“He wants an heir,” Mr. Grey said.

“I know,” she said quietly.

“He needs one quickly.”

“I know.”

“Most young ladies would be flattered by his regard.”

She sighed. “I know.” And so she looked up and smiled. It was one of those awkward sorts of smiles that are at least three fourths nervous laughter. “I am,” she said. She swallowed. “Flattered, that is.”

“Of course you are,” he murmured.

Annabel stood still, trying not to tap her foot. Another one of those habits her grandmother deplored. But it was so hard to stand still when one wasn’t feeling quite oneself. “It’s a moot point,” she said in a rush. “He has not called. I suspect he has moved on to another prospect.”

“For which I hope you are grateful,” Mr. Grey said quietly.

She did not reply. She couldn’t. Because she was grateful. More than that, she was relieved. And she felt so bloody guilty for feeling that way. Marriage to the earl would have saved her entire family. She shouldn’t feel grateful. She should be prostrate with grief that the match had fallen through.

“Mr. Gre-ey!” her grandmother trilled from across the room.

“Lady Vickers,” he said solicitously, walking back to the seating area. He did not, however, sit.

“We think you must court my granddaughter,” she announced.

Annabel felt her skin turn to beets, and she would have loved to have crawled under a chair, but panic set in, and she hurried over, exclaiming, “Oh, Grandmother, you can’t be serious.” And then to Mr. Grey: “She’s not serious.”

“I’m serious,” her grandmother said succinctly. “It’s the only way.”

“Oh no, Mr. Grey,” Annabel put in, absolutely mortified that he was being ordered to court her. “Please don’t think-”

“Am I that bad?” he said dryly.

“No! No. I mean, no, you know that you are not.”

“Well, I’d hoped…” he murmured.

Annabel looked over at the other two ladies for help, but they were offering none of it.

“None of this is your fault,” Annabel said firmly.

“Nevertheless,” he said grandly, “I cannot stand by while a damsel is in distress. What sort of gentleman would I be?”

Annabel looked over at Lady Olivia. She was smiling in a way that alarmed her.

“It’s nothing serious, of course,” Lady Vickers said. “All for show. You may part ways by the end of the month. Amicably, of course.” She smiled wolfishly. “We would hate for Mr. Grey to feel he was not welcome here at Vickers House.”

Annabel hazarded a glance at the gentleman in question. He looked a bit queasy.

“Please do sit again,” Lady Vickers said, patting the spot on the sofa beside her. “You make me feel a most incompetent hostess.”

“No!” Annabel burst out, without even beginning to ponder the ramifications of that one word.

“No?” her grandmother echoed.

“We should go for a walk,” Annabel said.

“We should?” Mr. Grey said. “Oh, we should.”

“Absolutely, you should,” Lady Olivia said.

“The weather is fine,” Annabel said.

“And everyone will see us and think we are courting,” Mr. Grey finished. He took Annabel’s arm with alacrity and announced, “And so we depart!”

They hurried from the room, not speaking a word until reaching the front steps, when Mr. Grey turned to her and let out a heartfelt, “Thank you.”

“It was my pleasure,” Annabel said, stepping lightly down to the pavement. She turned back and smiled. “I live to rescue gentlemen in distress.”

Chapter Fourteen

Before Sebastian could respond with a suitably pithy statement, the front door of Vickers House opened and Olivia emerged. He glanced up at her and raised a brow.

“I am your chaperone,” she explained.

Before he could respond pithily to that, she added, “Miss Winslow’s maid has the afternoon free, so it was either me or Lady Vickers.”

“We are delighted to have you,” he said firmly.

“What happened in there?” Olivia asked, descending to the pavement.

Sebastian looked over at Miss Winslow, who was looking rather determinedly at a tree.

“I couldn’t possibly discuss it,” he said, turning back to Olivia. “It’s far too painful.”

He thought he heard Miss Winslow snort. He did like her sense of humor.

“Very well,” Olivia said, making a shooing motion with her hand. “Go on ahead. I shall hang back, being chaperony.”

“Is that a word?” Because really, he had to ask. After the purview incident, she had no right to be using improper vocabulary.

“If it’s not, it should be,” she announced.

Sebastian had all sorts of pithy replies to that, but unfortunately they all involved the revealing of his secret identity, such as it was. But as he was constitutionally unable to allow the comment to pass without saying something to needle Olivia, he turned to Miss Winslow and said, “This is her first time.”

