Ten Things I Love About You, Page 2

“That’s where we disagree,” said Newbury. “My own Margaret kept her thoughts to herself. We had a splendid union.”

  “Stayed out of your way, did she?” Lord Vickers said.

  “As I said, it was a splendid union.”

  Annabel looked at Louisa, sitting so properly in the chair next to her. Her cousin was a wisp of a thing, with slender shoulders, light brown hair and eyes of the palest green. Annabel always thought she looked like a bit of a monster next to her. Her own hair was dark and wavy, her skin the sort that would tan if she allowed herself too much time in the sun, and her figure had been attracting unwanted attention since her twelfth summer.

  But never—never—had attentions been any less wanted than they were right now, with Lord Newbury staring at her like a sugared treat.

  Annabel sat quietly, trying to emulate Louisa and not allow any of her thoughts to show on her face. Her grandmother was forever scolding her for being too expressive. “For the love of God,” was a familiar refrain. “Stop smiling as if you know something. Gentlemen don’t want a lady who knows things. Not as a wife, anyway.”

  At this point Lady Vickers usually took a drink and added, “You can know lots of things after you’re married. Preferably with a gentleman other than your husband.”

  If Annabel hadn’t known things before, she certainly did now. Like the fact that at least three of the Vickers offspring were probably not Vickerses. Her grandmother, Annabel was coming to realize, had, in addition to a remarkably blasphemous vocabulary, a rather fluid view on morality.

  Gloucestershire was beginning to seem like a dream. Everything in London was so…shiny. Not literally, of course. In truth, everything in London was rather gray, dusted over by a thin sheen of soot and dirt. Annabel wasn’t really sure why “shiny” was the word that had come to mind. Perhaps it was because nothing seemed simple. Definitely not straightforward. And maybe even a little slippery.

  She found herself longing for a tall glass of milk, as if something so fresh and wholesome might restore her sense of balance. She’d never thought herself particularly prim, and heaven knew that she was the Winslow most likely to fall asleep in church, but every day in the capital seemed to bring yet another shock, another moment that left her slack-jawed and confused.

  A month she’d been here now. A month! And still she felt as if she were tiptoeing along, never quite sure if she was doing or saying the right thing.

  She hated that.

  At home she was certain. She wasn’t always right, but she was almost always certain. In London the rules were different. And worse, every one knew everyone else. And if they didn’t, they knew about them. It was as if all the ton shared some secret history that Annabel was not privy to. Every conversation held an undercurrent, a deeper, more subtle meaning. And Annabel, who in addition to being the Winslow most likely to fall asleep in church was the Winslow most likely to speak her mind, felt she could not say a thing, for fear of making offense.

  Or embarrassing herself.

  Or embarrassing someone else.

  She could not bear the thought. She simply could not bear the thought that she might somehow prove to her grandfather that her mother had indeed been a fool and her father had been a damned fool and that she was the damnedest fool of them all.

  There were a thousand ways to make an idiot of oneself, with new opportunities arising every day. It was exhausting trying to avoid them all.

  Annabel stood and curtsied when the Earl of Newbury took his leave, trying not to notice when his eyes lingered on her bosom. Her grandfather exited the room along with him, leaving her alone with Louisa, their grandmother, and a decanter of sherry.

  “Won’t your mother be pleased,” Lady Vickers announced.

  “About what, ma’am?” Annabel asked.

  Her grandmother gave her a rather jaded look, with a tinge of incredulity and a twist of ennui. “The earl. When I agreed to take you in I never dreamed we might land anything above a baron. What good luck for you he’s desperate.”

  Annabel smiled wryly. How lovely to be the object of desperation.

  “Sherry?” her grandmother offered.

  Annabel shook her head.

  “Louisa?” Lady Vickers cocked her head toward her other granddaughter, who gave her head an immediate and negative shake.

  “He’s not much to look at, that’s true,” Lady Vickers said, “but he was handsome enough when he was young, so your children won’t be ugly.”

  “That’s nice,” Annabel said weakly.

