Ten Things I Love About You

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, Sebastian.”

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.

“It’s not as if you can save them all.”

He shook his head, but without much conviction.

“Very well,” Olivia said briskly. “We can save her for this afternoon, at least. I’ve told her she may remain until evening. Surely Newbury will lose patience before then and go home.”

“He’s at her house right now?”

She gave a curt nod. “She was coming home from…well, I don’t know where. Shopping, I suppose. She saw him get out of the carriage.”

“And she is certain he was there to propose?”

“I don’t believe she wished to remain long enough find out,” Olivia answered acerbically.

He nodded slowly. It was difficult to put himself in Annabel’s shoes, but he supposed he would have done the same.

Olivia looked over at the clock on the mantel. “I have an appointment.”

This he did not believe for a second, but still he said, “I will stay with her.”

Olivia let out a long exhale. “I suppose we’ll need to send a note over to her grandparents. They are going to miss her at some point. Although knowing her grandmother, perhaps not.”

“Say that you’ve invited her to visit,” he suggested. “They cannot object to the connection.” Olivia was one of London’s most popular young matrons; anyone would be delighted to have her take their daughter-or granddaughter-under her wing.

Olivia nodded and went over to Annabel. Sebastian poured himself a drink, and then, after downing it in one swallow, poured himself another. And one for Annabel, too. By the time he brought them over, Olivia had said her goodbyes and was heading out the door.

He held out the drink.

“She has an appointment,” Annabel said.

He nodded. “Take it,” he said. “You might not want it. But you might.”

She took the glass, took a tiny sip, and set it down. “My grandmother drinks too much,” she said, her voice a heartbreaking monotone.

He didn’t say anything, just sat down in the chair closest to the sofa and made some sort of reassuring sound. He wasn’t good with sad women. He didn’t know what to say. Or do.

“She’s not a bad drunk. She just gets a little silly.”

“And amorous?” he asked, quirking a smile. It was a highly inappropriate comment, but he could not bear the sadness in her eyes. If he could make her smile, it would be worth it.

And she did! Just a little. But still, it felt like a victory.

“Oh, that.” She covered her mouth with her hand and shook her head. “I am so sorry,” she said with great feeling. “Honestly, I don’t know when I have ever felt more embarrassed. I have never seen her do that before.”

“It must be my charming aspect and handsome visage.”

She gave him a look.

“You’re not going to say something about my modesty and discretion?” he murmured.

She shook her head, the sparkle starting to return to her eyes. “I’ve never been a very good liar.”

He chuckled.

She took another sip of her drink, then set it down. But she didn’t let go. Her fingers tapped against the glass, tracing short quick lines near the rim. She was a fidgeter, his Annabel.

He wondered why this pleased him. He was not like that. He’d always been able to hold himself preternaturally still. It was probably why he was such a good shot. In the war he’d sometimes had to hold still for hours in his sniper’s perch, waiting for the perfect moment to squeeze the trigger.

“I just want you to know…” she began.

He waited. Whatever it was she was trying to say, it wasn’t easy.

“I just want you to know,” she said again, sounding as if she was trying to muster her courage, “that I know this has nothing to do with you. And I don’t expect-”

He shook his head, trying to save her from having to make a difficult speech. “Hush, hush. You don’t have to say anything.”

“But Lady Olivia-”

“Can be very meddlesome,” he interjected. “Let us just, for now, pretend that-” He cut himself off. “Is that a Gorely book?”

Annabel blinked and looked down. She seemed to have forgotten it was sitting in her lap. “Oh. Yes. Lady Olivia lent it to me.”

He held out his hand. “Which one did she give you?”

“Er…” She looked down. “Miss Sainsbury and the Mysterious Colonel.” She handed it to him. “I assume you’ve read it.”

“Of course.” He opened the book to its first pages. The slanted light of dawn, he said to himself. He remembered so clearly writing those words. No, that was not true. He remembered thinking them. He’d thought out the entire opening before writing it down. He’d gone over it so many times, editing in his head until he’d got it just the way he wanted it.

