Four years later

The key to a successful marriage,” Sebastian Grey pontificated from behind his desk, “is to marry a splendid wife.”

As this was announced for no apparent reason, after an hour of companionable silence, Annabel Grey would normally have taken the statement with several grains of salt. Sebastian was not above beginning conversations with extravagant compliments when he wished to gain her approval, or at the very least agreement, about matters entirely unrelated to the aforementioned praise.

There were, however, ten things about his pronouncement that could not help but warm her heart.

One: Seb was looking particularly handsome when he said it, all warm-eyed and rumple-haired, and Two: the wife in question was her, which pertained to Three: she’d performed all sorts of lovely wifely duties that morning, which, given their history would probably lead to Four: another gray-eyed baby in nine months, to add to the three already pitter-pattering in the nursery.

Of minor but still happy significance was Five: none of the three Grey babies looked a thing like Lord Newbury, who must have been scared witless after his collapse in Annabel’s bedchamber four years earlier, because he’d gone on a slimming regimen, married a widow of proven childbearing prowess, but Six: had not managed to sire another child, boy or girl.

Which meant that Seven: Sebastian was still the heir presumptive to the earldom, not that it mattered overmuch because Eight: he was selling scads of books, especially since the release of Miss Spencer and the Wild Scotsman, which Nine: the King himself had declared “delicious.” This, combined with the fact that Sarah Gorely had become the most popular author in Russia, meant that Ten: all of Annabel’s brothers and sisters were well settled in life, which in turn led to Eleven: Annabel never had to worry that her choice to pursue her own happiness had cost them theirs.

Eleven.

Annabel smiled. Some things were so wonderful they ran right past ten.

“What are you grinning about?”

She looked up at Sebastian, who was still seated at his desk, pretending he was working. “Oh, many things,” she said blithely.

“How intriguing. I am also thinking of many things.”

“Are you?”

“Ten, to be precise.”

“I was thinking of eleven.”

“You are so competitive.”

“Grey Most Likely to Outrun a Turkey,” she reminded him. “To say nothing of the skipping of stones.”

She’d got up to six. It had been an excellent moment. Especially since no one had ever actually seen Sebastian do seven.

He raised a brow at that, gave his best imitation of condescension, and said, “Quality over quantity, that’s what I always say. I was thinking of ten things I love about you.”

Her breath caught.

“One,” he announced, “your smile. Which is rivaled only by Two: your laugh. Which is in turn fueled by Three: the utter genuineness and generosity of your heart.”

Annabel swallowed. Tears were forming in her eyes, and she knew they’d soon be pouring down her cheeks.

“Four,” he continued, “you are excellent at keeping a secret, and Five: you have finally learned not to offer suggestions pertaining to my writing career.”

“No,” she protested, right through her tears, “Miss Forsby and the Footman would have been marvelous.”

“It would have brought me down in a flaming pit of ruin.”

“But—”

“You’ll notice there is nothing on this list about how you never interrupt me.” He cleared his throat. “Six: you have provided me with three remarkably brilliant children and Seven: you are an utterly marvelous mother. I, on the other hand, am utterly selfish, which is why Eight is all about the fact that you love me so splendidly well.” He leaned forward and waggled his brows. “In every possible manner.”

“Sebastian!”

“Actually, I think I’ll make that Nine.” He gave her a particularly warm smile. “I do think it’s deserving of its own number.”

She blushed. She couldn’t believe it, that he could still make her blush after four years of marriage.

“Ten,” he said softly, coming to his feet and walking toward her. He dropped to his knees and took her hands, kissing each in turn. “You are, quite simply, you. You are the most amazing, intelligent, kindhearted, ridiculously competitive woman I have ever met. And you can outrun a turkey.”

She stared at him, not caring that she was crying, or that her eyes must be horribly bloodshot, or that—dear heavens—she badly needed a handkerchief. She loved him. That was all that could possibly matter. “I think that was more than ten,” she whispered.

“Was it?” He kissed away her tears. “I’ve stopped counting.”