One, Annabel thought happily as she took her seat at the table, Lord Newbury was simply too old. Not to mention that Two: he was so desperate for an heir that he’d probably injure her in the attempt, and certainly no woman with a broken hip could carry a baby for nine months. And of course there was—

“Why are you smiling?” Sebastian whispered.

He was standing behind her, supposedly on his way to his own seat, which was diagonal to hers, two seats closer to the head of the table. How anyone might think that her seat was on the way to his was beyond her, which brought her to a revision of Three: she seemed to have attracted the attention of the most charming and lovable man in England, and who was she to turn such a treasure away?

“I’m just happy to be down at the far end of the table with the rest of the peons,” she whispered back. Lady Challis was nothing if not a stickler for propriety, and there would be no deviations from the order of rank when it came to her seating arrangements. Which meant that with nearly forty guests between Annabel and the head of the table, Lord Newbury seemed miles away.

Even more delightful, she had been seated directly next to Sebastian’s cousin Edward, whose company she had so enjoyed at lunch. As it would be rude to remain lost in her own thoughts, she quickly decided to rename her brothers and sisters Four through Ten. Surely they loved her well enough not to want her to enter into such a hideous union on their behalf.

She turned to Mr. Valentine, beaming. Smiling so widely, in fact, that he actually seemed taken aback.

“Isn’t it a marvelous evening?” she asked, because it was.

“Er, yes.” He blinked a few times, then shot a quick look over to Sebastian, almost as if checking for approval. Or maybe just to see if he was watching.

“I am so glad that you are attending,” she continued, gazing happily at the soup. She was hungry. Happiness always made her hungry. She looked back up at Mr. Valentine, lest he think she was pleased by the soup’s attendance (although she was; she really was), and added, “I had not realized that you would be here.” Her grandmother had obtained a guest list from Lady Challis, and Annabel was certain there had been no Valentines on it.

“I was a very recent addition.”

“I am sure Lady Challis was most pleased to have you.” She smiled again; she couldn’t seem to help herself. “Now then, Mr. Valentine, we must speak of far more important matters. I am sure you must know many terribly embarrassing stories about your cousin, Mr. Grey.”

She leaned forward a bit, eyes gleaming. “I want to hear them all.”

Sebastian could not decide if he was intrigued or enraged.

No, not true. He pondered rage for about two moments, then remembered he never got angry and decided he preferred intrigue.

He had almost interceded when Newbury had cornered Annabel in the drawing room, and in fact he’d had quite the most delicious urge to pinch his uncle on the eyelid after he’d pinched Annabel on the bum. But just as he stepped forward, Annabel had undergone the most remarkable transformation. For a few moments, it was almost as if she wasn’t there, as if her mind had lifted off and gone to some faraway, blissful spot.

She’d looked lifted. Weightless.

Sebastian could not fathom what his uncle might have said to make her so happy, but he recognized the futility of trying to question her while everyone was filing in to supper.

So he decided that if Annabel wasn’t going to be furious about Newbury’s pinch, then neither would he.

At supper she was positively incandescent, which, given the two-seats-down-and-across-the-tableness of their positions, was somewhat irksome. He could not enjoy her radiance, nor could he take credit for it. She did seem to be enjoying her conversation with Edward immensely, and Sebastian found that if he leaned just a bit to his left he could hear almost half of what they were saying.

He might have heard more, except that also to his left was the elderly Lady Millicent Farnsworth. Who was quite nearly deaf.

As he would surely be by the end of the evening.

“IS THAT DUCK?” she yelled, pointing at a slice of fowl which was, indeed, duck.

Sebastian swallowed, as if the motion might somehow dislodge her voice from his ear, and said something about the duck (which he had not yet tasted) being delicious.

She shook her head. “I DON’T LIKE DUCK.” And then, in a blessed whisper, she added, “It gives me hives.”

Sebastian decided then and there that until he himself was old enough to have sired grandchildren, this was more than he wanted to know about any woman over the age of seventy.

While Lady Millicent was busy with the beef burgundy, Sebastian craned his neck only slightly farther than was subtle, trying to hear what Annabel and Edward were talking about.

“I was a very recent addition,” Edward said.

Sebastian presumed he was talking about the guest list.

Annabel gave him—Edward, that was; not Sebastian—another one of her brilliant smiles. Sebastian heard himself growl.

“WHAT?”

He flinched. It was a natural reflex. He was fond of his left ear.

“Isn’t the beef marvelous?” he said to Lady Millicent, pointing at it for clarification.

She nodded, said something about Parliament, and speared a potato.