That had been his moment. His very own point of division. He wondered if everyone’s lives had a dividing point. A moment which sat clearly between before and after. That had been his. That night in his room. It hadn’t been any different than the night before, or the one before that. He couldn’t sleep. There was nothing out of the ordinary about that.

Except for some reason-some inexplicable, miraculous reason, he’d started thinking about books.

And then he’d picked up a pen.

Now he got to be in his after. He looked at Annabel.

He looked away. He didn’t want to think about her after.

“Shall I read it to you?” he asked, his voice sounding a little loud. But he had to do something to change the direction of his thoughts. Besides, it might cheer her up.

“All right,” she said, her lips forming a hesitant smile. “Lady Olivia said you’re a wonderful reader.”

There was no way Olivia had said that. “She did, did she?”

“Well, not exactly. But she did say that you made the housemaids cry.”

“In a good way,” he assured her.

She actually giggled. He felt absurdly pleased.

“Here we are,” he said. “Chapter One.” He cleared his throat and went on. “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.”

“I can picture that exactly,” Annabel said.

He looked up in surprise. And pleasure. “You can?”

She nodded. “I used to be an early riser. Before I arrived in London. The light is different in the morning. It’s flatter, I suppose. And more golden. I’ve always thought-” She cut herself off, cocking her head to the side. Her brows knit together and she frowned. It was the most adorable expression. Sebastian almost thought that if he looked hard enough, he could actually see her thinking.

“You know exactly what I mean,” she said.

“I do?”

“Yes.” She straightened, and her eyes flashed with memory. “You said so. When I met you at the Trowbridge party.”

“The heath,” he said with a sigh. It seemed such a delightful, far-off memory now.

“Yes. You said something about the morning light. You said you-” She stopped, blushing furiously. “Never mind.”

“I must say, now I really want to know what I said.”

“Oh…” She shook her head quickly. “No.”

“Anna-bel,” he prodded, liking the way her name took on a musical lilt.

“You said you’d like to take a bath in it,” she said, the words coming out in a single, mortified rush.

“I did?” Strange. He didn’t remember saying that. Sometimes he got lost in his own thoughts. But it did sound like something he’d say.

She nodded.

“Hmmm. Well. I suppose I would.” He tilted his head in her direction, the way he frequently did when about to deliver a bon mot. “I should want some privacy, though.”

“Of course.”

“Or maybe not too much privacy,” he murmured.

“Stop.” But she didn’t sound offended. Not quite.

He glanced at her when she thought he wasn’t looking. She was smiling to herself, just a little bit. Enough for him to see her courage, her strength. Her ability to hold herself straight in the midst of adversity.

He stopped. What the hell was he thinking? All she had done was hold her own against his risqué comment. That was hardly akin to adversity.

He needed to be careful, else he’d build her up into something she wasn’t. It was what he did almost every night, holed up in his room with pen and paper. He created characters. If he allowed his imagination to get the best of him, he’d turn her into the perfect woman.

Which wasn’t fair to either of them.

He cleared his throat and motioned to the book. “Shall I continue?”

“Please.”

“She looked down at her faithful collie-”

“I have a dog,” she blurted out.

He looked up in surprise. Not that she had a dog. She seemed the sort who would. But he hadn’t expected another interruption so quickly on the heels of the last. “You do?”

“A greyhound.”

“Does he race?”

She shook her head. “His name is Mouse.”

“You are a cruel woman, Annabel Winslow.”

“It’s a fitting name, I’m afraid.”

“I don’t suppose he was the winner in the Winslow Most Likely to Outrun a Turkey contest.”

She chuckled. “No.”

“You did say you’d come in third,” he reminded her.

“We usually limit candidates to those of the human variety.” Then she added, “Two of my brothers are quite fleet of foot.”

He held up the book again. “Do you want me to continue?”

“I miss my dog,” she said with a sigh.

Apparently not. “Er, your grandparents don’t have one?” he asked.

“No. There is only Louisa’s ridiculous hound.”

He recalled the fat little sausage on legs he’d seen at the park. “He was quite stout.”

She let out a little snort. “Who names a dog Frederick?”

“Eh?” She was jumping from topic to topic like a chickadee.

She sat up a little straighter. “Louisa named that dog Frederick. Don’t you find that ridiculous?”

