushed forward, moaning as he felt her grasping him, pulling him in. “You’re so … so …” But he couldn’t finish the thought. He could only feel, and sense, and allow his body to take over.

He had been made for this. For this moment. With her.

“Oh God,” he moaned. “Oh, Annabel.”

With each push, she gasped, arching her back, lifting her hips, drawing him closer. He was trying to go slowly, to give her time to adjust to him, but every time she moaned it was like a spark that fired his blood. And when she moved, it only brought them more deeply together.

He took one of her breasts in his hand, nearly losing himself then and there, just with that. She was perfect, overflowing his fingers, soft and round and glorious. “I want to taste you,” he gasped, and he brought his mouth to her, flicking his tongue across the tender tip, feeling a moment of pure masculine triumph when she let out a tiny shriek, bucking off the bed.

Which of course only brought her more deeply to him.

He suckled her then, thinking she had to be
the most glorious, the most womanly creature ever made. He wanted to stay with her forever, buried inside, loving her.

Just loving her.

“Annabel,” he whispered, barely recognizing his own voice. “Is it …? Are you …?” He swallowed, trying to form a coherent thought. “Does it hurt?”

He wanted this to be good for her. No, he wanted it to be spectacular. But it was her first time, and he’d been told that the first time was rarely good for a woman. And he was so damned nervous that he was going to lose all control and take his own pleasure before he could help her reach hers. He couldn’t remember the last time he’d been nervous making love to a woman. But then again, what he’d done before … that hadn’t been making love. He hadn’t realized it before now. There was a difference, and the difference was in his arms right now.

She shook her head. “Only for a moment. Now it’s …”

He held his breath.

“Strange,” she finished. “Wonderful.”

“It only gets better,” he assured her. And it would. He began to move within her, not those first hesitant motions when he’d tried to set her at ease, but something real. He moved like a man who was coming home.

He slid a hand between them, reaching down to touch her, even as he thrust inside. Her hips nearly rose from the bed when he found her, and he stroked and teased, spurred on by the quickening of her breath. She grabbed his shoulders—hard,
with tight, tense fingers, and when she called out his name, it was an entreaty.

She wanted him.

She was begging for release.

And he swore he would give it to her.

He brought his head to her breast again, nipping and licking. If he could have he would have loved her everywhere, all at once, and maybe she felt like he did, because just when he thought he might not be able to hold off any longer, she bucked and tensed beneath him. Her fingers bit into his skin, and she tightened around him, squeezing, quivering. She was so tight, her muscles so powerful that she nearly pushed him out, but he surged forward, and before he knew it, he had spilled himself within her, reaching his climax at the very moment she started to come down from hers.

“I love you,” he said, and he curled against her side. He pulled her against him, fitting like two spoons in a drawer, closed his eyes, and he slept.

T
he sun rose early this time of year, and when Annabel opened her eyes and checked the clock on the table beside her bed, it was barely half five. The room was still quite dim, so she slipped out of bed, put on a dressing gown, and walked to the window to open the curtains. Her grandmother may have given tacit permission for Sebastian to stay in her room the night before, but Annabel knew that he could not be there when the rest of the house woke up.

Her room faced east, and so she took a moment at the window to enjoy the sunrise. Most of the sky still held the purple tones of night, but along the horizon the sun was painting a brilliant stripe of orange and pink.

And yellow. Right there on the very bottom, yellow was beginning to creep into view.

The slanted light of dawn,
Annabel thought. She still hadn’t finished that Gorely book, but something about the first line had stayed with her. She liked it. She understood it. She wasn’t a particularly visual person, but something about that description had resonated with her.

Behind her she heard Sebastian rustling in the bed, and she turned around. He appeared to be blinking himself awake.

“It’s morning,” she said, smiling.

He yawned. “Almost.”

“Almost,” she agreed, and turned back to the window.

She heard him yawn again, then make his way out of bed. He came up behind her, wrapping his arms around her and letting his chin settle on the top of her head. “It’s a beautiful sunrise,” he murmured.

“It’s already changed so much, just in the few moments I’ve been watching it.”

She felt him nod.

“I almost never see the sun rise this time of year,” she said, feeling a yawn coming over her. “It’s always so early.”

“I thought you were an early riser.”

“I am. But not usually this early.” She turned in his arms, looking up to face him. “Are you? It does seem the sort of thing one should know about one’s future husband.”

“No,” he said softly, “when I see the sun rise, it’s because I’ve been awake too long.”

She almost made a joke about staying out too late and attending too many parties, but she was
stopped by the look of resignation in his eyes. “Because you can’t sleep,” she said.

He nodded.

“You slept last night,” she said, remembering the slow, even sound of his breath. “You slept quite soundly.”

He blinked, and his face took on an expression of surprise. And maybe a little wonder, too. “I did, didn’t I?”

Impulsively, she stood on her tiptoes and kissed his cheek. “Perhaps this is a new dawn for you, too.”

He looked at her for several moments, as if he wasn’t quite sure what to say. “I love you,” he finally said, and he kissed her back, softly, and filled with love, on her lips.

