by Julia Quinn
Louisa gave them both a regal smile. “On that note, I believe I shall take myself off to celebrate. I shall see the both of you later. Perhaps much later.” And with that she departed, leaving Annabel and Sebastian quite alone.
“Did I say I like your cousin?” Sebastian mused. “I do believe I love her.” He tilted his head toward. “Purely platonically, of course.”
Annabel took a deep breath, but when she let it out, she felt shaky and nervous. She knew he wanted an answer, and he deserved one. But she had nothing. Just an awful, empty feeling inside.
“You look tired,” she said. Because he did.
He shrugged. “I didn’t sleep well. I rarely do.”
His voice sounded odd to her, and she regarded him more closely. He wasn’t looking at her; his eyes were fixed on some thoroughly random spot in the background. A tree root, by the looks of it. Then he looked down at his feet, one of which was pushing loose dirt around on the ground. There was something familiar about his expression, and then it came to her—he looked exactly as he had that day in the park, right after he’d shot apart the target.
And then hadn’t wanted to talk about it.
“I’m sorry,” she said. “I hate it when I cannot fall asleep.”
He shrugged again, but the movement was starting to look forced. “I’m used to it.”
She didn’t say anything for a moment, and then she realized that the obvious question was: “Why?”
“Why?” he echoed.
“Yes. Why do you have trouble sleeping? Do you know?”
Sebastian sat down next to her, staring out over the water, where a few stone-skipped ripples still slid along the surface. He thought for a moment, then opened his mouth as if he might say something.
But he didn’t.
“I find I have to close my eyes,” she said.
That caught his attention.
“When I’m trying to sleep,” she clarified. “I have to close my eyes. If I lie there, staring at the ceiling, I might as well admit defeat. I’m not going to fall asleep with my eyes open, after all.”
Sebastian considered this for a moment, smiling wryly. “I stare at the ceiling,” he admitted.
“Well, there’s your problem.”
He turned. She was looking at him, her expression open, her eyes clear. And while he was sitting there, thinking that he wished that were the problem, he suddenly thought—well, maybe it is. Maybe some of the most convoluted questions had simple answers.
Maybe she was his simple answer.
He wanted to kiss her. It hit him suddenly, overwhelmingly. Except he just wanted to touch his lips to hers. Nothing more. Just a simple kiss of gratitude, of friendship, maybe even of love.
But he wasn’t going to kiss her. Not yet. She’d tilted her head to the side, and the way she was looking at him—he wanted to know what she was thinking. He wanted to know her. He wanted to know her thoughts and her hopes and her fears. He wanted to know what she was thinking about on the nights when she couldn’t sleep, and then he wanted to know what it was she dreamed when she finally drifted off.
“I think about the war,” he said softly. He’d never told anyone.
She nodded. Softly, a tiny movement he could barely see. “It must have been terrible.”
“Not all of it. But the parts I think about at night…” He closed his eyes for a moment, unable to banish the acrid smell of gunpowder, the blood, and worst of all, the noise.
She put her hand on his. “I’m sorry.”
“It’s not as bad as it used to be.”
“That’s good.” She smiled encouragingly. “What changed, do you think?”
“I—” But he didn’t say it. He couldn’t tell her. Not yet. How could he tell her about his writing when he didn’t even know if she liked it? It had never bothered him that Harry and Olivia thought the Gorely books were so dreadful—well, not very much, at least—but if Annabel hated them…
It was almost too much to bear.
“I think it’s only time,” he said. “Heals all wounds, they say.”
She nodded again, that tiny little motion he liked to think only he could detect. She looked at him curiously, her head tilting to the side.
“What is it?” he asked, watching her brow furrow.
“I think your eyes might be the exact same color as mine,” she said wonderingly.
“What fine gray-eyed babies we shall have,” he said, before he thought the better of it.
The lighthearted look fell from her eyes, and she looked away. Damn. He hadn’t meant to push her. Not yet, anyway. Right now he was so simply happy. Perfectly and utterly comfortable. He’d told another human being one of his secrets and the heavens had not crashed to the ground. It was stunning how wonderful that felt.
No, that wasn’t the right word. It was frustrating, that. He was in the business of finding the right words, and he didn’t know how to explain it. He felt…
Lifted.
Weightless.
Rested. And at the same time, like he wanted to close his eyes, set his head on a pillow next to hers, and sleep. He’d never felt anything like it.
And now he’d gone and ruined it. She was staring at the ground, her cheeks pinched, and it was as if the color had gone out of her. She looked exactly the same, not pale, not flushed, and yet she was colorless.
It was coming from the inside. It broke his heart.
He could see it now—her life as his uncle’s wife. It wouldn’t break her, it would just slowly suck her dry.
He couldn’t allow it. He simply could not allow it.
“I asked you to marry me yesterday,” he said.
She looked away. Not down at her feet this time, but away.
She didn’t have an answer. He was stunned at how much this stung. She wasn’t even refusing him; she was just begging for more time.
Silently begging, he corrected. Perhaps it would be more accurately described as avoiding the question altogether.