“Not really,” he admitted.

“My brother is named Frederick.”

He could not imagine why she was telling him all this, but it seemed to be taking her mind off her troubles, so he went along with it. “Is Frederick one of the fleet-footed ones?”

“He is, actually. Also the Winslow Most Likely Not to Become a Vicar.” She motioned to herself with one hand. “I would have certainly beaten him at that, had the girls not been disqualified on religious grounds.”

“Of course,” he murmured. “Most likely to fall asleep in church and all that.” Then it occurred to him to ask, “Did you actually do it? Fall asleep in church?”

She let out a weary sigh. “Every…single…week.”

He chuckled. “We would have made quite a pair.”

“You, too?”

“Oh, no. I never fell asleep. I was ejected for bad behavior.”

She leaned forward, eyes sparkling. “What did you do?”

He leaned forward, smiling wickedly. “I’ll never tell.”

She drew back. “That’s not fair.”

He shrugged. “Now I just don’t go.”

“Ever?”

“No. Although to be honest, I probably would fall asleep.” He would, too. Ser vices were very poorly timed for people who did not sleep well at night.

She smiled, but there was something wistful in it, and she rose to her feet. He started to get up, but she held up a hand. “Please. Not on my account.”

Sebastian watched as she walked to the window, resting her head against the glass as she peered out. “Do you think he’s still there?” she asked.

He didn’t pretend he didn’t know exactly what she was talking about. “Probably. He’s very tenacious. If your grandparents tell him they expect you to return soon, he’ll wait.”

“Lady Olivia said that she would drive past Vickers House after her appointment to see if his carriage is there.” She turned around, and she didn’t quite look at him as she said, “She didn’t have an appointment, did she?”

He thought about lying. But he didn’t. “I don’t think so.”

Annabel nodded slowly, and then her face seemed to crumple, and all he could think was, Oh God, not more tears, because he wasn’t good with tears. Especially not her tears. But before he could think of an appropriately comforting thing to say, he realized-

“Are you laughing?”

She shook her head. While she was laughing.

He came to his feet. “What is so funny?”

“Your cousin,” she sputtered. “I think she’s trying to compromise you.”

It was the most ludicrous thing he’d ever heard. And true.

“Oh, Annabel,” he said, walking toward her with predatory grace. “I was compromised a long, long time ago.”

“I’m sorry.” She was still laughing. “I didn’t mean to imply…”

Sebastian waited, but whatever it was she hadn’t meant to imply was lost in a fresh gale of laughter.

“Oh!” She leaned against the wall clutching her middle.

“It wasn’t that funny,” he said. But he was smiling as he said it. It was impossible not to smile while she was laughing.

She had an extraordinary laugh.

“No, no,” she gasped. “Not that. I was thinking of something else.”

He waited. Nothing. Finally he said, “Care to tell me what?”

She let out a snort of laughter, possibly through her nose, and she clapped both hands over her mouth, nay, her entire face.

“You look like you’re crying,” he said.

“I’m not,” was her muffled reply.

“I know. I just thought to tell you that, on the off chance someone comes in and thinks I made you weep.”

She peeked through her fingers. “Sorry.”

“What is so funny?” Because really, by now he had to know.

“Oh, it was just…last night…when you were talking to your uncle…”

He leaned against the back of the sofa, waiting.

“You said you wanted to restore me to the bosom of society.”

“Not the most elegant turn of phrase,” he allowed.

“And all I could think was-” She looked as if she were going to explode again. “I’m not so sure I like society’s bosom.”

“It’s not my favorite bosom,” he concurred, trying very hard not to look at hers.

This only seemed to make her laugh more, which made her quiver in rather bosomy areas.

Which had quite an effect on certain of his areas.

He stopped moving.

She covered her eyes in embarrassment. “I can’t believe that I just said that.”

He stopped breathing. He could only look at her, look at her lips, full and pink, still suspended in a smile.

He wanted to kiss her. He wanted to kiss her more than he wanted to breathe. He wanted to kiss her far more than he had sense, because if he’d been thinking sensibly, he would have stepped away. Walked out of the room. Found himself a very cold bath.

