“Well, no,” Annabel said. “It’s not at all practical.”
“I don’t think she was thinking about practicality. I think she was thinking about marriage to that…that…”
“I beseech you, do not finish that sentence.”
Louisa kindly complied.
“If one were going to avoid marriage to Lord Newbury,” Annabel continued, “I would think there must be better ways to do it than marrying a footman. Unless of course she was in love with the footman. That changes everything.”
“Well, it’s neither here nor there. She dashed off to Scotland and no one has heard from her. By then the season was over. I’m sure Lord Newbury has been looking for a bride ever since, but I would think it’s much easier during the season, when everyone is gathered together. Plus,” Louisa added, almost as an afterthought, “if he had been pursuing another lady, I’d hardly have heard about it. He lives in Hampshire.”
Whereas Louisa would have spent the entire winter in Scotland, shivering in her castle.
“And now he’s back,” Annabel stated.
“Yes, and now that he’s lost an entire year, he’ll want to find someone quickly.” Louisa looked over at her with a horrible expression—part pity, part resignation. “If he is interested in you, he’s not going to waste any time with a courtship.”
Annabel knew it was true, and she knew that if Lord Newbury did propose, she’d have a very difficult time refusing. Her grandparents had already indicated that they supported the match. Her mother would have allowed her to refuse, but her mother was nearly a hundred miles away. And Annabel knew exactly the expression she’d see in her mother’s eyes as she assured her she didn’t have to marry the earl.
There would be love, but there would also be worry. There was always worry on her mother’s face lately. The first year after her father’s death there had been grief, but now there was only worry. Annabel thought that her mother was so worried about how to support her family that there was no longer any time for grief.
Lord Newbury would, if he did indeed wish to marry her, bring enough financial support to ease her mother’s burdens. He could pay her brothers’ tuitions. And provide dowries for her sisters.
Annabel would not consent to marry him unless he agreed to do so. In writing.
But she was getting ahead of herself. He had not asked to marry her. And she had not decided that she would say yes. Or had she?
Chapter Two
The following morning
Newbury’s got his eye on a new one.”
Sebastian Grey opened one eye to look at his cousin Edward, who was sitting across from him, eating a pie-like substance that even from across the room smelled revolting. His head was pounding—too much champagne the night before—and he decided he liked the room better dark.
He closed his eye.
“I think he’s serious this time,” Edward said.
“He was serious the last three times,” Sebastian replied, directing the comment to the insides of his eyelids.
“Hmm, yes,” came Edward’s voice. “Bad luck for him. Death, elopement, and what happened with the third?”
“Showed up at the altar with child.”
Edward chuckled. “Maybe he should have taken that one. At least he would have known she was fertile.”
“I suspect,” Sebastian replied, shifting his position to better accommodate his long legs on the sofa, “that even I am preferable to some other man’s bastard.” He gave up on trying to find a comfortable position and heaved both legs over the arm, letting his feet dangle over the side. “Difficult though it is to imagine.”
He thought about his uncle for a few moments, then attempted to thrust him from his mind. The Earl of Newbury always put him in a bad mood, and his head hurt enough already as it was. They’d always been at odds, uncle and nephew, but it hadn’t really mattered until a year and a half earlier, when Sebastian’s cousin Geoffrey had died. As soon as it had become apparent that Geoffrey’s widow was not increasing, and that Sebastian was the heir presumptive to the earldom, Newbury hurried himself off to London to search for a new bride, declaring that he would die before he allowed Sebastian to inherit.
The earl, apparently, had not noticed the logistical inconsistencies of such a statement.
Sebastian thus found himself in an odd and precarious position. If the earl could find a wife and sire another son—and, the Lord knew, he was trying—then Sebastian was nothing but another of London’s fashionable yet untitled gentlemen. If, on the other hand, Newbury did not manage to reproduce, or worse, managed only daughters, then Sebastian would inherit four houses, heaps of money, and the eighth most ancient earldom in the land.
All of this meant that no one knew quite what to do with him. Was he the marriage mart’s grandest catch or just another fortune hunter? It was impossible to know.
It was all just too amusing. To Sebastian’s mind, at least.
No one wanted to take a chance that he mightnot become the earl, and so he was invited everywhere, always an excellent circumstance for a man who liked good food, good music, and good conversation. The debutantes flittered and fluttered around him, providing endless entertainment. And as for the more mature ladies—the ones who were free to take their pleasure where they chose…
Well, more often than not, they chosehim . That he was beautiful was a boon. That he was an excellent lover was delicious. That he might eventually become the Earl of Newbury…
That made him irresistible.
At present, however, with his aching head and queasy stomach, Sebastian was feeling exceedingly resistible. Or if not that, then resistant. Aphrodite herself could descend from the ceiling, floating on a bloody clamshell, naked but for a few well-placed flowers, and he’d likely puke at her feet.
No, no, she ought to be completely naked. If he was going to prove the existence of a goddess, right here in this room, she was damned well going to be naked.
He’d still puke on her feet, though.
He yawned, shifting his weight a little more onto his left hip. He wondered if he might fall asleep. He had not slept well the night before (champagne) or the night before that (nothing in particular), and his cousin’s sofa was as good a spot as any. The room wasn’t so bright as long as he kept his eyes closed, and the only sound was Edward’s chewing.
The chewing.
It was remarkable how loud it sounded, now that he’d stopped to think on it.
Not to mention the stench. Meat pie. Who ate meat pie in front of someone in his condition?
Sebastian let out a groan.
“Sorry?” Edward said.
“Your food,” Seb grunted.
“Do you want some?”