Still, he’d asked her to marry him. Did she think he made such offers lightly? He’d always thought that when he finally proposed marriage, the woman in question would burst into happy tears, beside herself with bliss and joy. A rainbow would break out of the sky, butterflies would dance overhead, and all the world would join hands in song.
Or at the very least, she’d say yes. He hadn’t thought himself the type of man to propose marriage to a woman who might say no.
He stood. He was too restless to sit now. All that peace, all that lovely weightlessness—gone.
What the hell was he supposed to do now?
Chapter Twenty
Annabel watched as Sebastian walked toward the water. He stood near the edge, almost close enough to get his shoes wet. He looked out toward the opposite shore, his posture stiff and unyielding.
It was so unlike him. It was so…wrong.
Sebastian was loose limbed, graceful. His every movement was a secret dance, every smile a silent poem. This was not right. It was not him.
When had she come to know him so well, that she could tell by the line of his back that he was not himself? And why did it hurt so much, to know that she knew this? That she knew him.
After what seemed an eternity, he turned around and said with heartbreaking formality, “From your silence I must deduce that you do not have an answer for me.”
She moved her head in a tiny motion, just enough to say no.
“It does prick the confidence,” he said, “to steal your phrase.”
“It’s all very complicated,” Annabel said.
He crossed his arms and regarded her with a quirk of his brow. And just like that, he was back. The stiffness was gone, replaced by an easy confidence, and when he walked toward her, it was with an arrogant grace that mesmerized her.
“It’s not complicated,” he said. “It couldn’t be simpler. I asked you to marry me, and you want to. All you have to do is say yes.”
“I didn’t say—”
“You want to,” he said, with an u
nbelievably annoying degree of certainty. “You know that you do.”
He was right, of course, but Annabel could not help but be provoked by his swagger. “You’re rather sure of yourself.”
He stepped toward her, smiling slowly. Seductively. “Shouldn’t I be?”
“My family…” she whispered.
“Won’t starve.” He touched her chin, tipping her face gently toward his. “I’m not a pauper, Annabel.”
“There are eight of us.”
He considered this. “Very well, no one will starve, but you all might get a bit thin.”
She let out a snort of laughter. She hated that he could make her laugh at such a moment. No, she loved it. No, she loved him.
Oh God.
She jumped back.
“What is it?” he asked.
She shook her head.
“Tell me,” he prodded, and he took her hand, tugging her back toward him. “Something just happened. I saw it in your eyes.”
“No, Mr.—”
“Sebastian,” he reminded her, touching his lips to her forehead.
“Sebastian,” she croaked. It was hard to speak when he was so close. It was hard to think.
His lips moved to her cheekbone, light and soft. “I have ways of making you talk,” he whispered.
“Wh–what?”
He nibbled on her lower lip, then moved to her ear. “What were you thinking?” he murmured.
She could only moan.
“I shall have to be more persuasive.” His hands moved to her back, sliding down until he cupped her bottom, pressing her against him. Annabel felt her head tilt back, away from his sensual onslaught, but still, she could barely breathe. His body was so hard, and hot, and she could feel his arousal growing against her.
“I want you,” he whispered. “And I know you want me.”
“Here?” she gasped.
He chuckled. “I’m a bit more refined than that. But,” he added, sounding thoughtful, “we are quite alone.”
She nodded.
“None of the guests have arrived yet.” He kissed the soft skin where her ear met the line of her jaw. “And I think it is safe to assume that your marvelous cousin will not disturb us.”
“Sebastian, I—”
“We shall make her godmother to our children.”
“What?” But she could barely gasp the word. His hand had found its way under her skirt and was moving relentlessly up her leg. And all she wanted—oh dear God, she was wicked—was to bend a little, and open a little, and make it easier for him to do whatever it was he wanted.
“She can teach them all to skip stones,” he said, reaching the tender spot just above her knee. Annabel shuddered.
“Ticklish there?” he said with a smile. He moved higher. “We shall have lots of children, I think. Lots and lots and lots.”
She needed to stop him. She needed to say something, to tell him that she had not decided yet, that she could not commit, not until she’d had a bit of time to think clearly, which she obviously could not do in his presence. He was talking about the future, about children, and she knew that her silence felt like an assent.
He ran one finger along the inside of her thigh. “I just don’t think that we could possibly not have lots of children,” he murmured. His lips found her ear again. “I shan’t let you out of our bed.”
Her knees buckled.
His finger slid even higher, reaching the hot crease where leg met her hip. “Shall I tell you what I plan to do there? In our bed?”
She nodded.
He smiled. She felt it against her ear, felt his lips move and tilt, heard his breath fill with joy. “First,” he said softly, “I shall see to your pleasure.”
A little moan escaped her lips. Or maybe it was a squeak.
“I will start with a kiss,” he said, his voice hot and low against her skin. “But where, I wonder?”
“Where?” she whispered. It wasn’t really a question, more of an echo of disbelief.
