Ten Things I Love About You

Chapter Eight

It took less than one second for Annabel to realize that Louisa had not been joking about Lady Olivia Valentine and the stunning beauty thereof. When she turned and smiled, Annabel actually had to blink at the brilliance of it. The young matron was breathtakingly gorgeous, all blond and milk-skinned, with high cheekbones and amazingly blue eyes.

It was all Annabel could do not to hate her on principle.

And then, as if the meeting could not get worse (and really, just the simple fact that she and Mr. Grey were meeting was bad enough), he had to go and kiss her hand.

Disaster.

Annabel had been utterly flustered, stammering something that might have passed for a greeting in a preverbal society. She did lift her eyes for a moment, because even she knew that one couldn’t spend an entire introduction staring at the ground. But it was a mistake. A huge mistake. Mr. Grey, who had been quite good-looking in the moonlight, was even more heartstoppingly handsome by the light of day.

Good heavens, he ought not to be allowed to promenade with Lady Olivia. The two of them were likely to blind the good people of London with their combined beauty.

Either that or send the rest of humanity sobbing to their beds, because really, who could compete with that?

Annabel tried to follow the conversation, but she was far too distracted by her own panic. And by Mr. Grey’s right hand, which was resting lightly against his leg. And by the sly curve of his mouth, which she was trying very hard not to look at, but somehow there it was, right in her peripheral vision. Not to mention the sound of his voice, when he said something about…well…something.

Books. They were talking about books.

Annabel held silent. She had not read the books in question, and besides, she thought it best to insert herself in the conversation as little as possible. Mr. Grey was still stealing the occasional glance in her direction and it seemed foolish to give him a reason to do so openly.

Of course that was when he turned right at her with those devilish gray eyes and asked, “And what of you, Miss Winslow? Have you read any of the Gorely books?”

“I am afraid not.”

“Oh, you must, Annabel,” Louisa said excitedly. “You will adore them. We shall go to the bookshop today. I would lend you mine, but they are all back at Fenniwick.”

“Do you possess the entire set, Lady Louisa?” Mr. Grey asked.

“Oh, yes. Except for Miss Truesdale and the Silent Gentleman, of course. But that shall be rectified immediately.” She turned back to Annabel. “What have we on the calendar for this evening? I do hope it is something we may skip. I want nothing more than a cup of tea and my new book.”

“I believe we are to attend the opera,” Annabel replied. Louisa’s family had one of the finest boxes in the theater, and Annabel had been looking forward to attending a performance for weeks.

“Really?” Louisa said, with an utter lack of enthusiasm.

“You’d rather stay home and read?” Mr. Grey asked.

“Oh, definitely. Wouldn’t you?”

Annabel regarded her cousin with something between surprise and disbelief. Louisa was normally so shy, and yet here she was, animatedly discussing novels with one of London’s most notorious bachelors.

“I suppose it depends on the opera,” Mr. Grey said thoughtfully. “And the book.”

“The Magic Flute,” Louisa informed him. “And Miss Truesdale.”

“The Magic Flute?” Lady Olivia exclaimed. “I missed that last year. I shall have to make plans to attend.”

“I would take Miss Truesdale over The Marriage of Figaro,” Mr. Grey said, “but perhaps not The Magic Flute. There is something so cheering about hell boilething in one’s heart.”

“Heartwarming, even,” Annabel muttered.

“What did you say, Miss Winslow?” he asked.

Annabel swallowed. He was smiling benignly, but she could hear the pointy little jab in his voice, and frankly, it terrified her. She could not enter into a battle with this man and win. Of that she was certain.

“I have never seen The Magic Flute,” she announced.

“Never?” Lady Olivia said. “But how can that be?”

“Opera is rarely performed in Gloucestershire, I’m afraid.”

“You must go see it,” Lady Olivia said. “You simply must.”

“I was planning to attend this evening,” Annabel said. “Lady Louisa’s family had invited me.”

