Ten Things I Love About You (9 page)

S
ebastian was rather surprised by how much he was looking forward to the opera that evening. Not that he wasn’t a fan; he was, even if he had now seen
The Magic Flute
enough times to recite both of the Queen of the Night’s arias from memory.

Another item to add to his list of useless talents.

He wasn’t quite sure why the theatrical companies of Great Britain kept insisting upon performing the same opera over and over again. He supposed it was for the benefit of the scores of Englishmen too stubborn to learn a foreign language. It was easier, in Seb’s opinion, to follow along with a comedy than a tragedy. Or at the very least, know when to laugh.

But as much as he wanted to see the opera from the exalted position of the Fenniwick box, he wanted to see
her
more.

Miss Winslow.

Miss Annabel Winslow.

Annabel.

He liked that name. There was something bucolic about it, something that smelled clean, like grass.

He did not know many women who would find such a comparison complimentary, but somehow he suspected Miss Winslow would.

Other than that, he knew little about her, save for the fact that she’d befriended the daughter of a duke. It was a smart move for any young lady looking to elevate herself in the ranks of society, but Miss Winslow and Lady Louisa had seemed truly to enjoy each other’s company.

Another point in Miss Winslow’s favor. Sebastian never could abide those who faked friendship to advance their position.

He also knew that she had an unwanted suitor. This was nothing out of the ordinary; most young ladies of acceptable looks and/or fortune had an unwanted suitor or two. What
was
interesting was that she had actually fled the party to avoid the man. It could mean that he was particularly heinous.

Or that she was given to foolish behavior. Or that said suitor had made an unwanted advance.

Or that she had overreacted.

Sebastian considered the options as he rode to the opera house. If he were writing the story (and he did not discount the possibility that someday he might; it
did
sound like something out of a Gorely novel), how would
he
do it?

The suitor would have to be dreadful. Very rich, perhaps with a title—someone who could exert pressure on her poor, penniless family. Not that he had the slightest clue if Miss Winslow’s family was poor and penniless, but it did make for a better plot that way.

He would have attacked her in a darkened corner, away from the party. No, that wouldn’t do. It would be too early in the novel for such drama, and probably too lurid for his audience. His readers did not actually want to see a woman fending off an unwanted advance; they only wanted to read about people gossiping about it after the fact.

Or at least that was what his publisher told him.

Very well, if she hadn’t been attacked, then perhaps she had been blackmailed. Sebastian felt himself perk up. Blackmail was
always
a good story element. He used it almost every time.

“Guv!”

Sebastian blinked and looked up. He hadn’t even realized that he’d arrived at the opera house. He’d taken a hired hack, unpleasant though it was. He did not keep a carriage of his own, and he’d told Olivia that she and Harry need not pick him up on their way. Better to give the not-quite-newlyweds some time alone.

Harry would thank him for it later, Seb was sure.

Sebastian hopped down, paid the driver, and made his way inside. He was a bit early, but there were already quite a few people milling about, seeing and being seen in their glittered finery.

He made his way slowly through the crowd, chatting with acquaintances, smiling, as he always
did, at the young ladies who least expected it. The evening was promising all sorts of delight, and then, just when he’d almost made it across to the stairs—

His uncle.

Sebastian stiffened, barely suppressing his groan. He did not know why he was surprised; it made perfect sense that the Earl of Newbury would be attending the opera, especially if he was on the prowl for a new wife. Still, he had been in such a good mood. It seemed almost criminal that his uncle should be here to spoil it.

Normally, he’d have changed his course so as to avoid him. Seb was no coward, but really, why go out of one’s way to encounter unpleasantness?

Unfortunately, there was no escaping him this time. Newbury had seen Sebastian, and Sebastian knew he knew that he’d seen him, too. More to the point, about four other gentlemen had seen them see each other, and while Seb did not consider himself a coward for staying out of Newbury’s way, he was aware that others might.

He was not so deluded as to think that he did not care for the good opinion of others. He’d be damned if he was going to allow half of London to whisper that he was afraid of his uncle.

