Ten Things I Love About You

  Julia Quinn

  Ten Things I Love About You

  For my readers.

  Without you, I couldn’t have

  the coolest job in the world.

  And also from Paul,

  for precisely the same reason.

  Contents

  Prologue

  He couldn’t sleep.

  Chapter One

  The key to a successful marriage,” Lord Vickers pontificated, “is…

  Chapter Two

  Newbury’s got his eye on a new one.”

  Chapter Three

  She couldn’t marry him. Oh dear God, she couldn’t.

  Chapter Four

  When the dead body said, “Good evening,” Annabel had to…

  Chapter Five

  There were a thousand reasons why Sebastian should not have…

  Chapter Six

  You’re terribly quiet today,” Louisa said.

  Chapter Seven

  It’s really too bad you married my cousin,” Sebastian murmured,…

  Chapter Eight

  It took less than one second for Annabel to realize…

  Chapter Nine

  Sebastian was rather surprised by how much he was looking…

  Chapter Ten

  Annabel’s breath caught as the lights of the Royal Opera…

  Chapter Eleven

  You bastard!”

  Chapter Twelve

  If you don’t do something to repair what you’ve done,…

  Chapter Thirteen

  Brandy?” Lady Vickers asked, holding forth a glass.

  Chapter Fourteen

  Before Sebastian could respond with a suitably pithy statement, the…

  Chapter Fifteen

  By the time Annabel had finished dancing with Lord Rowton,…

  Chapter Sixteen

  Uncle,” Sebastian said jovially, since he’d long since learned that…

  Chapter Seventeen

  Sebastian had seen Annabel only once the previous evening after…

  Chapter Eighteen

  Annabel nearly fell on her face. “What?”

  Chapter Nineteen

  Sebastian knew exactly why he had been invited to Lady…

  Chapter Twenty

  Annabel watched as Sebastian walked toward the water. He stood…

  Chapter Twenty-One

  Did you see him this afternoon?”

  Chapter Twenty-Two

  One, Annabel thought happily as she took her seat at…

  Chapter Twenty-Three

  Let’s see, Lady Louisa, which scene have you chosen?” Sebastian…

  Chapter Twenty-Four

  Someone was in her room.

  Chapter Twenty-Five

  What the devil is going on in here?”

  Chapter Twenty-Six

  If he were writing the story, Sebastian thought, as he…

  Chapter Twenty-Seven

  The sun rose early this time of year, and when…

  Epilogue

  The key to a successful marriage,” Sebastian Grey pontificated from…

  About the Author

  Other Books by Julia Quinn

  Copyright

  About the Publisher

  Prologue

  A few years ago

  He couldn’t sleep.

  This was nothing new. One would think he’d be used to it by now.

  But no, each night Sebastian Grey closed his eyes with every expectation of falling asleep. Because why shouldn’t he? He was a perfectly healthy fellow, perfectly happy, perfectly sane. There was no reason why he shouldn’t be able to sleep.

  But he couldn’t.

  It didn’t happen all the time. Sometimes—and he had no idea why it happened or why it didn’t—he laid his head on his pillow and fell almost instantly into blissful slumber. The rest of the time, he tossed, turned, got up to read, drank tea, tossed, turned some more, sat up and looked out the window, tossed, turned, played darts, tossed, turned, and then finally gave up and watched the sunrise.

  He’d seen a lot of sunrises. In fact, Sebastian now considered himself something of an expert on the sunrises of the British Isles.

  Inevitably, exhaustion would set in, and sometime after dawn he would fall asleep, on his bed or in his chair or a few unpleasant times with his face pressed up against the glass. This didn’t happen every day, but often enough so that he’d gained a reputation as a slugabed, which frankly amused him. There was nothing he liked so much as a crisp and energetic morning, and certainly no meal could ever be as fulfilling as a robust English breakfast.

  And so he trained himself to live with his affliction as best he could. He’d got into the habit of taking breakfast at the home of his cousin Harry, in part because Harry’s housekeeper laid a damned fine meal, but also because it meant that Harry now expected him to show up. Which meant that nine times out of ten, Sebastian had to show up. Which meant that he could not allow himself to pass out at half seven every morning. Which meant that he was more tired than usual the following night. Which meant that when he crawled into bed and closed his eyes, he would fall asleep more easily.

  In theory.

  No, that wasn’t fair, he thought. No need to turn his sarcasm inward. His grand plan didn’t work perfectly, but it worked some. He was sleeping a little better. Just not tonight.

  Sebastian got up and walked to the window, resting his forehead against the pane. It was cold outside, and the icy chill pressed up against him through the glass. He liked the sensation. It was big. Grand. The sort of vivid moment that reminded him of his humanity. He was cold, therefore he must be alive. He was cold, therefore he must not be invincible. He was cold, therefore—

  He stood back and let out a disgusted snort. He was cold, therefore he was cold. There wasn’t really much more to it.

  He was surprised it wasn’t raining. When he’d arrived home that night it had looked like rain. He’d grown uncommonly good at predicting the weather while on the Continent.