“But you can’t go if she’s home reading a book,” Lady Olivia finished shrewdly. She turned to Louisa. “You will have to put off Miss Truesdale and her silent gentleman until tomorrow. You cannot allow Miss Winslow to miss the opera.”

“Why don’t you join us?” Louisa asked.

Annabel thought she might kill her.

“You said you missed it last year,” Louisa continued. “We have a large box. It is never full.”

Lady Olivia’s face lit with delight. “That is most kind of you. I should love to attend.”

“And of course you are invited as well, Mr. Grey,” Louisa said.

Annabel was definitely going to kill her. By the most painful means imaginable.

“I would be delighted,” he said. “But you must allow me to give you a copy of Miss Truesdale and the Silent Gentleman in exchange for the honor.”

“Thank you,” Louisa said, but Annabel could have sworn she sounded disappointed. “That would be-”

“I will have it delivered to your house this afternoon,” he continued smoothly, “so that you may begin it right away.”

“You are quite beyond thoughtful, Mr. Grey,” Louisa murmured. And she blushed. She blushed!

Annabel was aghast.

And jealous, but she preferred not to dwell on that.

“Will there be room for my husband as well?” Lady Olivia asked. “He has turned into a bit of a hermit of late, but I think we may convince him to emerge for the opera. I know that the Queen of the Night’s aria is a particular favorite of his.”

“All that hell boilething,” Mr. Grey said. “Who could resist it?”

“Of course,” Louisa replied to Lady Olivia. “I would be honored to meet him. His work sounds fascinating.”

“I myself am insanely jealous,” Mr. Grey murmured.

“Of Harry?” Lady Olivia asked, turning to him with surprise.

“I can imagine no greater bliss than to lie about, reading novels all day.”

“Very good novels at that,” Louisa put in.

Lady Olivia chuckled, but she did say, “He does a bit more than read. There is the small matter of the translation.”

“Pfft.” Mr. Grey dismissed this with a flick of his hand. “A mere trifle.”

“To translate into Russian?” Annabel asked dubiously.

He turned to her with an expression that might have been condescending. “I was employing hyperbole.”

He’d spoken softly, though, and Annabel did not think that either Louisa or Lady Olivia heard him. They were chatting about something or other and had moved off a bit to the right, leaving Annabel with Mr. Grey. Not alone-not even remotely alone-but it somehow felt like it, nonetheless.

“Have you a given name, Miss Winslow?” he asked softly.

“Annabel,” she replied, her voice prim and curt and really rather unpleasant.

“Annabel,” he repeated. “I would say that it suits you, except of course, how would I know?”

She clamped her lips together, but her toes were wiggling in her boots.

He smiled wolfishly. “Since we’ve never met.”

Still she kept her mouth shut. She did not trust herself to speak.

This only seemed to amuse him more. He tilted his head in her direction, the very model of a polite English gentleman. “I shall be delighted to see you again this evening.”

“Will you?”

He chuckled. “How tart! Positively lemonish of you.”

“Lemonish,” she said flatly. “Really.”

He leaned in. “Why, I wonder, do you dislike me so much?”

Annabel shot a frantic glance at her cousin.

“She can’t hear me,” he said.

“You don’t know that.”

He looked over at Louisa and Lady Olivia, who were now kneeling next to Frederick. “They’re much too busy with the dog. Although…” He frowned. “How Olivia is going to get back to standing in her state is beyond me.”

“She’ll be fine,” Annabel said without thinking.

He turned to her with raised brows.

“She’s not far enough along.”

“Normally I would assume that such a statement comes from a voice of experience, but as I know that you have no experience, except me, I-”

“I am the oldest of eight,” Annabel snapped. “My mother was with child throughout my entire childhood.”

“An explanation I had not considered,” he admitted. “I hate when that happens.”

Annabel wanted to dislike him. She really did. But he was making it difficult, with his lopsided grin and self-effacing charm. “Why did you accept Louisa’s invitation to the opera?” she asked.