“Let’s go outside,” he said suddenly.

“What?”

He let go of her and went back toward the bed, to the pile of his clothing, lying rumpled on the floor. “Go on,” he said. “Get dressed.”

Annabel allowed herself a moment to admire his naked back, then managed to snap herself to attention. “Why do you want to go outside?” she asked, but she was already looking for something to wear.

“I can’t be found here,” he explained, “but I find myself loathe to leave your company. We shall tell everyone we met for an early-morning stroll.”

“No one will believe us.”

“Of course not, but they won’t be able to prove we’re lying.” He flashed her a grin. His enthusiasm was infectious, and Annabel found herself practically racing to pull on all of her clothing. Before
she could even throw on her coat, he grabbed her hand, and they took off running through the house, stifling laughter all the way. A few maids were up and about, transporting jugs of water to all of the guest rooms, but Annabel and Sebastian just scooted on by, tripping along until they reached the front door and the fresh air of morning.

Annabel took a deep breath. The air felt wonderful, crisp and clean, with just enough cool moisture to make her feel dewy and new.

“Shall we go down to the pond?” Sebastian asked. He leaned down and dropped a kiss on her ear. “I have marvelous memories of that pond.”

Annabel’s cheeks turned hot, even though she rather thought she ought to be beyond blushing by now.

“I’ll teach you to skip stones,” he said.

“Oh, I don’t think you’ll manage that. I tried for
years.
My brothers quite gave up on me.”

He gave her a shrewd look. “Are you certain they were not, perhaps, employing a bit of sabotage?”

Annabel’s mouth fell open.

“If I were your brother,” he said, “and I believe we may both give thanks that I am not, I
might
find it amusing to give you false instruction.”

“They wouldn’t.”

Sebastian shrugged. “Having never met them, I cannot say for sure, but having met
you,
I can say that
I
would.”

She swatted him on the shoulder.

“Really,” he went on, “Winslow Most Likely to Win at Darts, Winslow Most Likely to Outrun a Turkey—”

“I came in only third for that.”

“—you’re quite annoyingly capable,” he finished.

“Annoyingly?”

“A man does like to feel that he is in charge,” he murmured.

“Annoyingly?”

He kissed her nose. “Annoyingly adorable.”

They had just about reached the shore of the pond, so Annabel yanked her hand free and marched down the small, sandy stretch. “I am finding a rock,” she announced, “and if you don’t teach me how to skip it by the end of the day, I shall …” She stopped. “Well, I don’t know what I shall do, but it won’t be pretty.”

He chuckled and ambled over to her side. “First you must find the right sort of rock.”

“I know that,” she said promptly.

“It must be flat, not too heavy—”

“I know that, too.”

“I am beginning to understand why your brothers did not wish to teach you.”

She gave him a dirty look.

He only laughed. “Here,” he said, reaching down to pick up a small stone. “This one is good. You need to hold it like this.” He demonstrated, then put it in her palm, curving her fingers around it. “Your wrist should be bent just so, and …”

She looked up. “And what?” His words had trailed off, and he was gazing out over the pond.

“Nothing,” he said with a little shake of his head. “Just the way the sun is hitting the water.”

Annabel turned to the pond, and then turned back to him. The reflection of the sun on the water
was beautiful, but she found she preferred watching him. He was looking at the pond so intently, so thoughtfully, as if he were memorizing every last ripple of light. She knew he had a reputation for careless charm. Everyone said he was so funny, so droll, but now, when he was so pensive …

She wondered if anyone—even his family—really knew him.

“The slanted light of dawn,” she said.

He turned sharply. “What?”

“Well, I suppose it’s a past dawn now, but not by much.”

“Why did you say that?”

She blinked. He was behaving oddly. “I don’t know.” She looked back over the water. The sunlight was still rather flat, almost peachy, and the pond seemed almost magical, nestled in with the trees and gentle hills. “I just liked the image, I suppose. I thought it was a very good description. From
Miss Sainsbury,
you know.”

“I know.”

She shrugged. “I still haven’t finished the book.”

“Do you like it?”

She turned back to him. He sounded rather intense. Uncharacteristically so. “I suppose,” she said, somewhat noncommittally.

He stared at her for a moment more. His eyes widened impatiently. “Either you like it or you don’t.”

“That’s not true. There are some things I like quite a bit about it, and others I’m not so fond of. I really think I need to finish it before rendering judgment.”

“How far along are you?”

“Why do you care so much?”

“I don’t,” he protested. But he looked exactly like her brother Frederick had when she had accused him of fancying Jenny Pitt, who lived in their village. Frederick had planted his hands on his hips and declared, “I don’t,” but
clearly
he did.

“I just like her books a great deal, that’s all,” he muttered.

“I like Yorkshire Pudding, but I don’t take offense if others don’t.”

He had no response to that, so she just shrugged and turned back to the stone in her hand, trying to imitate the grip he’d shown her earlier.

“What don’t you like?” he asked.

