“Now you’re done,” Mr. Grey said, handing the gun back to its owner. “Good day.”
He walked back to Annabel’s side, took her arm, and said, before she could ask, “I was a sniper. In the war.”
She nodded, fairly certain she now knew how the French had been defeated. She looked back at the target, now surrounded by men, then back at Mr. Grey, who appeared completely unconcerned. Then, because she couldn’t stop herself, she turned back to target, dimly aware of his pressure on her arm as he tried to pull her away. “That was…that was…”
“Nothing,” he said. “Nothing at all.”
“I wouldn’t call it nothing,” she said gingerly. He didn’t seem to want praise, but at the same time, she couldn’t not say something.
He shrugged. “It’s a talent.”
“Er, a useful one, I should think.” She wanted to look back one more time, but she wasn’t going to be able to see anything, and anyway, he hadn’t looked back even once.
“Would you like an ice?” he asked.
“I beg your pardon?”
“An ice. I’m feeling a bit warm. We could go to Gunter’s.”
Annabel made no response, still flummoxed by the abrupt change of conversation.
“We’ll have to bring Olivia, of course, but she’s good enough company.” He frowned thoughtfully. “And she’s probably hungry. I’m not sure she had breakfast this morning.”
“Well, of course…” Annabel said, although not because she knew what he was talking about. He was looking at her expectantly, and she was clearly supposed to make a reply.
“Excellent. Gunter’s it shall be.” He grinned at her, his eyes sparkling in that now familiar way, and Annabel wanted to grab him by the shoulders and shake. It was as if the entire episode with the guns and target had never happened.
“Do you like orange?” he asked. “The orange is particularly good, second only to the lemon, although they don’t always serve that.”
“I like orange,” she said, again because a response seemed appropriate.
“The chocolate is also quite delicious.”
“I do like chocolate.”
And so it went, a conversation about nothing at all, all the way to Gunter’s. Where, Annabel was not particularly proud to say, she forgot all about the incident in the park. Mr. Grey insisted upon ordering one of every flavor, and Annabel insisted that it would be rude not to taste them all (except for rose, which she never could abide; it was a flower, for heaven’s sake, not a flavor). Then Lady Olivia declared herself unable to tolerate the smell of the bergamot ice, which meant that of course Mr. Grey had to wave it under her nose. Annabel couldn’t recall the last time she’d had so much fun.
Fun. Pure, simple, fun. A very good thing, indeed.
Chapter Fifteen
Two days later
By the time Annabel had finished dancing with Lord Rowton, which followed her dance with Mr. Berbrooke, which followed her dance with Mr. Albansdale, which followed her dance with a different Mr. Berbrooke, which followed her dance with Mr. Cavender, which followed her dance with-good heavens!-a Russian prince, which followed her dance with Sir Harry Valentine, which followed her dance with Mr. St. Clair, which (she had to take a breath here, just thinking about it!) followed her dance with Mr. Grey…
Suffice it to say that if she had not previously understood the fickle nature of London society, she did now. She did not know how many of the gentlemen had invited her to dance because Mr. Grey had asked them to, and how many had asked her because all of the other gentlemen seemed to be doing so, but one thing was clear: She was the latest rage. For this week, at least.
Their walk in the park had done its trick, as had the outing at Gunter’s. Annabel had been seen by all the ton with Sebastian Grey acting (in his words) like a lovesick fool. He had made sure that all the biggest gossips had seen him kissing her hand, and laughing at her jokes, and, for those who approached them in conversation, gazing adoringly (but not lustfully) at her face.
And yes, he had actually used the word “lustfully.” Which would have shocked her except that he had such an amusing way of saying things. All she could do was laugh, which, he informed her, was only fair because he could not have it getting out that he was laughing at her jokes and not vice versa.
Which made her laugh again.
They had repeated the charade the next afternoon, and the one after that, too, taking a picnic with Sir Harry and Lady Olivia. Mr. Grey had returned her to her grandparents’ home with strict instructions not to arrive at the Hartside ball that evening until half nine at the earliest. The Vickers carriage rolled to a halt at nine forty-five, and when she stepped into the ballroom five minutes later, Mr. Grey just happened to be standing near the door, in conversation with a gentleman she did not recognize. When he saw her, however, he immediately broke away and came to her side.
