“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.”
“I beg your pardon?”
He smiled down at her, gazing adoringly at her face. “Rather like this,” he murmured.
Her lips parted, and for a moment she didn’t breathe.
He loved that he could do this to her. Almost as much as he loved that he knew she didn’t breathe. God, how loved being able to read women. “No, no,” he admonished. “You can’t look back at me like that.”
She gave a dazed blink. “What?”
He leaned another inch down and mock whispered, “People are watching.”
Her eyes widened, and he could tell the exact moment her brain snapped back to attention. She tried to be surreptitious as she looked to the left and then to the right, and then, slowly and with the utmost confusion, back at him. But really, she had no clue what she was doing.
“You’re quite bad at this,” he told her.
“I am utterly at a loss,” she admitted.
“Probably why you have no idea what you’re doing,” he said smoothly. “Allow me to edify: We are in the park.”
Annabel raised a brow. “I’m aware.”
“With about a hundred or so of our closest acquaintances.”
She turned her head again, this time toward Rotten Row, where several small groups of ladies were pretending not to look at them.
“Don’t be so obvious,” he said, giving a nod of greeting to Mrs. Brompton and her daughter Camilla, who were smiling at them in that I acknowledge you but perhaps we should not converse sort of way.
Annabel meant to get annoyed; really, who looked at another person like that? But then she couldn’t help but congratulate herself for having successfully interpreted a multifaceted expression.
However rude it might be.
“You look annoyed,” Mr. Grey said.
“No.” Well, maybe yes.
“You do understand what we are doing,” he verified.
“I thought I did,” she muttered.
“You may have noticed that you have become an object of speculation,” he said.
Annabel fought the urge to snort. “You could say that.”
“Why, Miss Winslow, do I detect a hint of sarcasm in your voice?”
“Just a hint.”
He looked about ready to chuckle but did not. It was a common expression for him, she realized. He saw humor everywhere. It was a rare gift, that, and possibly why everyone liked to be near him. He was happy, and if one could be near a happy person, perhaps it would rub off. Happiness could be like a head cold. Or cholera.
Catching. She liked that. Catching happiness.
She smiled. She couldn’t help it. She looked up at him, because she couldn’t quite help that, either, and he looked down, his eyes curious. He was about to ask her a question, probably about why she’d suddenly started smiling like a loon, when—
Annabel jumped back. “Was that a gunshot?”
He didn’t say anything, and when she looked at him closely, she realized he’d gone terribly pale.
“Mr. Grey?” She placed a hand on his arm. “Mr. Grey? Are you all right?”
He did not speak. Annabel felt her eyes widen, and even though she knew he could not possibly have been shot, she found herself looking him up and down, half expecting to see blood.
“Mr. Grey?” she said again, because she’d never seen him like this. And while she could not claim an extensive acquaintance, she knew that something was terribly wrong. His face was still and taut, and his eyes were somewhere else.
They were right there in his head, looking at a spot beyond her shoulder, and yet it was as if he wasn’t there at all.
“Mr. Grey?” she said again, and this time she gave his arm a little squeeze, as if she might wake him up. He jumped, and his head snapped in her direction. He looked at her for several seconds before she thought he actually saw her, and even then he blinked several times before saying, “My apologies.”
She did not know what to say to that. There was nothing he could possibly need to apologize for.
“It’s that bloody competition,” he muttered.
She knew better than to scold him for his language. “What competition?”
“Some stupid shooting contest. In the middle of Hyde Park,” he snapped. “A pack of idiots. Who would do such a thing?”
Annabel started to say something. She felt her lips move, but nothing really came out. So she shut her mouth. Better to stay silent than to say something foolish.
“They were doing it last week as well,” he muttered.
“I think they’re just over the rise,” Annabel said, motioning behind her. The shot had seemed rather close, actually. Nothing to make her go pale and shaky; a girl did not grow up in the country without hearing rifles discharged with a fair bit of regularity. Still, it had been rather loud, and she supposed that if one had returned from the war—
The war. That was what it had to be. Her father’s father had fought in the colonies, and until the day he died he’d jumped every time he heard a loud noise. No one ever said a thing about it. The conversation would miss a beat, but never more than that, and then everything would go on as if nothing had happened. It had been unwritten rule in the Winslow family. And it had suited them all quite well.