Sebastian looked back at Annabel, who was chatting animatedly with Edward.

Look at me, he willed.

She didn’t.

Look at me.

Nothing.

Look at—

“WHAT’RE YOU LOOKING AT?”

“Only admiring your fair skin, Lady Millicent,” Seb said smoothly. He’d always been good on his feet. “You must be quite diligent about staying out of the sun.”

She nodded and muttered, “I watch my money.”

Sebastian was stupefied. What on earth had she thought he’d said?

“EAT THE BEEF.” She took another bite. “IT’S THE BEST THING ON THE TABLE.”

He did. But it needed salt. Or rather, he needed the salt cellar, which happened to be located directly in front of Annabel.

“Edward,” he said, “would you please ask Miss Winslow for the salt?”

Edward turned to Annabel and repeated the request, although in Sebastian’s opinion, there had been no need for his eyes to travel anywhere below her face.

“Of course,” Annabel murmured, and she reached for the salt cellar.

Look at me.

She handed it to Edward.

Look at me.

And then … finally. He gave her his most melting smile, the kind that promised secrets and delight.

She flushed. From her cheeks, to her ears, to the skin on her chest, so delightfully displayed above the lacy trim of her bodice. Sebastian allowed himself a satisfied sigh.

“Miss Winslow?” Edward asked. “Are you unwell?”

“Perfectly well,” she said, fanning herself. “Is it hot in here?”

“Perhaps a little bit,” he said, obviously lying. He was wearing a shirt, cravat, waistcoat, and jacket, and he looked cool and comfortable as an ice chip. Whereas Annabel, whose dress was cut low enough so that half of her bosom was exposed to air, had just taken a long sip of wine.

“I think my soup was overly warm,” she said, shooting a quick glare at Sebastian. He returned the sentiment with a tiny lick of his lips.

“Miss Winslow?” Edward asked again, all concern.

“I’m fine,” she snapped. Sebastian chuckled. “TRY THE FISH.”

“I believe I will,” Seb said, smiling at Lady Millicent. He took a bite of the salmon, which really was excellent—Lady Millicent apparently knew her fish—then sneaked a glance over at Annabel, who still looked as if she’d dearly love a tall glass of water. Edward, on the other hand, had got that glazed look in his eyes, the one that appeared every time he thought about Annabel’s—

Sebastian kicked him.

Edward snapped around to face him.

“Is something wrong, Mr. Valentine?” Annabel asked.

“My cousin,” he bit off, “has uncommonly long legs.”

“Did he kick you?” She turned quickly to Sebastian. Did you kick him? she mouthed.

He took another bite of fish.

She turned back to Edward. “Why would he do such a thing?”

Edward flushed to the tips of his ears. Sebastian decided to let Annabel figure that one out on her own. She turned and scowled at him, which he returned with: “Why, Miss Winslow, whatever can be the matter?”

“WERE YOU TALKING TO ME?”

“Miss Winslow was wondering what sort of fish we’re eating,” Sebastian lied.

Lady Millicent looked at Annabel as if she were an idiot, shook her head, and muttered something Sebastian couldn’t quite grasp. He thought he heard salmon. Maybe beef, too. And he could have sworn she said something about a dog. This concerned him.

He glanced down at his plate, making sure that he could identify every meat-like substance, and then, satisfied all was what it should be, took a bite of the beef.

“It’s good,” Lady Millicent said, giving him a nudge.

He smiled and nodded, relieved that she seemed to be speaking in a quieter voice.

“Should get some more. Best thing on the plate.”

Sebastian wasn’t sure about that, but—

“WHERE’S THE BEEF?” And there went his ear.

Lady Millicent was craning her neck, looking this way and that. She opened her mouth to shout again, but Sebastian held up what he hoped was a silencing hand and signaled to a footman.

“More beef for the lady,” he requested.

With a pained expression, the footman explained that there was none left.

“Can you get her something that looks like beef?”

“We have duck in a similar sauce.”

“God, no.” Sebastian had no idea how hivey Lady Millicent might get, or how long it would take for her to get there, but he fervently did not want to find out.

With an exaggerated gesture toward the far end of the table, he said something to her about a dog, and while she was looking the other way quickly slid the rest of his beef onto her plate.

Upon not locating a dog (or frog, hog, or log) near the bottom of the table, Lady Millicent turned back with an expression of some irritation, but Sebastian quickly held her off with: “They found one last portion.”

She gave a grunt of pleasure and set back to eating. Seb hazarded a glance back at Annabel, who appeared to have been watching the entire exchange.

She was grinning from ear to ear.