  “Several of my friends set their caps for him, but he had his eye on Margaret Kitson.”

  “Your friends,” Annabel murmured. Her grandmother’s contemporaries had wanted to marry Lord Newbury. Her grandmother’s contemporaries had wanted to marry the man who most likely wanted to marry her.

  Dear God.

  “And he’ll die soon,” her grandmother continued. “You couldn’t hope for more.”

  “I think I will have that sherry,” Annabel announced.

  “Annabel,” Louisa said with a gasp, giving her a what-are-you-doing glance.

  Lady Vickers nodded approvingly and poured her a glass. “Don’t tell your grandfather,” she said, handing it over. “He doesn’t approve of spirits for ladies under the age of thirty.”

  Annabel took a large swallow. It went down her throat in a hot rush, but somehow she didn’t choke. She’d never been given sherry at home, at least not before supper. But here, now, she needed fortification.

  “Lady Vickers,” came the voice of the butler, “you had asked me to remind you when it was time to leave for Mrs. Marston’s gathering.”

  “Oh, right,” Lady Vickers said, groaning as she rose to her feet. “She’s a tedious old windbag, but she does lay a nice table.”

  Annabel and Louisa stood as their grandmother left the room, and then, as soon as she was gone, they sank back down and Louisa said, “What happened while I was gone?”

  Annabel sighed weakly. “I assume you refer to Lord Newbury?”

  “I was in Brighton for only four days.” Louisa cast a quick glance at the door, making sure that no one was about, and then resumed in an urgent whisper, “And now he wants to marry you?”

  “He hasn’t said as much,” Annabel replied, more out of wishful thinking than anything else. Based upon Lord Newbury’s attentions toward her these last four days, he’d be off to Canterbury to obtain a special license by the week’s end.

  “Do you know his history?” Louisa asked.

  “I think so,” Annabel replied. “Some of it.” Certainly not as much as Louisa would. Louisa was already on her second London season, and more to the point, she had been born to this world. Annabel’s pedigree might have included a grand father who was a viscount, but she was a country gentleman’s daughter, through and through. Louisa, on the other hand, had spent every spring and summer of her life in London. Her mother—Annabel’s aunt Joan—had passed away several years earlier, but the Duke of Fenniwick had several sisters, all of whom held prominent positions in society. Louisa may have been shy, she may have been the last person anyone would expect to spread gossip and rumors, but she knew everything.

  “He’s desperate for a wife,” Louisa said.

  Annabel gave what she hoped was a self-deprecating shrug. “I’m rather desperate for a husband myself.”

  “Not that desperate.”

  Annabel did not contradict, but the truth was, if she didn’t marry well and soon, heaven only knew what would become of her family. They had never had a lot, but when her father had been alive, they’d always managed to make do. She wasn’t sure how they had afforded the tuition to send all four of her brothers to school, but they were all where they should be—at Eton, receiving a gentleman’s education. Annabel would not be responsible for their having to leave.

  “His wife died, oh, I’m not sure how many years ago,” Louisa continued. “But that did not signify, as he had a perfectly healthy son. And his son had two daughters, so obviously his
wife was not barren.”

  Annabel nodded, wondering why it was always the woman who was barren. Couldn’t a man be incapable, too?

  “But then his son died. It was a fever, I think.”

  Annabel had been made aware of this part already, but she was sure Louisa would know more, so she asked, “Has he no one else to inherit? Surely there must be a brother or cousin.”

  “His nephew,” Louisa confirmed. “Sebastian Grey. But Lord Newbury hates him.”

  “Why?”

  “I don’t know,” Louisa said with a shrug. “No one knows. Jealousy, maybe? Mr. Grey is terribly handsome. All the ladies fall at his feet.”

  “I should like to see that,” Annabel mused, imagining the scene. She pictured a blond Adonis, muscles straining his waistcoat, wading through a sea of unconscious females. It would be best if a few of them were still somewhat sentient, perhaps tugging on his leg, setting him off balance—

  “Annabel!”