  It would probably start raining soon.

  He wandered back to the center of his room and yawned. Maybe he should read. That sometimes made him sleepy. Of course, being sleepy wasn’t the issue. He could be dead sleepy and still not sleep. He’d close his eyes, tuck his pillow just the right way, and yet—

  Nothing.

  He’d just lie there, waiting, waiting, waiting. He’d try to empty his mind, because surely that was what was needed. A blank canvas. A clean slate. If he could embrace absolute nothingness, then he would fall asleep. He was sure of it.

  But it didn’t work. Because every time Sebastian Grey tried to embrace nothingness, the war came back and embraced him.

  He saw it. Felt it. Again. All those things for which frankly, once had been more than enough.

  And so he opened his eyes. Because then all he saw was his rather ordinary bedchamber, with its rather ordinary bed. The quilt was green, the curtains gold. His desk was wood.

  It was quiet, too. During the day there were the regular sounds of the city, but at night this part of town almost always fell silent. It was amazing, really, to actually enjoy silence. To listen to the wind and maybe the song of birds without always keeping one ear perked for footfall, or gunshot. Or worse.

  One would think he’d be able to sleep in such a happy quiet.

  He yawned again. Maybe he’d read. He’d picked a few books from Harry’s collection this afternoon. There hadn’t been much to choose from; Harry liked to read in French or Russian, and while Sebastian knew both of those languages as well (their shared maternal grandmother had insisted upon it), they did not come as naturally to him as they did to Harry. Reading in anything but English was work, and Seb just wanted to be entert
ained.

  Was that too much to expect from a book?

  If he were to write a book, there would be excitement. Lives would be lost, but not too many. And never any of the main characters. That would be much too depressing.

  There ought to be a romance, too. And danger. Danger was good.

  Maybe a little of the exotic, but not too much. Sebastian suspected that most authors did not do their research properly. He’d read a novel recently that took place in an Arabian harem. And while Seb definitely found the idea of a harem interesting—

  Very interesting.

  —he couldn’t imagine that the author had got any of the details right. He liked an adventure as best as the next man, but even he found it difficult to believe that the plucky English heroine managed to escape by hanging a snake out the window and sliding down to safety.

  To add insult to injury, the author had not even indicated what sort of snake she’d used.

  Really, he could do better.

  If he wrote a book, he would set it in England. There would be no snakes.

  And the hero would not be some pissy little dandy, concerned only with the cut of his waistcoat. If he wrote a book, the hero would damn well be heroic.

  But with a mysterious past. Just to keep things interesting.

  There would have to be a heroine, too. He liked women. He could write about one. What would he name her? Something ordinary. Joan, maybe. No, that sounded too fierce. Mary? Anne?

  Yes, Anne. He liked Anne. It had a nice definite sound to it. But no one would call her Anne. If he were to write a book, his heroine would be adrift, without family. There would be no one to use her Christian name. He needed a good surname. Something easy to pronounce. Something pleasant.

  Sainsbury.

  He paused, testing it out in his mind. Sainsbury. For some reason it reminded him of cheese.

  That was good. He liked cheese.

  Anne Sainsbury. It was a good name. Anne Sainsbury. Miss Sainsbury. Miss Sainsbury and…

  And what?

  What about that hero? Ought he to have a career? Certainly Sebastian knew enough about the ways of nobility to paint an accurate portrait of an indolent lord.

  But that was boring. If he were to write a book, it would have to be a cracking good story.

  He could make the hero a military man. He certainly knew about that. A major, perhaps? Miss Sainsbury and the Mysterious Major?

  Gad no. Enough with the alliteration. Even he found it a bit too precious.

  A general? No, generals were too busy. And there really weren’t that many of them running around. If he were going to get that rarefied he might as well throw in a duke or two.

  What about a colonel? High in the ranks, so he would have authority and power. He could be from a good family, someone with money, but not too much of it. A younger son. Younger sons had to make their way in the world.

  Miss Sainsbury and the Mysterious Colonel. Yes, if he were to write a book, that’s what he would call it.

  But he wasn’t going to write a book. He yawned. When would he find the time? He looked at his small desk, utterly empty save for a cup of cold tea. Or the paper?

  The sun was already starting to come up. He ought to crawl back into bed. He could probably get a few hours of sleep before he had to get up and head over to Harry’s for breakfast.

  He looked over at the window, where the slanted light of dawn was rippling through the glass.

  He paused. He liked the sound of that.

  The slanted light of dawn was rippling through the glass.

  No, that was unclear. For all anyone knew, he could be talking about a brandy snifter.

  The slanted light of dawn was rippling through the windowpane.

  That was good. But it needed a little something more.

  The slanted light of dawn was rippling through the windowpane, and Miss Anne Sainsbury was huddled beneath her thin blanket, wondering, as she often did, where she would find money for her next meal.

  That was really good. Even he wanted to know what happened to Miss Sainsbury, and he was making it up.

  Sebastian chewed on his lower lip. Maybe he should write this down. And give her a dog.

