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.”
“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 youknow 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.
Shehated 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 knewabout them. It was as if all theton 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. Hergrandmother’s contemporaries had wanted to marry the man who most likely wanted to marryher .
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-doingglance.
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.”