  Annabel snapped to attention. Louisa was addressing her with uncommon urgency, and she’d do well to listen.

  “Annabel, this is important,” Louisa said.

  Annabel nodded, and an unfamiliar feeling washed over her—maybe of gratitude, certainly of love. She’d only just got to know her cousin, but already there was a deep bond of affection, and she knew that Louisa would do everything in her power to keep Annabel from making an unhappy alliance.

  Unfortunately, Louisa’s power was, in this capacity, limited. And she did not—no, she could not—understand the pressures of being the eldest daughter of an impoverished family.

  “Listen to me,” Louisa implored. “Lord Newbury’s son died, oh, I think it must be a bit over a year ago. And he started looking for a wife before his son was cold in his grave.”

  “Shouldn’t he have found one by now, then?”

  Louisa shook her head. “He almost married Mariel Willingham.”

  “Who?” Annabel blinked, trying to place the name.

  “Exactly. You’ve never heard of her. She died.”

  Annabel felt her eyebrows rise. It was really a rather emotionless delivery of such tragic news.

  “Two days before the wedding she took a chill.”

  “She died in only two days?” Annabel asked. It was a morbid question, but, well, she had to know.

  “No. Lord Newbury insisted upon delaying the ceremony. He said it was for her welfare, that she was too ill to stand up in church, but everyone knew that he really just wanted to make sure she was healthy enough to bear him a son.”

  “And then?”

  “Well, and then she did die. She lingered for about a fortnight. It was really very sad. She was always very kind to me.” Louisa gave her head a little shake, then continued. “It was a near miss for Lord Newbury. If he’d married her, he would have had to go into mourning. As it was, he had already tried to wed scandalously soon after his son’s death. If Miss Willingham hadn’t died before the wedding, he’d have had another year of black.”

  “How long did he wait before looking for someone else?” Annabel asked, dreading the answer.

  “Not more than two weeks. Honestly, I don’t think he would have waited that long if he thought he could have got away with it.” Louisa looked about, her eyes falling on Annabel’s sherry. “I need some tea,” she said.

  Annabel rose and rang for it, not wanting Louisa to break the narrative.

  “After he returned to London,” Louisa said, “he began to court Lady Frances Sefton.”

  “Sefton,” Annabel murmured. She knew that name but couldn’t quite place it.

  “Yes,” Louisa said animatedly. “Exactly. Her father is the Earl of Brompton.” She leaned forward. “Lady Frances is the third of nine children.”

  “Oh my.”

  “Miss Willingham was the eldest of only four, but she…” Louisa trailed off, clearly unsure of how to phrase it politely.

  “Was shaped like me?” Annabel offered.

  Louisa nodded grimly.

  Annabel gave a wry grimace. “I suppose he never looked twice in your direction.”

  Louisa looked down at herself, all seven and a half stone of her. “Never.” And then, in a most uncharacteristic display of blasphemy, she added, “Thank God.”

  “What happened to Lady Frances?” Annabel asked.

  “She eloped. With a footman.”

  “Good heavens. But she must have had a prior attachment, wouldn’t you think? One wouldn’t run off with a footman just to avoid marriage to an earl.”

  “You don’t think so?”

  “Well, no,” Annabel said. “It’s not at all practical.”

  “I don’t think she was thinking about practicality. I think she was thinking about marriage to that…that…”

  “I beseech you, do not finish that sentence.”

  Louisa kindly complied.

  “If one were going to avoid marriage to Lord Newbury,” Annabel continued, “I would think there must be better ways to do it than marrying a footman. Unless of course she was in love with the footman. That changes everything.”

  “Well, it’s neither here nor there. She dashed off to Scotland and no one has heard from her. By then the season was over. I’m sure Lord Newbury has been looking for a bride ever since, but I would think it’s much easier during the season, when everyone is gathered together. Plus,” Louisa added, almost as an afterthought, “if he had been pursuing another lady, I’d hardly have heard about it. He lives in Hampshire.”

  Whereas Louisa would have spent the entire winter in Scotland, shivering in her castle.

