much,” she said, her voice a heartbreaking monotone.
He didn’t say anything, just sat down in the chair closest to the sofa and made some sort of reassuring sound. He wasn’t good with sad women. He didn’t know what to say. Or do.
“She’s not a bad drunk. She just gets a little silly.”
“And amorous?” he asked, quirking a smile. It was a highly inappropriate comment, but he could not bear the sadness in her eyes. If he could make her smile, it would be worth it.
And she did! Just a little. But still, it felt like a victory.
“Oh, that.” She covered her mouth with her hand and shook her head. “I am so sorry,” she said with great feeling. “Honestly, I don’t know when I have ever felt more embarrassed. I have never seen her do that before.”
“It must be my charming aspect and handsome visage.”
She gave him a look.
“You’re not going to say something about my modesty and discretion?” he murmured.
She shook her head, the sparkle starting to return to her eyes. “I’ve never been a very good liar.”
He chuckled.
She took another sip of her drink, then set it down. But she didn’t let go. Her fingers tapped against the glass, tracing short quick lines near the rim. She was a fidgeter, his Annabel.
He wondered why this pleased him. He was not like that. He’d always been able to hold himself preternaturally still. It was probably why he was such a good shot. In the war he’d sometimes had to hold still for hours in his sniper’s perch, waiting for the perfect moment to squeeze the trigger.
“I just want you to know…” she began.
He waited. Whatever it was she was trying to say, it wasn’t easy.
“I just want you to know,” she said again, sounding as if she was trying to muster her courage, “that I know this has nothing to do with you. And I don’t expect—”
He shook his head, trying to save her from having to make a difficult speech. “Hush, hush. You don’t have to say anything.”
“But Lady Olivia—”
“Can be very meddlesome,” he interjected. “Let us just, for now, pretend that—” He cut himself off. “Is that a Gorely book?”
Annabel blinked and looked down. She seemed to have forgotten it was sitting in her lap. “Oh. Yes. Lady Olivia lent it to me.”
He held out his hand. “Which one did she give you?”
“Er…” She looked down. “Miss Sainsbury and the Mysterious Colonel.” She handed it to him. “I assume you’ve read it.”
“Of course.” He opened the book to its first pages.The slanted light of dawn , he said to himself. He remembered so clearly writing those words. No, that was not true. He rememberedthinking them. He’d thought out the entire opening before writing it down. He’d gone over it so many times, editing in his head until he’d got it just the way he wanted it.
That had been his moment. His very own point of division. He wondered if everyone’s lives had a dividing point. A moment which sat clearly betweenbefore andafter . That had been his. That night in his room. It hadn’t been any different than the night before, or the one before that. He couldn’t sleep. There was nothing out of the ordinary about that.
Except for some reason—some inexplicable, miraculous reason, he’d started thinking about books.
And then he’d picked up a pen.
Now he got to be in hisafter . He looked at Annabel.
He looked away. He didn’t want to think about herafter .
“Shall I read it to you?” he asked, his voice sounding a little loud. But he had to do something to change the direction of his thoughts. Besides, it might cheer her up.
“All right,” she said, her lips forming a hesitant smile. “Lady Olivia said you’re a wonderful reader.”
There was noway Olivia had saidthat . “She did, did she?”
“Well, not exactly. But she did say that you made the housemaids cry.”
“In a good way,” he assured her.
She actually giggled. He felt absurdly pleased.
“Here we are,” he said. “Chapter One.” He cleared his throat and went on. “The slanted light of dawn was rippling through the windowpane, and Miss Anne Sainsbury huddled beneath her threadbare blanket, wondering as she often did, how she would find money for her next meal.”
“I can picture that exactly,” Annabel said.
He looked up in surprise. And pleasure. “You can?”
She nodded. “I used to be an early riser. Before I arrived in London. The light is different in the morning. It’s flatter, I suppose. And more golden. I’ve always thought—” She cut herself off, cocking her head to the side. Her brows knit together and she frowned. It was the most adorable expression. Sebastian almost thought that if he looked hard enough, he could actuallysee her thinking.
“You know exactly what I mean,” she said.
“I do?”
“Yes.” She straightened, and her eyes flashed with memory. “You said so. When I met you at the Trowbridge party.”
“The heath,” he said with a sigh. It seemed such a delightful, far-off memory now.
“Yes. You said something about the morning light. You said you—” She stopped, blushing furiously. “Never mind.”
“I must say, now Ireally want to know what I said.”
“Oh…” She shook her head quickly. “No.”
“Anna-bel,” he prodded, liking the way her name took on a musical lilt.
“You said you’d like to take a bath in it,” she said, the words coming out in a single, mortified rush.
“I did?” Strange. He didn’t remember saying that. Sometimes he got lost in his own thoughts. But it did sound like something he’d say.
She nodded.
“Hmmm. Well. I suppose I would.” He tilted his head in her direction, the way he frequently did when about to deliver abon mot . “I should want some privacy, though.”
“Of course.”
“Or maybe nottoo much privacy,” he murmured.
“Stop.” But she didn’t sound offended. Not quite.
He glanced at her when she thought he wasn’t looking. She was smiling to herself, just a little bit. Enough for him to see her courage, her strength. Her ability to hold herself straight in the midst of adversity.
He stopped. What the hell was he thinking? All she had done was hold her own against his risque comment. That was hardly akin to adversity.
He needed to be careful, else he’d build her up into something she wasn’t. It was what he did almost every night, holed up in his room with pen and paper. He created characters. If he allowed his imagination to get the best of him, he’d turn her into the perfect woman.
Which wasn’t fair to either of them.
He cleared his throat and motioned to the book. “Shall I continue?”
“Please.”
“She looked down at her faithful collie—”
