“You are a cruel woman. I knew where I was the entire time. I was thinking Grey Most Likely to Win a Fortune at Darts.”
“Grey Most Likely to Open a Lending Library?” she tried.
He laughed. “Grey Most Likely to Butcher an Opera.”
Her mouth fell open. “Do you sing?”
“I tried once.” He leaned down confidentially. “It was a moment never to be repeated.”
“Probably wise,” she murmured, “assuming you wish to keep your friends.”
“Or at the very least, allow my friends to keep their hearing.”
She grinned, starting to feel giddy with the joke. “Grey Most Likely to Write a Book!”
He froze. “Why would you say that?”
“I–I don’t know,” she said, perplexed by his reaction. He was not angry, but he had gone utterly serious. “I suppose I think you have a way with words. Didn’t I once say you were a poet?”
“Did you?”
“Before I knew who you were,” she clarified. “On the heath.”
“Oh, right.” He pressed his lips together, thinking.
“And you showed great concern forRomeo and Juliet . The play, that is, not the characters. On that score you were remarkably uncaring.”
“Someone needs to be uncaring,” he said.
“Well put,” she said with a snort.
“I do try.”
Then she remembered. “Oh, and of course there is Mrs. Gorely!”
“There is?”
“Yes, you are such an admirer. I really should read one of her books,” Annabel mused.
“Perhaps I will give you one of my autographed copies.”
“Oh no, you mustn’t do that. You should reserve those for true devotees. I don’t even know if I will like it. Lady Olivia doesn’t seem to.”
“Your cousin does,” he pointed out.
“True. But Louisa also likes those horrible Mrs. Radcliffe novels, which honestly, I can’t abide.”
“Mrs. Gorely is far superior to Mrs. Radcliffe,” he said firmly.
“You’ve read both?”
“Of course. There is no comparison.”
“Hmmm. Well, I should give it a try. Judge for myself.”
“Then I shall give you one of my unautographed copies.”
“You have multiple editions?” My goodness, she hadn’t realized he was as big a fan as that.
He gave a little shrug. “I had them all before I found the autographed set.”
“Oh, of course. I hadn’t considered. Very well, which is your favorite? I shall start with that.”
He thought about that for a moment, then said, with a shake of his head, “I couldn’t possibly choose. I like different things about each of them.”
Annabel grinned. “You sound like my parents, whenever we demanded to know which of us they loved best.”
“It’s rather similar, I suppose,” he murmured.
“If you’ve given birth to a book,” she retorted, pressing her lips together to keep from laughing.
But he wasn’t. Laughing, that was.
She blinked with surprise.
And then he did laugh. More of a chuckle, she supposed, but it was odd, because it was as if he’d been five seconds behind the joke, which was unlike him. Wasn’t it?
“More plain speaking, Miss Winslow?” he asked, a dry smile turning his question into something of an endearment.
“Always,” she said cheerily.
“I think you might—” But then he stopped.
“What?” She was smiling as she said it, but then she saw that he was looking out over her head, toward the door. And he looked grim.
She wet her lips nervously and swallowed. And turned. Lord Newbury had entered the room.
“He looks angry,” she whispered.
“He has no claim on you,” Mr. Grey bit off.
“Neither do you,” she said softly. She looked over toward the side door, the one that led to the ladies’ retiring room. But Mr. Grey put his hand on her wrist and held firm.
“You can’t run,” he said. “If you do, everyone will assume you’ve done something wrong.”
“Or,” she returned,hating this rush of panic that was washing over her, “they might take one look at him and think that any sane young lady would give him a wide berth.”
But of course they wouldn’t. And she knew that. Lord Newbury was walking toward them with steely purpose, and the crowds were parting swiftly to allow him passage. Parting and then reforming, of course, facing in Annabel’s direction. If there was going to be a scene, no one wanted to miss it.
“I will be right here next to you,” Mr. Grey said under his breath.
Annabel nodded. It was amazing—and terrifying—how much comfort that gave her.
Chapter Sixteen
Uncle,” Sebastian said jovially, since he’d long since learned that was the most effective tone to employ, “how delightful to see you again. Although I must say, everything looks different through only one eye.” He smiled blandly. “Even you.”
Newbury gave him a hard stare, then turned to Annabel. “Miss Winslow.”
“My lord.” She curtsied.
“We shall have the next dance.”
It was an order, not a request. Sebastian stiffened, waiting for Annabel to make a cutting reply, but she just swallowed and nodded. He supposed that was understandable. She had little power against an earl, and Newbury had always been an imposing, imperious presence. She probably had her grandparents to answer to, as well. They were friendly with Newbury; she could not shame them by refusing a mere dance.
“Make sure you return her to my side,” Sebastian said, giving his uncle a completely insincere, close-lipped smile.
Newbury returned the expression with an icy glare, and in that instant Sebastian knew he’d made a
terrible mistake. He should never have attempted to restore Annabel’s position. She would have been far better off an outcast. She could have returned to her country life, found herself a squire who spoke as plainly as she did, and lived contentedly ever after.
The irony was almost too much to bear. Everyone assumed that Sebastian had