And so, since avoidance was not possible, he employed tactics of the opposite pole, and made sure his path led right to Newbury’s side.

“Uncle,” he said, pausing briefly to acknowledge him.

His uncle scowled, but he was clearly so surprised by the direct hit that he did not have
time to plan a scathing retort. Instead he gave a curt nod accompanied by a grunt, since he was obviously unable to make his mouth form Sebastian’s name.

“Delightful to see you as always,” Sebastian said with a broad smile. “I had not realized you enjoyed music.” And then, before Newbury could do anything more than grind his teeth, he gave a nod of farewell and walked away.

All in all, a successful encounter. Which would be made only better once the earl realized his nephew was sitting in the Fenniwick box. Newbury was a horrible snob and would certainly be furious that Sebastian was sitting in a better location.

Which hadn’t been his intention in accepting Lady Louisa’s invitation, but really, who was he to argue with an unexpected boon?

When Sebastian reached the box, he saw that Lady Louisa and Miss Winslow had already arrived, along with the Ladies Cosgrove and Wimbledon, who, if his memory served, were sisters to the Duke of Fenniwick. Who was not present, despite his name being the one attached to the box.

Sebastian noted that Lady Louisa was flanked by both aunts. Miss Winslow, on the other hand, had been left out to dry, seated in the front row by herself. Undoubtedly, Ladies C and W were acting to protect their charge from his insidious influence.

He smiled. All the better to influence Miss Winslow, who, he could not help but notice, looked positively delicious in her apple-green gown.

“Mr. Grey!” Lady Louisa cried out in greeting.

He bowed. “Lady Louisa, Lady Cosgrove, Lady Wimbledon.” And then, turning slightly, and smiling differently: “Miss Winslow.”

“Mr. Grey,” she said. Her cheeks went a bit pink, barely noticeable in the evening candlelight. But it was enough to make him smile inside.

Sebastian surveyed the seat selection and was instantly glad that he had chosen to come early and alone. His options were up front with Miss Winslow, the final seat in the middle next to the frowning Lady Wimbledon, or in the back, awaiting whomever else might arrive.

“I cannot allow Miss Winslow to sit by herself,” he announced, and promptly took a seat next to her.

“Mr. Grey,” she said again. “I thought your cousins were planning to attend as well.”

“They are. But it was not convenient for them to pick me up en route.” He turned in his seat to include Lady Louisa in the conversation. “As I am not precisely en route.”

“That was very kind of you not to insist upon it,” Lady Louisa said.

“Kindness had nothing to do with it,” he lied. “They would have insisted upon sending the carriage for me before they alighted, and I would have had to be ready a full hour earlier.”

Lady Louisa chuckled, and then, as if the thought had burst quite suddenly into her mind, said, “Oh! I must thank you for the book.”

“It was my pleasure,” he murmured.

“What book?” one of the aunts asked.

“I would have sent one to you, too,” he said to Miss Winslow while Lady Louisa conferred with her aunt, “but I did not know your address.”

Miss Winslow swallowed uncomfortably and said, “Er, that is quite all right. I’m sure I may read Lady Louisa’s when she is done.”

“Oh no,” Lady Louisa said, leaning forward. “I shall never lend this one out. It is signed by the author.”

“Signed by the author?” Lady Cosgrove exclaimed. “However did you find an autographed copy?”

Seb shrugged. “I stumbled upon it last year. I thought Lady Louisa might enjoy it.”

“Oh, I do,” she said earnestly. “It is truly one of the most thoughtful gifts I have ever received.”

“You must allow me to see it,” Lady Wimbledon said to Lady Louisa. “Mrs. Gorely is one of my very favorite authors. Such imagination!”

Seb wondered just how many signed Gorely books he might believably have stumbled upon. Clearly this was a better gift than anything else he could afford. He decided he’d better lay the foundation for his story now:

“I found a complete autographed set at a bookshop last autumn,” he said, rather pleased with his inventiveness. He now had three more opportunities for autographed gifts. Who knew when they might come in handy?

