He gave them a dry smile and reached for the gun. “Thank you.”
And then, right before Annabel’s extremely wide eyes, he lifted his arm, squeezed the trigger, and handed the gun back to its owner.
“There,” he announced curtly. “You’re done.”
“But—”
“It’s over,” he said, then turned toward Annabel with an utterly placid face. “Shall we continue our stroll?”
Annabel got out a yes, but she wasn’t sure it was terribly clear, as her head was snapping back and forth between Mr. Grey and the target. One of the young men had run out to see how he’d done and was presently yelling something and sounding extremely surprised.
“It was a bull’s-eye!” he yelled, running toward them. “Dead center.”
Annabel’s lips parted in amazement. Mr. Grey hadn’t even aimed. Or at least he hadn’tseemed to aim.
“How’d you do that?” the young men were asking. And then one of them added, “Could you do it again?”
“No,” he answered curtly, “and don’t forget to clean up after yourselves.”
“Oh, we’re not done yet,” one of the young men said—rather foolishly, in Annabel’s opinion. Mr. Grey’s tone was light, but only an idiot would have missed the hard glint in his eyes.
“We’ll set up another target,” he continued. “We have until half two. You don’t really count, since you’re not part of the games.”
“Excuse me,” Mr. Grey said smoothly to Annabel. He let go of her arm and walked back to the other men. “May I have your gun?” he asked one of them.
Silently it was handed over, and once again Mr. Grey lifted his arm, and with no apparent concentration, squeezed the trigger.
One of the wooden posts supporting the target splintered—no, it evaporated— and the entire thing went tumbling to the ground.
“Now you’re done,” Mr. Grey said, handing the gun back to its owner. “Good day.”
He walked back to Annabel’s side, took her arm, and said, before she could ask, “I was a sniper. In the war.”
She nodded, fairly certain she now knew how the French had been defeated. She looked back at the target, now surrounded by men, then back at Mr. Grey, who appeared completely unconcerned. Then,
because she couldn’t stop herself, she turned back to target, dimly aware of his pressure on her arm as he tried to pull her away. “That was…that was…”
“Nothing,” he said. “Nothing at all.”
“I wouldn’t call it nothing,” she said gingerly. He didn’t seem to want praise, but at the same time, she couldn’tnot say something.
He shrugged. “It’s a talent.”
“Er, a useful one, I should think.” She wanted to look back one more time, but she wasn’t going to be able to see anything, and anyway,he hadn’t looked back even once.
“Would you like an ice?” he asked.
“I beg your pardon?”
“An ice. I’m feeling a bit warm. We could go to Gunter’s.”
Annabel made no response, still flummoxed by the abrupt change of conversation.
“We’ll have to bring Olivia, of course, but she’s good enough company.” He frowned thoughtfully. “And she’s probably hungry. I’m not sure she had breakfast this morning.”
“Well, of course…” Annabel said, although not because she knew what he was talking about. He was looking at her expectantly, and she was clearly supposed to make a reply.
“Excellent. Gunter’s it shall be.” He grinned at her, his eyes sparkling in that now familiar way, and Annabel wanted to grab him by the shoulders and shake. It was as if the entire episode with the guns and target had never happened.
“Do you like orange?” he asked. “The orange is particularly good, second only to the lemon, although they don’t always serve that.”
“I like orange,” she said, again because a response seemed appropriate.
“The chocolate is also quite delicious.”
“I do like chocolate.”
And so it went, a conversation about nothing at all, all the way to Gunter’s. Where, Annabel was not particularly proud to say, she forgot all about the incident in the park. Mr. Grey insisted upon ordering one of every flavor, and Annabel insisted that it would be rude not to taste them all (except for rose, which she never could abide; it was aflower , for heaven’s sake, not a flavor). Then Lady Olivia declared herself unable to tolerate the smell of the bergamot ice, which meant that of course Mr. Grey had to wave it under her nose. Annabel couldn’t recall the last time she’d had so much fun.
Fun. Pure, simple, fun. A very good thing, indeed.
Chapter Fifteen
Two days later
By the time Annabel had finished dancing with Lord Rowton, which followed her dance with Mr. Berbrooke, which followed her dance with Mr. Albansdale, which followed her dance with adifferent Mr. Berbrooke, which followed her dance with Mr. Cavender, which followed her dance with—good heavens!—a Russian prince, which followed her dance with Sir Harry Valentine, which followed her dance with Mr. St. Clair, which (she had to take a breath here, just thinking about it!) followed her dance with Mr. Grey…
Suffice it to say that if she had not previously understood the fickle nature of London society, she did now. She did not know how many of the gentlemen had invited her to dance because Mr. Grey had asked them to, and how many had asked her because all of the other gentlemen seemed to be doing so, but one thing was clear: She was the latest rage. For this week, at least.
Their walk in the park had done its trick, as had the outing at Gunter’s. Annabel had been seen by all the ton with Sebastian Grey acting (in his words) like a lovesick fool. He had made sure that all the biggest gossips had seen him kissing her hand, and laughing at her jokes, and, for those who approached them in conversation, gazing adoringly (but not lustfully) at her face.
And yes, he had actually used the word “lustfully.” Which would have shocked her except that he had such an amusing way of saying things. All she could do was laugh, which, he informed her, was only fair because he could not have it getting out that he was laughing at her jokes and not vice versa.
Which made her laugh again.
They had repeated the charade the next afternoon, and the one after that, too, taking a picnic with Sir Harry and Lady Olivia. Mr. Grey had returned her to her grandparents’ home with strict instructions not to arrive at the Hartside ball that evening until half nine at the earliest. The Vickers carriage rolled to a halt at nine forty-five, and when she stepped into the ballroom five minutes later, Mr. Grey just happened to be standing near the door, in conversation with a gentleman she did not recognize. When he saw her, however, he immediately broke away and came to her side.
That he walked past three extremely beautiful women to get there was not, Annabel suspected, an accident.
Two minutes later they were dancing. And five minutes after that she was
