She felt like a siren. A goddess. And when she looked up at him, he was staring down at her with a raw, hungry expression. He was aware of her body, too, she realized, and this made her even more tight and taut inside.

For one brief moment she closed her eyes, reminding herself that this was all a sham. They were playacting, rehabilitating her in the eyes of society. Merely by dancing with her, Mr. Grey was making her desirable. And if she felt desired—by him—then she needed to gain a clearer head. He was an honorable man, a generous one, but he was also a consummate actor on the societal stage. He knew exactly how to look at her, smile at her, so that everyone would think he was smitten.

“Why did you ask me to dance with your cousin?” he asked, but his voice sounded odd. Almost a little strangled.

“I don’t know,” she admitted. And she didn’t. Or maybe she simply did not want to admit to herself that she had been scared. “She hadn’t waltzed yet.”

He nodded.

“And wouldn’t it be good for the charade,” she said, trying to think on her feet, “for you to dance with my cousin? You wouldn’t bother with that if you intended only…”

“Only what?” he asked.

She licked her lips. They’d gone dry. “Seduction.”

“Annabel,” he said, surprising her with the use of her given name. “No man looks at you and thinks of anythingbut seduction.”

She looked up at him, startled by the stab of pain his statement had brought. Lord Newbury had wanted her for her curves, for her generous breasts and wide, childbearing hips. And heaven knew she’d never quite got used to the lascivious looks she attracted from all but the most proper of gentlemen. But Mr. Grey…She’d thought, somehow, that he was different.

“What matters,” he said quietly, “is whether they think of anything in addition to that.”

“Do you?” she whispered.

He didn’t answer right away. But then he said, almost as if he were figuring it out for himself, too, “I think I might.”

Her breath caught, and she searched his face, trying to translate his statement into something she might understand. It did not occur to her that perhaps he didn’t understand, either, that he might be just as mystified as she by this strange pull between them.

Or maybe he meant nothing at all. He was that rare kind of man who knew how to be friends with a woman. Perhaps that was all he meant, that he found her company amusing, that she was good for a laugh and a smile, and maybe even worth getting punched in the face.

Maybe that was all it was.

And then just like that, the dance was over. He was bowing, and she was curtsying, and they were walking back to the edge of the room, toward the lemonade table, for which Annabel was inordinately thankful. She was thirsty, but what she really needed was something in her hands, something to distract her, to keep her from fidgeting. Because her skin still felt hot, and her belly was jumping, and if she didn’t have something to hold on to, she did not think she would be able to keep herself still.

He handed her a glass, and Annabel had just taken her first grateful sip when she heard someone calling his name. She turned and saw a matron of perhaps forty years moving toward them, waving her hand and trilling, “Oh, Mr. Grey! Mr. Grey!”

“Mrs. Carruthers,” he said, giving her a respectful nod. “How lovely to see you.”

“I just heard the most amazing bit of news,” Mrs. Carruthers said.

Annabel braced herself for something dreadful, probably involving her, but Mrs. Carruthers focused all of her breathless attention on Mr. Grey and said, “Lady Cosgrove tells me you are in possession of autographed books by Mrs. Gorely.”

That was all? Annabel was almost disappointed.

“I am,” Mr. Grey confirmed.

“Youmust tell me where you got them. I am a devoted fan, and I could not consider my library complete if I did not have her signature.”

“Er, it was in a bookshop in, ah, Oxford, actually, I think.”

“Oxford,” Mrs. Carruthers said, visibly disappointed.

“I don’t think it would be worth a trip to look for more,” he said. “There was only the one set of autographed copies, and the bookseller told me that he had never seen others.”

Mrs. Carruthers brought the knuckle of her index finger to her mouth, pursing her lips in thought. “It is so intriguing,” she said. “I wonder if she is from Oxford. Perhaps she is married to a professor.”

“Is there a professor there by the name of Gorely?” Annabel asked.

Mrs. Carruthers turned to her and blinked, as if only just then realizing she was there, standing beside Mr. Grey.

“So sorry,” he murmured, and made the introductions.

“Is there?” Annabel asked again. “It would seem to me that that would be the most efficient way of determining if she is a professor’s wife.”