  “And now he’s back,” Annabel stated.

  “Yes, and now that he’s lost an entire year, he’ll want to find someone quickly.” Louisa looked over at her with a horrible expression—part pity, part resignation. “If he is interested in you, he’s not going to waste any time with a courtship.”

  Annabel knew it was true, and she knew that if Lord Newbury did propose, she’d have a very difficult time refusing. Her grandparents had already indicated that they supported the match. Her mother would have allowed her to refuse, but her mother was nearly a hundred miles away. And Annabel knew exactly the expression she’d see in her mother’s eyes as she assured her she didn’t have to marry the earl.

  There would be love, but there would also be worry. There was always worry on her mother’s face lately. The first year after her father’s death there had been grief, but now there was only worry. Annabel thought that her mother was so worried about how to support her family that there was no longer any time for grief.

  Lord Newbury would, if he did indeed wish to marry her, bring enough financial support to ease her mother’s burdens. He could pay her brothers’ tuitions. And provide dowries for her sisters.

  Annabel would not consent to marry him unless he agreed to do so. In writing.

  But she was getting ahead of herself. He had not asked to marry her. And she had not decided that she would say yes. Or had she?

  Chapter Two

  The following morning

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

  Sebastian Grey opened one eye to look at his cousin Edward, who was sitting across from him, eating a pie-like substance that even from across the room smelled revolting. His head was pounding—too much champagne the night before—and he decided he liked the room better dark.

  He closed his eye.

  “I think he’s serious this time,” Edward said.

  “He was serious the last three times,” Sebastian replied, directing the comment to the insides of his eyelids.

  “Hmm, yes,” came Edward’s voice. “Bad luck for him. Death, elopement, and what happened with the third?”

  “Showed up at the altar with child.”

  Edward chuckled. “Maybe he should have taken that one. At least he would have known she was fertile.”

  “I suspect,” Sebastian replied, shifting his position to better accommodate his long legs on the sofa, “that even I am preferable to
some other man’s bastard.” He gave up on trying to find a comfortable position and heaved both legs over the arm, letting his feet dangle over the side. “Difficult though it is to imagine.”

  He thought about his uncle for a few moments, then attempted to thrust him from his mind. The Earl of Newbury always put him in a bad mood, and his head hurt enough already as it was. They’d always been at odds, uncle and nephew, but it hadn’t really mattered until a year and a half earlier, when Sebastian’s cousin Geoffrey had died. As soon as it had become apparent that Geoffrey’s widow was not increasing, and that Sebastian was the heir presumptive to the earldom, Newbury hurried himself off to London to search for a new bride, declaring that he would die before he allowed Sebastian to inherit.

  The earl, apparently, had not noticed the logistical inconsistencies of such a statement.

  Sebastian thus found himself in an odd and precarious position. If the earl could find a wife and sire another son—and, the Lord knew, he was trying—then Sebastian was nothing but another of London’s fashionable yet untitled gentlemen. If, on the other hand, Newbury did not manage to reproduce, or worse, managed only daughters, then Sebastian would inherit four houses, heaps of money, and the eighth most ancient earldom in the land.

  All of this meant that no one knew quite what to do with him. Was he the marriage mart’s grandest catch or just another fortune hunter? It was impossible to know.

  It was all just too amusing. To Sebastian’s mind, at least.

  No one wanted to take a chance that he might not become the earl, and so he was invited everywhere, always an excellent circumstance for a man who liked good food, good music, and good conversation. The debutantes flittered and fluttered around him, providing endless entertainment. And as for the more mature ladies—the ones who were free to take their pleasure where they chose…

  Well, more often than not, they chose him. That he was beautiful was a boon. That he was an excellent lover was delicious. That he might eventually become the Earl of Newbury…

  That made him irresistible.

  At present, however, with his aching head and queasy stomach, Sebastian was feeling exceedingly resistible. Or if not that, then resistant. Aphrodite herself could descend from the ceiling, floating on a bloody clamshell, naked but for a few well-placed flowers, and he’d likely puke at her feet.