Or had it?
It had suited the rest of the family, but what about her grandfather? He never quite lost the hollow look in his eyes. And he did not like to travel after dark. No one liked it, Annabel supposed, but they all did it when necessary. Except her grandfather. When night fell, he was in the house. Any house. More than once he’d ended up as someone’s unexpected house-guest.
And Annabel wondered—had anyone ever asked him about it?
She looked up at Mr. Grey, suddenly feeling as if she knew him a great deal better than she had just a minute earlier.
But perhaps not well enough to say anything.
He dragged his gaze back to her face from whatever it was he was staring at, and he started to say something, but then—
Another gunshot.
“God damn it.”
Annabel’s lips parted in surprise. She looked this way and that, hoping no one had heard him curse. She did not mind, of course, she’d never been overly fussy about such things, but—
“Excuse me,” he muttered, and then he took off in the direction of the shots, his gait long and purposeful. Annabel took a moment to react, then bounced to attention and hurried after him.
“Where are you going?”
He didn’t answer, or if he did, she couldn’t hear it because he did not turn around. And it was a stupid question, anyway, because it was perfectly clear where he was going: over to the shooting competition, although why, she had no idea. Was he going to scold them? Ask them to stop? Could he even do that? If people were shooting in the park, they would have had to get permission to do so. Wouldn’t they?
“Mr. Grey!” she called out, trying to keep up. But he had long legs, and she had to move hers nearly twice as fast to match his stride. By the time she made it over to competition area, she was out of breath and perspiring under her corset.
But she soldiered on, chasing after him until she was but a few steps behind. He had stomped over to the gathering of participants—about a half dozen young men, none of them a day over twenty, if Annabel was any judge.
“What the devil do you think you are doing?” he demanded. Except that his voice was not raised. Which Annabel found odd, considering how obviously angry he was.
“Competition,” one of the young gentlemen said, affecting the sort of annoyingly jaunty grin that always made Annabel roll her eyes. “We’ve been at it all week.”
“So I’ve heard,” Mr. Grey responded.
“We’ve got the area behind cleared out,” the gentleman said, waving his arm toward the target. “Don’t worry.”
“And when will you be done?” Mr. Grey asked coolly.
“When someone hits dead center.”
Annabel looked down toward the target. She had seen her fair share of shooting contests, and she could tell that it had been set uncommonly far away. And she suspected that at least three of the men had been drinking. They could be here all afternoon.
“D’you want to have a go at it?” another of the young men asked, holding a pistol out toward Mr. Grey.
He gave them a dry smile and reached for the gun. “Thank you.”
And then, right before Annabel’s extremely wide eyes, he lifted his arm, squeezed the trigger, and handed the gun back to its owner.
“There,” he announced curtly. “You’re done.”
“But—”
“It’s over,” he said, then turned toward Annabel with an utterly placid face. “Shall we continue our stroll?”
Annabel got out a yes, but she wasn’t sure it was terribly clear, as her head was snapping back and forth between Mr. Grey and the target. One of the young men had run out to see how he’d done and was presently yelling something and sounding extremely surprised.
“It was a bull’s-eye!” he yelled, running toward them. “Dead center.”
Annabel’s lips parted in amazement. Mr. Grey hadn’t even aimed. Or at least he hadn’t seemed to aim.
“How’d you do that?” the young men were asking. And then one of them added, “Could you do it again?”
“No,” he answered curtly, “and don’t forget to clean up after yourselves.”
“Oh, we’re not done yet,” one of the young men said—rather foolishly, in Annabel’s opinion. Mr. Grey’s tone was light, but only an idiot would have missed the hard glint in his eyes.
“We’ll set up another target,” he continued. “We have until half two. You don’t really count, since you’re not part of the games.”
“Excuse me,” Mr. Grey said smoothly to Annabel. He let go of her arm and walked back to the other men. “May I have your gun?” he asked one of them.
Silently it was handed over, and once again Mr. Grey lifted his arm, and with no apparent concentration, squeezed the trigger.
One of the wooden posts supporting the target splintered—no, it evaporated—and the entire thing went tumbling to t
he ground.
“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.