That he walked past three extremely beautiful women to get there was not, Annabel suspected, an accident.
Two minutes later they were dancing. And five minutes after that she was dancing with the gentleman he’d been chatting with. And so on and so forth, straight through the Russian prince, both Berbrookes, to Lord Rowton. Annabel was not sure that she wished to live her life as the most popular girl in town, but she had to admit that for one evening at least, it was marvelously good fun.
Lady Twombley had approached, all venom and bile, but even she could not twist the gossip into anything unpleasant. She was no match for Lady Olivia Valentine, who (Annabel was informed) had casually mentioned that Mr. Grey might truly be smitten to three of her closest friends.
“The three with no discretion whatsoever,” Sir Harry had murmured.
Lady Olivia, Annabel was coming to realize, had a very astute grasp on the mechanics of gossip.
“Annabel!”
Annabel saw Louisa waving to her, and as soon as she curtsied to Lord Rowton and thanked him prettily for the dance, she made her way over to her cousin’s side.
“We are twins,” Louisa declared, motioning to their gowns, which were of an almost identical pale sage hue.
Annabel could not help but laugh. Surely two cousins had never been made less alike.
“I know,” Louisa said. “It’s a dreadful color on me.”
“Of course not,” Annabel assured her, except that, maybe a little bit, it was.
“Don’t lie,” Louisa said. “As my cousin, it is your duty to tell the truth when no one else will.”
“Very well, it is not your best color…”
Louisa sighed. “I am without color.”
“Of course not!” Annabel exclaimed, except that tonight, in the sage green that looked so terrible on her, maybe a little bit, she was. Louisa’s skin was always pale, but the dim light and the dress seemed to suck every last bit of pink from her cheeks. “I quite liked the blue you wore to the opera. It was very fetching on you.”
“Do you think so?” Louisa asked, almost hopefully. “I felt fetching in it.”
“Sometimes I think that is half the battle,” Annabel told her.
“Well, you must be extremely fetching in sage,” Louisa said. “You are quite the belle of the ball.”
“It has nothing to do with the color of my dress,” Annabel said, “as you well know.”
“Mr. Grey has been very busy,” Louisa stated.
“Indeed.”
They stood for a moment, watching the rest of the crowd, and then Louisa said, “It was very good of him to intercede.”
Annabel nodded and murmured her agreement.
“No, I mean it was very good of him.”
Annabel turned to face her.
“He did not have to do it,” Louisa said, her voice not quite stern, but…almost. “Most gentlemen would not have done.”
Annabel watched her cousin closely, searching her face for some sort of hidden meaning. But Louisa wasn’t looking at her. Her chin was lifted, and she was still glancing out over the crowd, her head moving so very slightly, as if she were looking for someone.
Or maybe just looking.
“What his uncle did…” Louisa said softly. “It was inexcusable. No one would have faulted him for striking back.”
Annabel waited for more. An explanation. Instructions. Anything. Finally she let out a pent up breath. “Please,” she said. “Not you, too.”
Louisa turned. “What do you mean?”
“Exactly that. Please just say what you mean. It is exhausting trying to determine what everyone is saying to me when it has nothing to do with the words that are actually coming out of their mouths.”
“But I was,” Louisa said. “You need to understand how remarkable his behavior has been. After what his uncle did to him, and so publicly, he could not have been blamed had he wished to wash his hands of the entire affair and leave you to your scandal.”
“No, you see, that,” Annabel exclaimed, relieved that Louisa had finally explained what she meant, even if the topic was less than pleasing. “That is what I was talking about. Perfectly clear. That is what I wanted to hear.”
“What did you want to hear?”
Annabel nearly jumped back a foot. “Mr. Grey!” she squeaked.
“At your ser vice,” he said, giving her a jaunty bow. He was wearing a patch over his injured eye, which on most men would have been ridiculous. He, however, looked utterly dashing and dangerous, and Annabel really wished she had not overheard two ladies commenting that they’d like to be plundered by that pirate.
“You look so intent,” he said to her. “I must know what you were talking about.”
Annabel saw no reason not to be almost completely honest. “Merely that I find it exhausting to interpret what everyone says here in London.”
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