“Annabel,” he said, “you have to tell me what happened.”
But she was still crying, gulping down big huge breaths, and her nose…
He handed her his handkerchief.
“Thank you,” she got out, and used it. Twice.
“Olivia,” he snapped, whipping around to face her, “will you tell me what the hell is going on?”
Olivia walked over and crossed her arms, looking righteous as only a woman could. “Miss Winslow believes that your uncle is about to propose marriage.”
He let out a long breath. He was not surprised. Annabel was everything his uncle wanted in a bride, moreso now that he thought Sebastian wanted her, too.
“Here now,” he said, trying to be comforting. He took one of her hands and squeezed. “It’ll all work out. I’d be crying, too, if he asked me to marry him.”
She looked as if she might laugh, but then she just cried again.
“Can’t you say no?” he asked. “Can’t she say no?” he asked Olivia.
Olivia crossed her arms. “What do you think?”
“If I’d known what to think, I’d hardly have asked, would I?” he bit off, coming to his feet.
“She is the oldest of eight, Sebastian. Eight!”
“For the love of God,” he exploded, “will you just say what you mean?”
Annabel looked up, momentarily silenced.
“I now understand your feelings precisely,” he told her.
“There is no money left,” Annabel said in a small voice. “My sisters have no governess. My brothers are going to be sent home from school.”
“What about your grandparents?” Surely Lord Vickers had enough money to pay a few tuition bills.
“My grandfather hasn’t spoken to my mother for twenty years. He never forgave her for marrying my father.” She paused for a moment, taking a shaky breath and then using the handkerchief. “He only took me in because my grandmother insisted upon it. And she only did so because…well, I don’t know why. I think she thought it would be amusing.”
Seb looked over at Olivia. She was still standing there with her arms crossed, looking rather like a warrior mother hen. “Excuse me,” he said to Annabel, and then he grabbed Olivia’s wrist and dragged her across the room. “What would you have me do?” he hissed.
“I don’t know what you’re talking about.”
“Stop playing games. You’ve been glowering at me since I arrived.”
“She’s upset!”
“I can see that,” he snapped.
She poked him in the chest. “Well, then, do something.”
“It isn’t my fault!” And it wasn’t. Newbury had wanted Annabel long before Sebastian had become embroiled in the affair. She’d likely be in the exact same position if Seb had never met her.
“She needs to marry, Sebastian.”
Oh, for the love of God. “Are you suggesting thatI propose to her?” he asked, knowing damn well that was what she was suggesting. “I have known her barely a week.”
She stared at him as if he were a complete cad. Hell, he felt like one. Annabel was sitting across the room, whimpering into his handkerchief. A man would have to have a heart of stone not to want to help her.
But marriage? What sort of man married a woman he’d known for—how long had it been?—eight days? Society might think him foolish and flighty, but that was only because he liked it that way. He cultivated that image because…because…well, hell, he wasn’t sure why he did it. Maybe just because it amused him, too.
But he’d thought Olivia knew him better.
“I like Miss Winslow,” he whispered. “I do. And I regret that she is in this ghastly situation. Lord knows, I know more than anyone what a miserable existence it must be to live with Newbury. But it is not my doing. Nor is it my problem.”
Olivia’s eyes bored down on his, full of disappointment.
“You married for love,” he reminded her.
Her jaw worked, and he knew he’d scored a hit. He wasn’t, however, quite sure why he felt so guilty about it. Still, he could not stop now. “Would you deny me the same?” he asked.
Except…
He looked over at Annabel. She was staring forlornly out the window. Her dark hair was starting to come free of its pins, and one loose curl had made its way down her back, revealing the length to be a few inches below her shoulders.
It would be longer when it was wet, he thought absently.
But he would never see it wet.
He swallowed.
“You’re right,” Olivia said suddenly.
“What?” He looked back at her, blinking.
“You’re right,” she said again. “It was unfair of me to expect you to swoop in and save her. She’s hardly the first girl in London to have to marry someone she doesn’t like.”
“No.” He looked at her suspiciously. Was she up to something? She might be. Or she might not. Damn. He hated when he couldn’t read a woman.
“It’s not as if you can save them all.”
He shook his head, but without much conviction.
“Very well,” Olivia said briskly. “We can save her for this afternoon, at least. I’ve told her she may remain until evening. Surely Newbury will lose patience before then and go home.”
“He’s at her house right now?”
She gave a curt nod. “She was coming home from…well, I don’t know where. Shopping, I suppose. She saw him get out of the carriage.”
“And she is certain he was there to propose?”
“I don’t believe she wished to remain long enough find out,” Olivia answered acerbically.
He nodded slowly. It was difficult to put himself in Annabel’s shoes, but he supposed he would have done the same.
Olivia looked over at the clock on the mantel. “I have an appointment.”
This he did not believe for a second, but still he said, “I will stay with her.”
Olivia let out a long exhale. “I suppose we’ll need to send a note over to her grandparents. They are
going to miss her at some point. Although knowing her grandmother, perhaps not.”
“Say that you’ve invited her to visit,” he suggested. “They cannot object to the connection.” Olivia was one of London’s most popular young matrons; anyone would be delighted to have her take their daughter—or granddaughter—under her wing.
Olivia nodded and went over to Annabel. Sebastian poured himself a drink, and then, after downing it in one swallow, poured himself another. And one for Annabel, too. By the time he brought them over, Olivia had said her goodbyes and was heading out the door.
He held out the drink.
“She has an appointment,” Annabel said.
He nodded. “Take it,” he said. “You might not want it. But you might.”
She took the glass, took a tiny sip, and set it down. “My grandmother drinks too