“I really cannot ask you to break up the set,” Lady Louisa murmured,
clearly
hoping that he would tell her it was no bother.

“It’s no bother,” he assured her. “It is the least I
can do in exchange for such a wonderful seat for the opera.” He took this opportunity to engage Miss Winslow in the conversation. “You are very fortunate to sit here for your first opera.”

“I am looking forward to it,” she said.

“Enough so that you don’t mind sitting next to me?” he said in a low voice.

He saw her try not to smile. “Indeed.”

“I am told I am quite charming,” he told her.

“Are you?”

“Charming?”

“No.” She tried again not to smile. “Told that you are so.”

“Ah. Occasionally. Not by my family, of course.”

This time she did smile. Sebastian was absurdly pleased.

“Naturally, I live to pester them,” he said.

She laughed. “You must not be the eldest child.”

“Why would you say that?”

“Because we hate pestering.”

“Oh we do?”

She blinked with surprise. “You
are
the oldest?”

“Only, I’m afraid. Such a disappointment for my parents.”

“Ah, well, that explains it.”

A parry he could not resist. “Pray tell.”

She turned to him, clearly engaged in the conversation. Her expression was perhaps a touch supercilious, but he found he liked a crafty look in her eye.

“Well,” she said, officiously enough so that if he hadn’t known she was the eldest child before, he would have been certain of it now. “As an
only child you would have grown up bereft of company, and thus never have learned how to properly interact with your peers.”

“I did go to school,” he said mildly.

She waved this off. “Nevertheless.”

He waited a moment, and then echoed, “Nevertheless?”

She blinked.

“Surely there is more to your argument.” She thought about that for a moment. “No.” He waited a moment again, and this time she added, “Need there be?”

“Apparently not, if you are the eldest child and large enough to beat your siblings to a pulp.”

Her eyes widened, and then she burst out laughing, a lovely, throaty sound that wasn’t musical in the least. She did not laugh delicately, Miss Winslow.

He loved it.

“I beat no one who did not deserve it,” she told him, once she’d regained her composure.

He felt himself chuckling along with her. “But Miss Winslow,” he said, affecting an earnest expression, “we have only just met. How can I trust your judgment in such a matter?”

She gave him a wicked grin. “You can’t.”

Sebastian’s heart lurched dangerously. He couldn’t seem to take his eyes off the corner of her mouth, that little spot where her skin dimpled and turned up. She had wonderful lips, full and pink, and he rather thought he’d like to kiss them again, now that he’d had a chance to see her by the light of day. He wondered if it would
feel different, having a perfectly colored portrait of her in his mind as he kissed her.

He wondered if it would feel different, knowing her name.

He tilted his head, as if the motion might bring her into sharper focus. It did, somehow, and he realized that yes, it would feel different.

Better.

He was saved from having to ponder the meaning of this by the appearance of his cousins. Harry and Olivia arrived with pink cheeks and slightly mussed hair, and after greetings were exchanged all around, the not-quite-newlyweds took seats in the back row.

Sebastian settled happily into his seat. It wasn’t as if he was alone with Miss Winslow; there were six others in the box, not to mention hundreds below in the opera house, but they were alone in their row, and for now, it felt like enough.

He turned to look at her. She was peering out over the edge of the box, her eyes alight with excitement. Sebastian tried to remember the last time he’d felt such anticipation. He’d been in London since his return from the war, and this—the parties, the operas, the liaisons—had all become routine. He enjoyed it all, of course, but he did not think he could say that there was anything he truly
anticipated.

She turned, then. Looked at him and smiled.

Until now.

A
nnabel’s breath caught as the lights of the Royal Opera House dimmed. She’d been looking forward to this night since she’d arrived in town, could hardly wait to relate all the details in a long missive to her sisters back home. But now, as the curtains lifted to reveal a strangely barren set, she realized that she didn’t just want this performance to be breathtaking, she
needed
it.