Seb thought of all the ladies he’d met in London, the ones who would have looked on in horror, or disgust, or if they had any humor, would have been biting back their smiles, or trying to hide them behind a hand.

But not Annabel. She smiled like she laughed, magnificent and grand. Her eyes, greenish-gray turned pewter in the evening light, sparkled with shared mischief.

And he realized, right there across Lady Challis’s heavily laden dining-room table, that he could never live without her. She was so beautiful, so gloriously womanly, his breath quite literally whooshed from his body. Her face, heart-shaped, and with that mouth that always looked as if it wanted to smile; her skin, not quite as pale as fashion wanted, but utterly perfect for her. She looked healthy, wind-kissed.

She was the type of woman a man wanted to come home to. No, she was the woman he wanted to come home to. He’d asked her to marry him … but why? He could barely remember. He’d liked her, he’d lusted for her, and God knew, he’d always loved saving females who needed saving. But he’d never asked one to marry him before.

Could his heart have known something his head hadn’t quite grasped?

He loved her.

He adored her.

He wanted to crawl into bed with her every night, make love as if there would be no tomorrow, and then wake up in her arms the next morning, rested and sated, and ready to devote himself to the singular task of making her smile.

He lifted his glass to his lips, smiling into his wine. The flickering light of the candles was dancing across the table, and Sebastian Grey was happy.

At the end of the meal the ladies excused themselves so that the gentlemen might enjoy their port. Annabel found Louisa (who had, sadly, been stuck up near Lord Newbury at the head of the table) and the two walked arm in arm to the drawing room.

“Lady Challis says we shall read and write and embroider until the gentlemen rejoin us,” Louisa said.

“Did you bring embroidery?”

Louisa grimaced. “I think she said something about providing it.”

“The true purpose of the house party becomes clear,” Annabel said dryly. “By the time we return to London, Lady Challis shall have an entirely new set of pillowcases.”

Louisa giggled at that, then said, “I’m going to ask someone to fetch my book. Shall I get yours as well?”

Annabel nodded, waiting while Louisa spoke to a housemaid. When she was through, they entered the drawing room, taking seats as close to the perimeter as they could. A few minutes later a maid arrived, carrying two books. She held out Miss Sainsbury and the Mysterious Colonel, and both ladies reached for it.

“Oh, how funny, we’re reading the same book!” Louisa exclaimed, seeing that both volumes were the same title.

Annabel looked over at her cousin in surprise. “Haven’t you read it already?”

Louisa shrugged. “I so enjoyed Miss Truesdale and the Silent Gentleman that I thought I would reread the other three.” She looked down at Annabel’s copy. “What part are you up to?”

“Ehrm …” Annabel opened the book and found her place. “I believe Miss Sainsbury has just thrown herself over a hedge. Or perhaps into the hedge.”

“Oh, the goat,” Louisa said breathlessly. “I loved that part.” She held up her copy. “I’m still at the beginning.”

They settled in with their books, but before either of them could turn a page, Lady Challis happened by. “What are you reading?” she asked.

“Miss Sainsbury and the Mysterious Colonel,” Louisa answered politely.

“And you, Miss Winslow?”

“Oh, the same, actually.”

“You’re reading the same book? How darling!” Lady Challis motioned toward a friend across the room. “Rebecca, come look at this. They’re reading the same book.”

Annabel was not sure why this was deemed so remarkable, but she sat quietly and waited for Lady Westfield to come over.

“Cousins,” Lady Challis declared. “Reading the same book.”

“I’ve actually read it before,” Louisa mentioned.

“What book is it?” Lady Westfield asked.

“Miss Sainsbury and the Mysterious Colonel,” Annabel said again.

“Oh, yes. By Mrs. Gorely. I quite enjoyed that one. Especially when the pirate turned out to be—”

“Don’t say anything!” Louisa exclaimed. “Annabel hasn’t finished it.”

“Oh yes, of course.”

Annabel frowned, flipping through the pages. “I thought he was a privateer.”

“It is one of my favorites,” Louisa put in.

Lady Westfield turned her attention to Annabel. “And you, Miss Winslow, are you enjoying it?”

Annabel cleared her throat. She wasn’t sure if she was precisely enjoying the book, but she did not dislike it. And there was something rather comforting about it. It reminded her of Sebastian, actually. Mrs. Gorely was one of his favorite authors, and she could see why. Bits of it almost sounded like him.

“Miss Winslow?” Lady Westfield repeated. “Are you enjoying the book?”

Annabel started, then realized she had not answered her question. “I think so. The story is quite entertaining, if a little implausible.”

“A little?” Louisa said with laugh. “It’s completely implausible. But that is what makes it so marvelous.”