  He sat at his desk. Paper. He needed paper. And ink. There had to be some in his desk drawers.

  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. She looked down at her faithful collie, lying quietly on the rug by her bed, and she knew that the time had come for her to make a momentous decision. The lives of her brothers and sisters depended upon it.

  Look at that. It was an entire paragraph. And it had taken him no time at all.

  Sebastian looked up, back at the window. The slanted light of dawn was still rippling through the glass.

  The slanted light of dawn was rippling through the glass, and Sebastian Grey was happy.

  Chapter One

  Mayfair, London

  Spring 1822

  The key to a successful marriage,” Lord Vickers pontificated, “is to stay out of the way of one’s wife.”

  Such a statement would normally have little bearing on the life and fortunes of Miss Annabel Winslow, but there were ten things that made Lord Vickers’s pronouncement hit painfully close to her heart.

  One: Lord Vickers was her maternal grandfather, which pertained to Two: the wife in question was her grandmother, who Three: had recently decided to pluck Annabel from her quiet, happy life in Gloucestershire and, in her words, “clean her up and get her married.”

  Of equal importance was Four: Lord Vickers was speaking to Lord Newbury, who Five: had once been married himself, apparently successfully, but Six: his wife had died and now he was a widower, and Seven: his son had died the year prior, without a son of his own.

  Which meant that Seven: Lord Newbury was looking for a new wife and Eight: he rather thought an alliance with Vickers was just the thing, and Nine: he had his eye on Annabel because Ten: she had big hips.

  Oh, blast. Had that been two sevens?

  Annabel sighed, since that was the closest she was permitted to slumping in her seat. It didn’t really signify that there were eleven items instead of ten. Her hips were her hips, and Lord Newbury was presently determining if his next heir ought to spend nine months cradled between them.

  “Oldest of eight, you say,” Lord Newbury murmured, eyeing her thoughtfully.

  Thoughtfully? That could not be the correct adjective. He appeared about ready to lick his lips.

  Annabel looked over at her cousin, Lady Louisa McCann, with a queasy expression. Louisa had come by for an afternoon visit, and they had been quite enjoying themselves before Lord Newbury had made his unexpected entrance. Louisa’s face was perfectly placid, as it always was in social settings, but Annabel saw her eyes widen with sympathy.

  If Louisa, whose manner and bearing were consistently correct no matter the occasion, could not keep her horror off her face, then Annabel was in very big trouble indeed.

  “And,” Lord Vickers said with pride, “every one of them was born healthy and strong.” He lifted his glass in a silent toast to his eldest daughter, the fecund Frances Vickers Winslow, who, Annabel could not help but recall, he usually referred to as That Fool who married That Damned Fool.

  Lord Vickers had not been pleased when his daughter had married a country gentleman of limited means. As far as Annabel knew, he had never revised that opinion.

  Louisa’s mother, on the other hand, had wed the younger son of the Duke of Fenniwick a mere three months before the elder son of the Duke of Fenniwick had taken a stupid jump on an ill-trained stallion and broken his noble neck. It had been, in the words of Lord Vickers, “Damned good timing.”

  For Louisa’s mother, that was; not for the dead heir. Or the horse.

  It was not surprising that Annabel and Louisa had crossed paths only rarely before this spring. The Winslows, with
their copious progeny squeezed into a too-small house, had little in common with the McCanns, who, when they weren’t in residence at their palatial London mansion, made their home in an ancient castle just over the Scottish border.

  “Annabel’s father was one of ten,” Lord Vickers said.

  Annabel turned her head to look at him more carefully. It was the closest her grandfather had ever come to an actual compliment toward her father, God rest his soul.

  “Really?” Lord Newbury asked, looking at Annabel with glintier eyes than ever. Annabel sucked in her lips, clasped her hands together in her lap, and wondered what she might do to give off the air of being infertile.

  “And of course we have seven,” Lord Vickers said, waving his hand through the air in the modest way men do when they are really not being modest at all.

  “Didn’t stay out of Lady Vickers’s way all the time, then,” Lord Newbury chortled.

  Annabel swallowed. When Newbury chortled, or really, when he moved in any way, his jowls seemed to flap and jiggle. It was an awful sight, reminiscent of that calf-foot jelly the housekeeper used to force on her when she was ill. Truly, enough to put a young lady off her food.

  She tried to determine how long one would have to go without nutrients to significantly reduce the size of one’s hips, preferably to a width deemed unacceptable for childbearing.

  “Think about it,” Lord Vickers said, giving his old friend a genial slap on the back.

  “Oh, I’m thinking,” Lord Newbury said. He turned toward Annabel, his pale blue eyes alight with interest. “I am definitely thinking.”

  “Thinking is overrated,” announced Lady Vickers. She lifted a glass of sherry in salute to no one in particular and drank it.

  “Forgot you were there, Margaret,” Lord Newbury said.

  “I never forget,” grumbled Lord Vickers.

  “I speak of gentlemen, of course,” Lady Vickers said, holding out her glass to whichever gentleman might reach it first to refill. “A lady must always be thinking.”