Because if it wasn’t amazing, if it wasn’t everything she’d dreamed of, it was not going to distract her from the gentleman in the seat next to her, whose every movement seemed to somehow disrupt the air just enough to make her skin tingle.

He didn’t even have to touch her and she tingled. This was very, very bad news.

“Are you familiar with the story?” came a warm voice in her ear.

Annabel nodded, even though she had only a
cursory knowledge of the libretto. Her program had contained a synopsis, which Louisa had told her was mandatory for anyone who did not understand German, but Annabel had not had time to read it carefully before Mr. Grey had arrived. “I know a little,” she whispered. “Some.”

“That is Tamino,” he said, pointing to the young man who had entered the stage. “Our hero.”

Annabel started to nod, then gasped as a monstrous serpent took the stage, writhing and hissing. “How did they
make
that?” she could not help but murmur.

But before Mr. Grey could offer an opinion, Tamino fainted with fear.

“I’ve never found him very heroic myself,” Mr. Grey said.

She glanced over at him.

He gave a little one-shouldered shrug. “A hero really shouldn’t swoon on the first page.”

“The first page?”

“The first scene,” he amended.

Annabel was inclined to agree. She was far more interested in the odd feather-coated man who had arrived on the scene, along with three ladies who promptly killed the snake. “No cowards they,” she murmured to herself.

Beside her she heard Mr. Grey smile. She
heard
him smile. How that was possible she did not know, but when she stole a glance at his profile, she saw it was true. He was watching the singers, his chin slightly lifted as he gazed over the crowd below, and his lips were curved into a small smile of kinship.

Annabel drew in a breath. Here in the half-light of the theater, she was reminded of how she’d first seen him, on the darkened heath. Had that been only one night earlier? It seemed strange that a mere twenty-four hours had passed since their accidental meeting. She felt different inside, changed far more than one day ought to allow.

She let her eyes fall on his lips. His smile had melted away, and now he looked intent, concentrating on the unfolding drama. And then—

He turned.

She almost looked away. But she didn’t. She smiled. Just a little.

He smiled back.

She moved her hands against her belly, which was doing all sorts of strange flips and wiggles. She should not be flirting with this man. It was a dangerous game that could go nowhere, and she knew better, truly she did. But she couldn’t seem to help herself. There was something so compelling, so infectious about him. He was her personal pied piper, and when she was near him, she felt …

She felt different. Special. As if she might possibly exist for some reason other than to find a husband and produce a baby and do it specifically in that order, with the proper person, as picked out by her grandparents, and—

She turned back to the stage. She didn’t want to think about this now. This was supposed to be a good night. A
wonderful
night.

“Now he’s going to fall in love,” Mr. Grey whispered in her ear.

She didn’t look back at him. She didn’t trust herself to. “Tamino?” she murmured.

“The ladies are going to show him a portrait of Pamina, the daughter of the Queen of the Night. He will fall instantly in love.”

Annabel leaned forward, not that she was going to be able to see the portrait from up in the box. She knew the tale was just a fantasy, but really, that had to be a remarkable portraitist.

“I always wondered about the portraitist,” Mr. Grey said. “He must be incandescently talented.”

Annabel turned sharply and blinked.

“What is it?” he asked.

“Nothing,” she said, feeling vaguely dazed. “Just … I was thinking the same thing.”

He smiled again, but this time it was different. Almost as if … No, it could not be that. He could not be smiling at her as if he’d found a kindred spirit. Because they could not be kindred spirits. Annabel could not allow it. It would be unbearable.

Determined to enjoy the opera more than she was enjoying Mr. Grey’s intermittent narration, she turned her attention back to the stage, allowing herself to be swept up in the story. It was a ludicrous tale, really, but the music was so wonderful she didn’t care.

Every few minutes Mr. Grey would continue his commentary, which Annabel had to admit aided her understanding immensely. His words were part narration and part observation, and Annabel could not help but be entertained. She would hear the rustle of his clothing as he leaned
in, then feel the heat of his skin as his lips approached her ear. Then came his words, always astute, frequently amusing, tickling her ear, making her heart skip.