He touched her mouth. “On the lips? Maybe.” His finger made a lazy trail down to her collarbone. “I do like this part of you. And these…” He cupped one of her breasts, moaning as he squeezed. “I could lose myself all day in these.”
Annabel arched her back, wanting to give him more. Her body had taken over and it was desperate for him. She couldn’t stop thinking about what he had done to her in the Valentines’ drawing room. How he had touched her breasts. All her life she had hated them, hated how men stared and whistled and if they’d had too much to drink, seemed to think she was ripe for the picking.
But Sebastian had made her feel beautiful. He had loved her body, and this had made her love her body.
He dipped his hand into the bodice of her dress, slid his fingers under her chemise so he could skim them over her nipple. “You have no idea,” he said in a husky voice, “how much I’m going to love you here.”
Her breath caught, and she felt bereft as he moved his hand again. It had been a most awkward position for him, and she could not help but think that if she could just push the whole bloody thing down, he could touch her everywhere. He could squeeze, and knead, and suckle.
“Oh my God,” she moaned.
“What are you thinking about?” he whispered.
She shook her head. There was no way she could give voice to the wanton thoughts in her head.
“Are you thinking about where else I might kiss you?”
Dear God, she hoped he did not expect her to answer.
“I might kiss you somewhere else entirely,” he teased. His other hand—the one on her leg—wrapped softly around her thigh and squeezed. “If I want to give you pleasure,” he murmured, “to give you full pleasure, I think I’m going to have to kiss you here.”
His finger dipped between her legs.
She almost jumped back. She would have, if his arm hadn’t been wrapped so tightly around her.
“Do you like that?” he murmured, tracing tiny circles as he moved closer to her center.
She nodded. Or maybe she thought she nodded. But she definitely didn’t say no.
A second finger joined the first, and with aching gentleness he teased her open, stroking her moist skin. Annabel felt her body begin to jerk and shudder, and she grabbed tightly to his shoulders, afraid that if she let go, she would simply collapse.
“You would taste like heaven, I think,” he continued, clearly unwilling to stop until she had exploded in his arms. “I would lick you right here.” He ran one fingertip lightly along her skin. “And then right here.” He repeated the caress on the other side. “And then I would go here.” He moved to her most sensitive nub of flesh, and she almost screamed.
His mouth pressed harder against her ear. “I’d lick that, too.”
Annabel clutched him even harder, pressing her hips into his hand.
“But even that might not be enough,” he whispered. “You are a discerning woman, and you might make me work for your pleasure.”
“Oh, Sebastian,” she moaned.
He chuckled lightly against her skin. “I might have to touch you a little more deeply.” One of his fingers began to circle at her opening, then slid softly inside. “Like this. Do you like that?”
“Yes,” she gasped. “Yes.”
He began to move within her. “Do you like this?”
“Yes.”
Oh, he was wicked, and she was wicked, and he was doing wicked things to her. And all she could think was that they were out of doors and anyone could come across them, and somehow that made it all the more delicious.
“Let go, Annabel,” he whispered in her ear.
“I can’t,” she whimpered, clamping her legs around him. She was aching inside. He was making her ache, and she had no idea how to make it stop.
Or even if she wanted it to stop.
“Let go,” he whispered again.
“I—I—”
He chuckled. “I’m going to speak very plainly, Anna—”
“Oh!”<
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She wasn’t certain if she let go or not, but something inside her quite simply fell apart. She clung to his shoulders, holding on for dear life, and then, when she started to go limp, he scooped her into his arms and carried her to a soft patch of grass several yards away. She sat down, and then lay down, allowing the sun to warm her face.
“I love you in green,” he said.
She didn’t open her eyes. “I’m wearing pink.”
“You’d look better if you took it all off,” he said, dropping a kiss on her nose, “and it was just you and the grass.”
“I don’t know what you just did to me,” she said. She sounded dazed. She didn’t think she’d sounded so dazed in her life.
He kissed her again. “I can think of ten more things I’d like to do.”
“I think that would kill me.”
He laughed loudly at that. “Clearly we’ll need to practice more. Build up your stamina.”
She finally opened her eyes and looked at him. He was lounging on his side, his head propped against his hand. He had a clover in his hand.
He tickled her nose with it. “You’re so beautiful, Annabel.”
She sighed happily. She felt beautiful.
“Are you going to marry me?”
She closed her eyes again. She felt so perfectly languid.
“Annabel?”
“I want to,” she said softly.
“Why do I think that’s not quite the same thing as a yes?”
She let out another little sigh. The sun felt so nice on her face. She couldn’t even bring herself to worry about freckles.
“What will I do with you?” he said aloud. She heard him move, and then his voice was much closer to her ear. “I can keep coming up with new ways to compromise you.”
She giggled.
“Let me think. Number ten…”
“I do it, too,” she said, still happily studying the insides of her eyelids. The sunlight made them orangey red. It was such a nice, warm color.
“Do what?”
“Count in tens. It’s such a nice round number.”
He nipped her earlobe. “I like nice round things.”
“Stop.” But even she didn’t think she sounded like she meant it.
“Do you know how I know you’re going to marry me?”