Instead he stepped toward her. Put his hand over hers, holding it gently in place over her eyes.

Her lips parted, and he heard a soft whisper of air rush across. Whether she’d exhaled or gasped, he didn’t know. He didn’t care. He just wanted her breath to be his breath.

He leaned forward. Slowly. He couldn’t rush it, couldn’t risk losing one second of it. He wanted to remember this. He wanted every last moment burned into his memory. He wanted to know what it felt like to be two inches away, and then one, and then…

He touched his lips to hers. One tiny, fleeting touch before pulling back. He wanted to see her, to know exactly what she looked like after a kiss.

To know exactly what she looked like waiting for another.

He wound his fingers through hers and slowly pulled her hand from her eyes. “Look at me,” he whispered.

But she shook her head, keeping her eyes closed.

And then he could wait no longer. He wrapped his arms around her, pulling her against him, and brought her lips to his. But it was so much more than a kiss. His hands stole around and down to her bottom, and he squeezed. He didn’t know whether he was trying to press her against him or simply revel in the lushness of her body.

She was a goddess in his arms, soft and sumptuous, and he wanted to feel her, every inch. He wanted to touch and stroke and knead, and Good Lord, he almost forgot he was kissing her, too. But her body…her body was a thing of beauty. It was a bloody miracle in his arms, and when he finally lifted his mouth from hers to draw breath, he couldn’t help it. He moaned and then moved down to her jaw, to her throat. He didn’t just want to kiss her mouth. He wanted to kiss her everywhere.

“Annabel,” he groaned, his fingers nimbly finding the buttons at the back of her frock. He was good. He knew exactly how to disrobe a woman. He usually did it slowly, savoring every moment, every new inch of flesh, but with her…he couldn’t wait. He was like a madman, pushing each button through its hole until he’d got enough undone to push the dress down over her shoulders.

Her chemise was very plain, no silk, no lace, just thin white cotton. But it drove him wild. She didn’t need embellishment. She’d been made perfectly.

With shaking fingers he went to the ties at her shoulders and tugged, barely able to breathe as the thin strips of fabric fell away.

He whispered her name, and then again, and again. He heard her moan, a soft little squeak of noise which grew deeper and huskier as his hand slid along her shoulder, down to the luscious curve of her breast. She was only lightly corseted, but the stays pushed her up, making her breasts impossibly high and round.

He nearly lost control of himself right then.

He had to stop this. It was madness. She was a proper young lady, and he was treating her like-

He pressed one final kiss against her skin, breathing in the hot scent of her, and then wrenched himself away.

“I’m sorry,” he gasped. But he wasn’t. He knew he should be, but he didn’t think he could ever regret having held her so intimately.

He started to turn away, because he didn’t think he could see her and not touch her again, but just before he did, he saw that her eyes were closed.

His heart dropped, and he rushed to her side. “Annabel?” He touched her shoulder, then her cheek. “What is wrong?”

“Nothing,” she whispered.

His finger moved to her temple, right to the corner of her eye. “Why are your eyes closed?”

“I’m afraid.”

“Of what?”

She swallowed. “Of myself.” And then she opened her eyes. “Of what I might want. And what I have to do.”

“Did you not want me to…” Dear God, had she not wanted him? He tried to think. Had she returned the kiss? Had she touched him in return? He couldn’t remember. He’d been so overwhelmed by her, by his own need, that he couldn’t remember what she’d done.

“No,” she said softly. “I wanted you to. That’s the problem.” She closed her eyes again, but just for a moment. She looked like she was trying to restore something within herself, and then she opened them again. “Could you help me?”

He started to say yes, that he’d help her. He’d do whatever was within his power to protect her from his uncle, to save her family and keep her brothers in school, but then he saw that she was motioning to the ties of her chemise, and he realized that all she actually wanted was help getting dressed.

So he did that. He tied her ties and buttoned her buttons, and he didn’t say a word as she took a seat near the window and he found one by the door.

They waited. And they waited. And then finally, after what seemed like hours, Annabel stood and said, “She’s back.”

Sebastian rose to his feet, watching Annabel as she peered out the window at Olivia, alighting from her carriage. She turned, and it just came out of him:

“Will you marry me?”