“It is unlikely that Gorely is her real name,” Mrs. Carruthers explained officiously. “I cannot think of a lady who would allow her name to be put on a novel.”

“If it’s not her real name,” Annabel wondered, “does the autograph even have value?”

This was met with silence.

“Furthermore,” Annabel continued, “how do you even know it’s her signature?I could have signed her name on the title page.”

Mrs. Carruthers stared at her. Annabel could not tell if she was aghast at her questions or merely annoyed. After a moment the older woman turned determinedly back to Mr. Grey and said, “Should you ever come across another autographed set, or even a single book, please purchase it and know that I will reimburse you.”

“It would be my pleasure,” he murmured.

Mrs. Carruthers nodded and walked away. Annabel watched her depart, then said, “I don’t think I endeared myself to her.”

“No,” he agreed.

“I thought my question about the value of the signature was pertinent,” she said with a shrug.

He smiled. “I am beginning to understand your obsession with people saying what they actually mean.”

“It is not an obsession,” she protested.

He quirked a brow. The movement was obscured by his eye patch, but that somehow made it all the more provoking.

“It’s not,” Annabel insisted. “It is common sense. Just think of all the misunderstandings that could be avoided if people merely spoke to one another instead of telling one person who might tell another who might tell another, who might—”

“You are confusing two issues,” he cut in. “One is convoluted prose, the other is merely gossip.”

“Both are equally insidious.”

He looked down at her with a vaguely condescending air. “You’re very hard on your fellow man, Miss Winslow.”

She bristled. “I don’t think it is too much to ask.”

He nodded slowly. “All the same, I think I might have rather my unclehadn’t said what he meant Wednesday night.”

Annabel swallowed, feeling a bit queasy. And certainly guilty.

“I suppose I appreciate his honesty. On a purely philosophical level, of course.” He gave her precisely half a smile. “Practically speaking, however, I do think I’m prettier without the eye patch.”

“I’m sorry,” she said. It wasn’t quite the right thing to say, but it was the best she could think of. And at least it wasn’t wrong.

He waved off her apology. “All new experiences are good for the soul. Now I know exactly what it is like to be punched in the face.”

“This is good for your soul?” she asked dubiously.

He shrugged, looking out over the crowd. “One never knows when one will need to know how to describe something.”

Annabel found this to be an extremely odd statement, but she didn’t say anything.

“Besides,” he said breezily, “were it not for misunderstandings, we would be sadly lacking in great literature.”

She looked at him questioningly.

“Where would Romeo and Juliet be?”

“Alive.”

“True, but think of the hours of entertainment the rest of us would have lost.”

Annabel smiled. She couldn’t help it. “I prefer comedies myself.”

“Do you? I suppose they are more entertaining. But then one would never experience the heightened

sense of drama afforded by tragedies.” He turned to her with that expression of his she was growing so accustomed to—the polite mask he wore for society, the one that labeled him a boredbon vivant , oxymoron though it was. And indeed, he let out a slightly affected sigh before saying, “What would life be without bleak moments?”

“Rather lovely, I think.” Annabel considered her recent bleak moment, at the hands—or rather, paws—of Lord Newbury. She’d have been quite happy to have done without.

“Hmmm.” That was all he said, or rather, hmmmed. Annabel felt a strange need to fill the silence, and she blurted out, “I was voted Winslow Most Likely to Speak Her Mind.”

That caught his attention. “Really?” His lips twitched. “And who might we count among the electorate?”

“Er, the other Winslows.”

He chuckled.

“There are eight of us,” she explained. “Ten with my parents, well, nine now that my father has passed, but still, more than enough for a decent vote.”

“I’m sorry about your father,” he said.

She nodded, waiting for the familiar lump to form in her throat. But it didn’t. “He was a good man,” she said.

He nodded in acknowledgment, then asked, “What other titles have you won?”

She gave a guilty grimace. “Winslow Most Likely to Fall Asleep in Church.”

He laughed loudly at that.

“Everyone’s looking,” she whispered urgently.

“Don’t mind it. It’s all to your benefit in the end.”