He looked at her blankly, even though she knew his brain was whirring along at triple speed. “It’s the Fenniwick box,” he said, as if there could be no other explanation. “I’m not likely to get such a good seat again.”

It was true. Louisa’s aunt had raved about the location.

“And of course you looked so miserable,” he added. “It was hard to resist.”

She shot him a dirty look.

“Honesty in all things,” he quipped. “It’s my new credo.”

“New?”

He shrugged. “As of this afternoon, at least.”

“And until this evening?”

“Certainly until I reach the opera house,” he said with a wicked smile. When she did not return the expression, he added, “Come now, Miss Winslow, surely you are in possession of a sense of humor.”

Annabel nearly groaned. There were so many reasons this conversation was not funny she hardly knew where to start. There were so many reasons it was not funny it was almost funny.

“You needn’t worry,” he said quietly.

She looked up. His face had gone serious. Not dark, not grave, just…serious.

“I won’t say anything,” he said.

Somehow she knew that he was telling the truth. “Thank you.”

He leaned over and kissed her hand again. “I do believe that today, Tuesday, is a lovely day to make the acquaintance of a young lady.”

“It’s Wednesday,” she told him.

“Is it? I’m terrible with dates. It’s my only flaw.”

She really wanted to laugh. But she didn’t dare draw attention. Louisa and Lady Olivia were still chatting away, and the longer they were distracted the better.

“You’re smiling,” he said.

“No, I’m not.”

“You want to. The corners of your mouth are puckering.”

“They are not!”

He gave her a sly grin. “They are now.”

He was right, the fiend. He’d managed to make her laugh-or at least make her smile in the struggle not to laugh-in under a minute.

Was it any wonder she’d asked him to kiss her?

“Annabel!”

Annabel turned with relief at the sound of Louisa’s voice.

“My aunt is waving us over,” Louisa said, and sure enough, Lady Cosgrove was starting across the grass at them, looking very stern.

“I expect she doesn’t approve of your talking to me,” Mr. Grey said, “although I would think that Olivia’s presence would be enough to make me palatable.”

“I’m not that respectable,” Lady Olivia said.

Annabel’s lips parted in shock.

“She is completely respectable,” Louisa hastily whispered to Annabel. “She’s just, oh, never mind.”

Once again, everyone knew everything about everyone else. Except Annabel.

Annabel just sighed. Or not really. She couldn’t sigh in such a close gathering; it would be hopelessly uncouth. But she wanted to sigh. Something inside of her felt like it sighed.

Lady Cosgrove arrived on the scene and immediately took Louisa’s arm. “Lady Olivia,” she said with a cordial nod. “Mr. Grey.”

They returned the greeting, Mr. Grey with a smart bow and Lady Olivia with a curtsy so graceful it ought to be criminal.

“I have invited Lady Olivia and Mr. Grey to join us at the opera tonight,” Louisa said.

“Of course,” Lady Cosgrove said politely. “Lady Olivia, please do give my regards to your mother. I have not seen her in an age.”

“She has had a bit of a cold,” Lady Olivia replied, “but she is almost recovered. I am sure she would be delighted if you called upon her.”

“Perhaps I shall do that.”

Annabel watched the exchange with interest. Lady Cosgrove had not cut Mr. Grey, but she had managed not to speak a word in his direction after first greeting him. It was curious. She had not thought he was such a persona non grata. After all, he was heir to the earldom of Newbury, even if only the heir presumptive.

She would have to ask Louisa about this. When she was done killing her for inviting him to the opera.

Further pleasantries were exchanged, but it was apparent that Lady Cosgrove meant to remove her charges and depart. Not to mention Frederick, who looked as if he’d like to conduct some business in the shrubbery.

“Until this evening, Miss Winslow,” Mr. Grey said, leaning over her hand once again.

Annabel tried not to react as the touch of his lips on her hand sent a tingle up her arm. “Until this evening,” she repeated.

And as she watched him stroll away, she could not remember when she had looked forward to anything more.