It had to be the most wonderful way to experience the opera.

“This is the final scene,” he whispered, as some sort of judicial proceeding began on stage.

“Of the play?” she asked in surprise. The hero and heroine hadn’t even met each other yet.

“Of the first act,” he told her.

“Oh.” Of course. She turned front again, and within a few minutes, Tamino and Pamina finally clapped eyes on each other and instantly embraced …

… and were separated.

“Well,” Annabel said as the curtain went down, “I suppose there wouldn’t be much of a second act if they weren’t torn apart at the end of the scene.”

“You seem suspicious of the romance,” Mr. Grey said.

“You must admit, it is a bit far-fetched that he should fall in love with her portrait, and she should fall in love with his …” Annabel felt her brow furrow. “Why
did
she fall in love with him?”

“Because Papageno told her he was coming to save her,” Louisa said, leaning forward.

“Oh, of course,” Annabel replied, rolling her eyes. “She fell in love because a man wearing feathers told her she would be saved by a man she’d never met.”

“You don’t believe in love at first sight, Miss Winslow?” Mr. Grey asked.

“I did not say that.”

“Then you
do
believe?”

“I don’t believe or not believe,” Annabel replied, not trusting the glint in his eye. “I myself have not witnessed it, but that does not mean it does not exist. And it was not love at first sight. How can it be love at first sight if she has not even
seen
him?”

“It is difficult to argue with such logic,” he murmured.

“I should hope so.”

He chuckled at that, then frowned as he looked toward the back row. “Harry and Olivia seem to have disappeared,” he said.

Annabel twisted and looked over her shoulder. “I hope nothing is wrong.”

“Oh, I assure you that nothing is
wrong,”
Mr. Grey said cryptically.

Annabel blushed, not entirely sure what he meant, but certain nonetheless that it could not be proper.

Mr. Grey must have seen her go pink, because he chuckled, then leaned toward her with a mischievous gleam in his eye. There was something dangerously intimate in his expression, as if he
knew
her, or as if he would know her, or wanted to know her, or—

“Annabel,” Louisa said loudly, “will you come with me to the retiring room?”

“Of course.” Annabel had no particular need to “retire,” but if there was one thing she had
learned in London, it was that one never refused an invitation to accompany another lady to the retiring room. Why this was so, she was not certain, but she’d declined once and had been told that it had been very bad form.

“I await your return,” Mr. Grey said, standing.

Annabel nodded and followed Louisa out. They were barely two steps out of the box when Louisa grabbed her upper arm and whispered urgently, “What have you been talking about?”

“With Mr. Grey?”

“Of course with Mr. Grey. The two of you were practically touching heads the entire performance.”

“That can’t be true.”

“I assure you, it can. And you were sitting in the front. Everyone will have seen it.”

Annabel began to feel nervous. “What do you mean by everyone?”

Louisa looked furtively about. Crowds were beginning to spill out from the boxes, everyone dressed in their finest opera attire. “I don’t know if Lord Newbury is in attendance,” she whispered, “but if not, he’ll surely hear about this soon.”

Annabel swallowed nervously. She did not wish to jeopardize her impending match with the earl, but at the same time …

She desperately did.

“It is not Lord Newbury I’m worried about,” Louisa continued, looping her arm through Annabel’s to bring her closer. “You know I pray that the match will fall through.”

“Then—”

“Grandmama Vickers,” Louisa cut in. “And Lord Vickers. They will be livid if they think you have purposefully sabotaged the courtship.”

“But I—”

“They couldn’t possibly think anything else.” Louisa swallowed and lowered her voice when she saw someone make a curious turn in their direction.
“Sebastian Grey,
Annabel.”

“I know!” Annabel retorted, grateful to have finally got a word in. “You’re one to talk. You’ve been flirting with him all night.”

Louisa looked stricken, but only for a moment. “Oh, my heavens,” she said. “You’re jealous.”