“I suppose,” Annabel replied. “I just wish the writing were a little less florid. Sometimes I feel as if I am wading through adjectives.”

“Oh, I’ve just had the most marvelous idea,” Lady Challis exclaimed, clapping her hands together. “We shall save charades for another night.”

Annabel let out a huge sigh of relief. She’d always hated charades.

“Instead, we shall have a reading!”

Annabel looked up at her sharply. “What?”

“A reading. We already have two copies right here. I’m sure I have another in our library. Three ought to be more than enough.”

“You plan to read from Miss Sainsbury?” Louisa inquired.

“Oh, not me,” Lady Challis said, placing a hand over her heart. “The hostess never takes a role.”

Annabel was quite sure this was not true, but there wasn’t much she could do about it.

“Will you be one of our players, Miss Winslow?” Lady Challis asked. “You have such a theatrical look about you.”

Among other items of which Annabel was quite sure: this was not a compliment. But she agreed to read because, once again, there wasn’t much she could do about it.

“You should ask Mr. Grey to take part,” Louisa suggested.

Annabel determined to kick her later, since she could not reach her at the moment.

“He is a great fan of Mrs. Gorely,” Louisa continued.

“Is he?” Lady Challis murmured.

“He is,” Louisa confirmed. “We discussed our mutual admiration for the author recently.”

“Very well, then,” Lady Challis decided. “It shall be Mr. Grey. And you, too, I think, Lady Louisa.”

“Oh. No.” Louisa blushed furiously, which on Louisa was furious indeed. “I couldn’t. I’m—I’m terrible at such things.”

“No time like the present to practice, don’t you think?”

Annabel had been looking forward to a bit of revenge against her cousin, but even she thought this was too cruel. “Lady Challis, I’m sure we can find someone else who would like to take part. Or perhaps Louisa can be our director!”

“Do you need one?”

“Er, yes. I mean, of course we must. Doesn’t all theater require a director? And what is a reading if not theater?”

“Very well,” Lady Challis said with a dismissive wave. “You may sort it out amongst yourselves. If you’ll excuse me, I’m going to see what is taking the gentlemen so long.”

“Thank you,” Louisa said, as soon as Lady Challis had departed. “I could never have read in front of everyone.”

“I know,” Annabel said. She wasn’t particularly looking forward to reading from Miss Sainsbury in front of the entire party, either, but at least she had had some practice at that sort of thing. She and her siblings had frequently performed theatricals and readings at home.

“What section shall we perform?” Louisa asked, thumbing through the book.

“I don’t know. I’m not even halfway through yet. But don’t,” Annabel said sharply, “make me the goat.”

Louisa chuckled at that. “No, no, you shall be Miss Sainsbury, of course. Mr. Grey will be the colonel. Oh dear, we’ll need a narrator. Perhaps Mr. Grey’s cousin?”

“I think it would be much funnier if Mr. Grey played Miss Sainsbury,” Annabel said, all nonchalance.

Louisa gasped. “Annabel, you are evil.”

Annabel shrugged. “I can be the narrator.”

“Oh, no. If you’re going to make Mr. Grey be Miss Sainsbury, you must be the colonel. Mr. Valentine will be the narrator.” Louisa frowned. “Or perhaps we ought to ask Mr. Valentine if he wishes to take part before assigning him a role.”

“I didn’t get a choice,” Annabel reminded her.

Louisa considered that. “True. Very well, let me find an appropriate passage. How long do you suppose the reading ought to be?”

“As short as we can possibly get away with,” Annabel said firmly.

Louisa flipped open her book and then flipped over several pages. “That may be difficult if we’re avoiding the goat.”

“Louisa …” Annabel warned.

“I assume your ban also extends to sheep?”

“To all four-legged creatures.”

Louisa shook her head. “You’re making this very difficult. I have to eliminate all of the shipboard scenes.”

Annabel leaned over her shoulder, murmuring, “I haven’t got to that point yet.”

“Milking goats,” Louisa confirmed.

“What are you ladies looking at?”

Annabel looked up, then melted a bit inside. Sebastian was standing over them, presumably seeing nothing but their bent heads as they pored over the book.

“We will be performing a scene,” she said, with an apologetic smile. “From Miss Sainsbury and the Mysterious Colonel.”

“Really?” He immediately sat beside them. “Which scene?”

“I’m trying to decide,” Louisa informed him. She looked up. “Oh, by the way, you are Miss Sainsbury.”

He blinked. “Really.”

She made a small motion with her head toward Annabel. “Annabel is the colonel.”