“Her first…?” Miss Winslow twisted back toward Olivia, her face delightfully confused.

“As a chaperone,” he clarified, taking her arm. “She’ll be trying to impress you.”

“I heard that!”

“Of course you did,” he said agreeably. He leaned a little closer to Miss Winslow and whispered in her ear, “We shall have to work hard to be rid of her.”

“Sebastian!”

“Hang back, Olivia,” he called out. “Hang back.”

“This doesn’t seem right,” Miss Winslow said. Her lips made quite an adorable frown, and Seb found himself pondering all the ways her pout might be melted into something a tad more seductive. Or seducible.

“Hmmm?” he murmured.

“It’s not as if she’s a maiden aunt,” she said, following that with: “Lady Olivia, please. You must come forward and join us.”

“I am quite certain that is not what Sebastian wants,” Olivia said, but Seb noticed that she had quite the spring in her step as she came abreast. “Do not worry, Seb,” she said to him. “Lady Vickers gave me her newspaper. I shall find a tidy little bench to sit upon, and the two of you may meander about all you wish.”

She held out the newspaper, clearly intending for him to carry it, so he did. He never argued with females unless it was absolutely necessary.

They made their way to the park, chatting about nothing in particular, and true to her word, Olivia immediately found a bench and proceeded to ignore them. Or at least to do a cracking good job of pretending to ignore them.

“Shall we take a turn?” he asked Miss Winslow. “We can imagine this is an extremely large drawing room and walk the perimeter.”

“That would be lovely.” She looked back at Olivia, who was reading her newspaper.

“Oh, she’s watching, don’t worry.”

“Do you think so? She looks quite engrossed.”

“My dear cousin can most certainly read the newspaper and spy upon us at the same time. She could probably paint a watercolor and conduct an orchestra, as well.” He cocked his head toward Miss Winslow in salute. “Women, I have learned, can do at least six things at once without pausing for breath.”

“And men?”

“Oh, we are much too lugheaded. It’s a miracle we can walk and talk at the same time.”

She laughed, then motioned down at his feet. “You seem to be succeeding admirably.”

He pretended to be amazed. “Well, look at that. I must be improving.”

She laughed again, a lovely, throaty sound. He smiled over at her, since that was what one did when a lady laughed in one’s presence, and for a moment he forgot where he was. The trees, the grass, the entire world just slipped away, and all he saw was her face, and her smile, and her lips, so full and pink, curved so deliciously at the corners.

His body began to thrum with a light, heady feeling. It wasn’t lust, or even desire-he knew exactly how those felt. This was different. Excitement, perhaps. Maybe anticipation, although he was not sure for what. They were merely walking in the park. Still, he could not quite shake the feeling that he was waiting for something good.

It was an excellent sensation.

“I think I rather enjoy being rescued,” he said as they strolled sedately toward Stanhope Gate. The weather was fine, Miss Winslow was lovely, and Olivia was now well out of earshot.

What more could a man want in an afternoon?

Except possibly the after noon part. He squinted up at the sky. It was definitely still morning.

“I am so sorry about my grandmother,” Miss Winslow said. With great feeling.

“Tut tut, don’t you know you’re not supposed to mention such things?”

She sighed. “Really? I can’t even apologize?”

“Of course not.” He grinned down at her. “You’re supposed to sweep it under the rug and hope I did not notice.”

Her brows rose dubiously. “That her hand was on your…er…”

He waved a hand, although the truth was, he was rather enjoying her blush. “I can’t remember a thing.”

For a moment her face was perfectly blank, and then she just shook her head. “London society baffles me.”

“There is no sense to it, certainly,” he agreed.

“Just look at my situation.”

“I know. It’s a shame. But it’s the way things work. If I don’t want you, and my uncle doesn’t want you”-here he watched her, trying to gauge whether this was a disappointment-“neither will anyone else.”

“No, I understand that,” she said. “I find it monstrously unfair-”

“Agreed,” he put in.

“-but I do understand it. But still, I suspect there are all sorts of nuances of which I am completely unaware.”

“Oh, absolutely. For example, our performance here in the park-there are all sorts of details that must be played precisely right.”

“I have no idea what you’re talking about.”

He adjusted his position so that he was more directly facing her. “It’s all in how I look at you.”