“I am not.”

“You are.” Her eyes lit up. “This is wonderful. And a disaster,” she added, almost as an afterthought. “It’s a wonderful disaster.”

“Louisa.” Annabel wanted to rub her eyes. She was suddenly exhausted. And not quite sure that this rather crafty-looking lady in front of her was her normally shy cousin.

“Stop. Listen.” Louisa looked about and let out a frustrated groan. She pulled Annabel into an alcove and yanked a velvet curtain around them to afford them a bit of privacy. “You have to go home.”

“What? Why?”

“You have to go home right now. There will be enough of a scandal as it is.”

“All I did was talk with him!”

Louisa placed her hands on Annabel’s shoulders and looked her straight and hard in the eyes. “It’s enough. Trust me.”

Annabel took one look at her cousin’s grave expression and gave a nod. If Louisa said she had to go home, then she had to go home. She knew this world better than Annabel. She understood how to navigate the murky waters of London society.

“With any luck, someone else will make a scene in the second act, and they’ll forget all about you. I’ll tell everyone you’ve taken ill, and then—” Louisa’s eyes filled with alarm.

“What?”

She shook her head. “I shall just have to make certain that Mr. Grey remains for the entire performance. If he departs early as well, everyone will assume you’ve gone off together.”

The blood drained from Annabel’s face.

Louisa gave her head a shake. “I can do it. Don’t worry.”

“Are you sure?” Because Annabel wasn’t. Louisa was not known for her assertiveness.

“No, I can,” Louisa said, sounding as if she were convincing herself as much as Annabel. “He’s actually much easier to talk to than most men.”

“I’d noticed,” Annabel said weakly. Louisa sighed. “Yes, I expect you had. Very well, you must go home, and I will go …”

Annabel waited.

“I will go with you,” Louisa finished decisively. “That’s a much better idea.”

Annabel could only blink.

“If I go with you, no one will suspect anything, even if Mr. Grey departs as well.” Louisa gave
her a sheepish shrug. “It’s an advantage of a sterling reputation.”

Before Annabel could inquire as to what that said about
her
reputation, Louisa cut in with: “You’re an unknown quantity. But me … No one ever suspects me of anything.”

“Are you saying that they should?” Annabel asked carefully.

“No.” Louisa shook her head, almost wistfully. “I never do anything wrong.”

But as they made their way from their curtained hideaway, Annabel could have sworn she heard Louisa whisper, “Sadly.”

Three hours later Sebastian walked into his club, still rather annoyed by how the evening had turned out. Miss Winslow, he was told, had taken ill during the intermission and departed with Lady Louisa, who had insisted upon accompanying her.

Not that Sebastian believed a word of it. Miss Winslow had been such a picture of health, the only way she could have taken ill was if she’d been attacked by a leper in the stairwell.

The Ladies Cosgrove and Wimbledon, freed of their duties as chaperones, had departed as well, leaving their guests alone in the box. Olivia immediately moved to the front row, setting a program on the chair next to her for Harry, who had gone off to the lobby.

Sebastian had remained for the second act, mostly because Olivia had insisted upon it. He’d been all prepared to go home and write (the leper
in the stairwell had given him all sorts of ideas), but she had positively yanked him into the seat next to her and hissed, “If you depart everyone will think you’ve left with Miss Winslow, and I will not allow you to ruin the poor girl in her first season.”

“She left with Lady Louisa,” he protested. “Am I really thought so reckless that I’d engage in a
ménage a trois
with that?”

“That?”

“You know what I mean,” he said with a scowl.

“Everyone will think it a ruse,” Olivia explained. “Lady Louisa’s reputation may be unimpeachable, but yours is not, and the way you were carrying on with Miss Winslow during the first act …”

“I was
talking
with her.”

“What are you talking about?” It was Harry, returned from the lobby, needing to get past them to his seat.

“Nothing,” they both snapped, adjusting their legs to let him by.

Harry’s brows rose, but he merely yawned. “Where did everyone go?” he asked, sitting down.