She looked up, blinking. She’d thought they were done with that conversation.

“Is it the plot?”

“No,” she said, giving him a curious look, “I like the plot. It’s a bit improbable, but that’s what makes it fun.”

“Then what is it?”

“Oh, I don’t know.” She frowned and sighed, trying to figure out the answer to his question. “The prose gets a bit unwieldy at times.”

“Unwieldy,” he stated.

“There are quite a lot of adjectives. But,” she added brightly, “she does have a way with description. I do like the slanted light of dawn, after all.”

“It would be difficult to write description without adjectives.”

“True,” she acceded.

“I could try, but—”

He shut his mouth. Very suddenly.

“What did you just say?” she demanded.

“Nothing.”

But he had definitely not said nothing. “You said …” And then she gasped. “It’s
you!”

He didn’t say anything, just crossed his arms and gave her an
I-don’t-know-what-you’re-talking-about
expression.

Her mind raced. How could she not have seen it? There had been so many clues. After his uncle had blackened his eye and he’d said that he never knew when he might need to describe something. The autographed books. And at the opera! He had said something about a hero not swooning on the first page. Not the first scene, the first page!

“You’re Sarah Gorely!” she exclaimed. “You
are.
You even have the same initials.”

“Really, Annabel, I—”

“Don’t lie to me. I’m going to be your wife. You cannot lie to me. I know it’s you. I even thought the book sounded a bit like you when I was reading it.” She gave him a sheepish smile. “It was actually what I liked best about it.”

“Really?” His eyes lit up and she wondered if he realized that he’d just admitted it.

She nodded. “How on earth have you kept it a secret for so long? I assume no one knows. Surely Lady Olivia would not have called the books dreadful if she knew—” She winced. “Oh, that’s awful.”

“Which is why she doesn’t know,” he told her. “She would feel dreadful.”

“You are a very kindhearted man.” She gasped. “And Sir Harry?”

“Also does not know,” he confirmed.

“But he’s translating you!” She paused. “Your books, I mean.”

Sebastian just gave a shrug.

“Oh, he would feel
terrible,”
Annabel said, trying to imagine it. She did not know Sir Harry very well, but still … they were cousins! “And they’ve never suspected?” she asked.

“I don’t think so.”

“Oh my.” She sat down on the big flat rock. “Oh my.”

He sat down beside her. “There are some,” he said carefully, “who might think it a rather silly, undignified pursuit.”

“Not me,” she said immediately, shaking her head. Good gracious, Sebastian was Sarah Gorely. She was marrying Sarah Gorely.

She paused. Perhaps she ought not to think about it in quite those terms.

“I think it’s marvelous,” she declared, tipping her face up toward his.

“You do?” His eyes searched hers, and in that moment she realized just how very important her good opinion was to him. He was so confident, so comfortable and easy in his own skin. It was one of the first things she had noticed about him, before she’d even learned his name.

“I do,” she said, wondering if she was awful for loving the vulnerable look in his eyes. She couldn’t help it. She loved how much she meant to him. “It will be our secret.” And then she laughed.

“What is it?”

“When I first met you, before I even knew your name, I remember thinking that you smiled as if you had a secret joke, and that I wanted to be a part of it.”

“Always,” he said solemnly.

“Perhaps I can be of help,” she suggested, giving a sly smile.
“Miss Winslow and the Mysterious Author.”

It took him a moment to catch on, but then his eyes lit with the fun of it. “I can’t use mysterious again. I’ve already had a mysterious colonel.”

She let out a snort of mock irritation. “This writing business is so difficult.”

“Miss Winslow and the Splendid Lover?”
he suggested.

“Too lurid,” she replied, batting him on the shoulder. “You’ll lose your audience and then where will we be? We have future gray-eyed babies to feed, you know.”

His own eyes flared with emotion, but still, he played along.
“Miss Winslow and the Precarious Heir.”

“Oh, I don’t know. It’s true you probably won’t inherit, although thankfully I won’t have anything to do with it, but still, ‘precarious’ sounds so …”

“Precarious?”

“Yes,” she agreed, even though his sarcasm had not been disguised in the least. “What about Mrs. Grey?” she asked softly.

“Mrs. Grey,” he repeated.

“I like the sound of it.”

He nodded.
“Mrs. Grey and the Dutiful Husband.”

“Mrs. Grey and the Beloved Husband.
No, no,
Mrs. Grey and Her Beloved Husband,”
she said, with an emphasis on “her.”

“Will it be a story in progress?” he asked.

“Oh, I think so.” She reached up to give him a kiss, then stayed there, their noses touching. “So long as you don’t mind a new happy ending every day.”

“It does sound like an awful lot of work …” he murmured.

She pulled back just far enough to give him a dry look. “But worth it.”

He chuckled. “That didn’t sound like a question.”

“Plain speaking, Mr. Grey. Plain speaking.”

“It’s what I love about you, soon-to-be Mrs. Grey.”

“Don’t you think it should be Mrs. soon-to-be Grey?”

“Now you’re
editing
me?”