are quite beyond thoughtful, Mr. Grey,” Louisa murmured. And she blushed. She blushed!
Annabel was aghast.
And jealous, but she preferred not to dwell on that.
“Will there be room for my husband as well?” Lady Olivia asked. “He has turned into a bit of a hermit of late, but I think we may convince him to emerge for the opera. I know that the Queen of the Night’s aria is a particular favorite of his.”
“All that hell boilething,” Mr. Grey said. “Who could resist it?”
“Of course,” Louisa replied to Lady Olivia. “I would be honored to meet him. His work sounds fascinating.”
“I myself am insanely jealous,” Mr. Grey murmured.
“Of Harry?” Lady Olivia asked, turning to him with surprise.
“I can imagine no greater bliss than to lie about, reading novels all day.”
“Very good novels at that,” Louisa put in.
Lady Olivia chuckled, but she did say, “He does a bit more than read. There is the small matter of the translation.”
“Pfft.”
Mr. Grey dismissed this with a flick of his hand. “A mere trifle.”
“To translate into Russian?” Annabel asked dubiously.
He turned to her with an expression that might have been condescending. “I was employing hyperbole.”
He’d spoken softly, though, and Annabel did not think that either Louisa or Lady Olivia heard him. They were chatting about something or other and had moved off a bit to the right, leaving Annabel with Mr. Grey. Not alone—not even remotely alone—but it somehow felt like it, nonetheless.
“Have you a given name, Miss Winslow?” he asked softly.
“Annabel,” she replied, her voice prim and curt and really rather unpleasant.
“Annabel,” he repeated. “I would say that it suits you, except of course, how would I know?”
She clamped her lips together, but her toes were wiggling in her boots.
He smiled wolfishly. “Since we’ve never met.”
Still she kept her mouth shut. She did not trust herself to speak.
This only seemed to amuse him more. He tilted his head in her direction, the very model of a polite English gentleman. “I shall be delighted to see you again this evening.”
“Will you?”
He chuckled. “How tart! Positively lemonish of you.”
“Lemonish,” she said flatly. “Really.”
He leaned in. “Why, I wonder, do you dislike me so much?”
Annabel shot a frantic glance at her cousin.
“She can’t hear me,” he said.
“You don’t know that.”
He looked over at Louisa and Lady Olivia, who were now kneeling next to Frederick. “They’re much too busy with the dog. Although …” He frowned. “How Olivia is going to get back to standing in her state is beyond me.”
“She’ll be fine,” Annabel said without thinking.
He turned to her with raised brows.
“She’s not far enough along.”
“Normally I would assume that such a statement comes from a voice of experience, but as I know that you have no experience, except me, I—”
“I am the oldest of eight,” Annabel snapped. “My mother was with child throughout my entire childhood.”
“An explanation I had not considered,” he admitted. “I hate when that happens.”
Annabel wanted to dislike him. She really did. But he was making it difficult, with his lopsided grin and self-effacing charm. “Why did you accept Louisa’s invitation to the opera?” she asked.
He looked at her blankly, even though she knew his brain was whirring along at triple speed. “It’s the Fenniwick box,” he said, as if there could beno other explanation. “I’m not likely to get such a good seat again.”
It was true. Louisa’s aunt had raved about the location.
“And of course you looked so miserable,” he added. “It was hard to resist.”
She shot him a dirty look.
“Honesty in all things,” he quipped. “It’s my new credo.”
“New?”
He shrugged. “As of this afternoon, at least.”
“And until this evening?”
“Certainly until I reach the opera house,” he said with a wicked smile.
Annabel was aghast.
And jealous, but she preferred not to dwell on that.
“Will there be room for my husband as well?” Lady Olivia asked. “He has turned into a bit of a hermit of late, but I think we may convince him to emerge for the opera. I know that the Queen of the Night’s aria is a particular favorite of his.”
“All that hell boilething,” Mr. Grey said. “Who could resist it?”
“Of course,” Louisa replied to Lady Olivia. “I would be honored to meet him. His work sounds fascinating.”
“I myself am insanely jealous,” Mr. Grey murmured.
“Of Harry?” Lady Olivia asked, turning to him with surprise.
“I can imagine no greater bliss than to lie about, reading novels all day.”
“Very good novels at that,” Louisa put in.
Lady Olivia chuckled, but she did say, “He does a bit more than read. There is the small matter of the translation.”
“Pfft.”
Mr. Grey dismissed this with a flick of his hand. “A mere trifle.”
“To translate into Russian?” Annabel asked dubiously.
He turned to her with an expression that might have been condescending. “I was employing hyperbole.”
He’d spoken softly, though, and Annabel did not think that either Louisa or Lady Olivia heard him. They were chatting about something or other and had moved off a bit to the right, leaving Annabel with Mr. Grey. Not alone—not even remotely alone—but it somehow felt like it, nonetheless.
“Have you a given name, Miss Winslow?” he asked softly.
“Annabel,” she replied, her voice prim and curt and really rather unpleasant.
“Annabel,” he repeated. “I would say that it suits you, except of course, how would I know?”
She clamped her lips together, but her toes were wiggling in her boots.
He smiled wolfishly. “Since we’ve never met.”
Still she kept her mouth shut. She did not trust herself to speak.
This only seemed to amuse him more. He tilted his head in her direction, the very model of a polite English gentleman. “I shall be delighted to see you again this evening.”
“Will you?”
He chuckled. “How tart! Positively lemonish of you.”
“Lemonish,” she said flatly. “Really.”
He leaned in. “Why, I wonder, do you dislike me so much?”
Annabel shot a frantic glance at her cousin.
“She can’t hear me,” he said.
“You don’t know that.”
He looked over at Louisa and Lady Olivia, who were now kneeling next to Frederick. “They’re much too busy with the dog. Although …” He frowned. “How Olivia is going to get back to standing in her state is beyond me.”
“She’ll be fine,” Annabel said without thinking.
He turned to her with raised brows.
“She’s not far enough along.”
“Normally I would assume that such a statement comes from a voice of experience, but as I know that you have no experience, except me, I—”
“I am the oldest of eight,” Annabel snapped. “My mother was with child throughout my entire childhood.”
“An explanation I had not considered,” he admitted. “I hate when that happens.”
Annabel wanted to dislike him. She really did. But he was making it difficult, with his lopsided grin and self-effacing charm. “Why did you accept Louisa’s invitation to the opera?” she asked.
He looked at her blankly, even though she knew his brain was whirring along at triple speed. “It’s the Fenniwick box,” he said, as if there could beno other explanation. “I’m not likely to get such a good seat again.”
It was true. Louisa’s aunt had raved about the location.
“And of course you looked so miserable,” he added. “It was hard to resist.”
She shot him a dirty look.
“Honesty in all things,” he quipped. “It’s my new credo.”
“New?”
He shrugged. “As of this afternoon, at least.”
“And until this evening?”
“Certainly until I reach the opera house,” he said with a wicked smile.
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