“A little bit backwards, don’t you think?”

“It will be more amusing that way,” Louisa said. “It was Annabel’s idea.”

Sebastian turned the full force of his gaze to Annabel. “Why,” he murmured dryly, “am I not surprised?”

He sat down very close to her. Not touching; he would never be so indiscreet to do so in so public a place. But it felt as if they were touching. The air between them had grown heated, and her skin began to prick and shiver.

In an instant she was back by the pond, his hands on her skin, his lips everywhere. Her heart began to race, and she really, really wished she’d thought to bring a fan. Or a glass of punch.

“Your cousin shall be the narrator,” Louisa announced, completely oblivious to Annabel’s overheated state.

“Edward?” Sebastian said, sitting back as if he were completely unaffected. “He’ll enjoy that.”

“Really?” Louisa smiled and looked up. “I just need to find the right scene.”

“Something dramatic I hope?”

She nodded. “But Annabel has insisted that we not include the goats.”

Annabel wanted to make a pithy comment, but she hadn’t quite got her breathing under control.

“I don’t know that Lady Challis would appreciate livestock in her drawing room,” Sebastian agreed.

Annabel finally managed to breathe evenly, but the rest of her was feeling very odd. Shivery, as if her limbs were desperate to move, and there was a tightness beginning to coil within her.

“I never even considered a live goat,” Louisa said with a laugh.

“You could try to draft Mr. Hammond-Betts,” Sebastian suggested. “His hair is rather fluffy.”

Annabel tried to focus her eyes on a spot right in front of her. They were talking right over her, about goats, for heaven’s sake, and she felt as if she might burst into flame at any moment. How could they not notice?

“I don’t imagine he would take kindly to the request,” Louisa said with a bit of giggle.

“Pity,” Sebastian murmured. “He does look the part.”

Annabel took another shallow breath. When Sebastian dropped his voice like that, soft and husky, it made her positively squirm.

“Oh, here we are,” Louisa said excitedly. “What do you think of this scene?” She reached past Annabel to hand the book to Sebastian. Which of course meant that he had to reach past Annabel, too.

His hand brushed her sleeve. His thigh leaned into hers.

Annabel jumped to her feet, knocking the book out of whatever person’s hand it was in (she didn’t know; didn’t care, either). “Excuse me,” she squeaked.

“Is something wrong?” Louisa asked.

“Nothing, I, ehrm, just …” She cleared her throat. “I’ll be right back.” And then: “If you’ll excuse me.” And then: “Just a moment.” And then: “I—”

“Just go,” Louisa said.

She did. Or rather, she tried. Annabel was in such a hurry she wasn’t paying attention to where she was going, and when she reached the doorway she only just managed to avoid crashing into the gentleman entering the room.

The Earl of Newbury.

The giddiness bubbling along inside Annabel died in an instant. “Lord Newbury,” she murmured, dipping into a respectful curtsy. She did not wish to antagonize him; she merely wished to not marry him.

“Miss Winslow.” His eyes swept across the room before coming back to hers. Annabel noticed that his jaw tightened when he spied Sebastian, but other than that, the only expression on his face was one of satisfaction.

Which naturally made Annabel nervous.

“I shall make the announcement now,” he told her.

“What?” Somehow she managed to make that not come out as a shriek. “My lord,” she said, trying to sound placating, or if not that then at least reasonable, “surely this is not the time.”

“Nonsense,” he said dismissively. “I believe we are all here.”

“I haven’t said yes,” she ground out.

He turned to her with a withering glare. And then said nothing else, as if nothing else was necessary.

He did not even think her worthy of a response, Annabel fumed. “Lord Newbury,” she said firmly, placing a hand on his arm, “I forbid you to make an announcement.”

His face, already florid, turned nearly to purple, and a vein began to bulge in his neck. Annabel removed her hand from his arm and took a cautious step back. She did not think he would strike her in so public a setting, but he had punched Sebastian in front of their entire club. It seemed wise to distance herself.

“I have not said yes,” she said again, because he was not responding. He was just looking at her with a thunderous expression, and for a moment she feared he might actually have an apoplectic fit. Never in her life had she witnessed another human being so angry. Spittle was popping from the corners of his mouth, and his eyes were huge and froglike in his head. It was horrific. He was horrific.

“You don’t get to say yes,” he finally spat out. But his voice remained a harsh whisper. “Or no. You have been bought and sold, and next week you’re going to spread your legs and do your bloody duty by me. And you will do it again and again until you produce a healthy boy. Are we clear?”

“No,” Annabel said, making sure that her voice, at least, was perfectly clear, “we are not.”