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―If you kill him—" Edward shook his head frantically. He looked over at Lord Newbury, then at Annabel, then at Newbury, then finally gave up and turned to Sebastian with an expression of utter panic. ―You‘re his heir. Everyone would think you‘d killed him for the title. You‘ll be thrown into gaol."
More likely he‘d hang, Sebastian thought grimly. But all he said was, ―He insulted Annabel."
―I don‘t care," Annabel said quickly, wedging herself next to Edward. ―Honestly, I don‘t."
―I care."
―Sebastian, please ," she pleaded. ―It will only make things worse."
―Think," Edward urged. ―There is nothing to be gained. Nothing."
Sebastian knew they were right, but he could not quite calm himself down enough to accept it.
All his life his uncle had insulted him. He‘d called him names—some fair; most not. Sebastian had brushed it off because that was his way. But when Newbury had insulted Annabel…
That could not be borne.
―I know I‘m not a—what he called me," Annabel said softly, placing her hand on his arm. ―And I know you know it, too. That is all that matters to me."
But Sebastian wanted revenge. He couldn‘t help it. It was petty and it was childish, but he wanted his uncle to hurt . He wanted him humiliated. And it just so happened that this objective was in complete accord with the only other goal in his life, which was to make Annabel Winslow his wife.
―I withdraw my challenge," he said loudly.
There was a collective exhale. The room, it seemed, had tensed and tightened, every shoulder drawn up to the ears, every set of eyes wide and worried.
Lord Newbury, still standing in the doorway leading out to the corridor, narrowed his eyes.
Sebastian wasted no time. Taking Annabel‘s hand, he dropped to one knee.
―Oh my goodness!" someone gasped. Someone else said Newbury‘s name, maybe to prevent him from leaving again.
―Annabel Winslow," Sebastian said, and when he gazed up at her, it wasn‘t with one of his hot, melting smiles, the kind he knew made female hearts bounce and skip, from age nine to ninety. It wasn‘t his dry half smile, either, the kind that said he knew things, secret things, and if he leaned down and whispered in your ear, you might know them, too.
When he looked up at Annabel, he was just a man, looking at a woman, hoping and praying that she loved him the way he loved her.
He brought her hand to his lips. ―Will you do me the very great honor of becoming my wife?"
Her lips trembled, and she whispered, ―Yes." And then, more loudly, ―Yes!"
He rose to his feet and swept her into his arms. All around him people were cheering. Not everyone, but enough to make the moment a little bit theatrical. Which Seb belatedly realized wasn‘t what he wanted. He did not deny a little burst of joy at having so publicly bested his uncle (he‘d never be so pure of heart that he could deny that ), but as he held Annabel, smiling into her hair, several people began to chant, ―Kiss! Kiss!" and he realized that he didn‘t want to do this in front of an audience.
This moment was sacred. It was theirs, and theirs alone, and he did not want to share it.
They would have their moment again, he vowed, even as he released Annabel and smiled cheerfully at Edward and Louisa and all the rest of Lady Challis‘s guests.
Later. They would have their moment later. Alone.
If he were writing the story, Sebastian decided, that was how he‘d do it.
Chapter Twenty-four
Someone was in her room.
Annabel froze, barely breathing beneath the blankets on her bed. She‘d had a terrible time falling asleep; her mind had been racing, and she was far too excited and giddy at having finally decided to throw caution to the wind and marry Sebastian. But sheer determination—and her trick of keeping her eyes closed at all times—had finally won out, and she‘d fallen asleep.
But it must not have been a very deep sleep, or maybe it was just that it had only been a few minutes since she‘d drifted off. Because something had woken her. A noise, maybe. Perhaps just the movement in the room. But someone was definitely there.
Maybe it was a thief. If that was the case, she‘d do best to stay utterly still. She had nothing of value; all her earbobs were paste, and even her copy of Miss Sainsbury and the Mysterious Colonel was a third edition.
If it was a thief, he‘d realize this and move on.
If it wasn‘t a thief—Bloody hell, then she was in very dire straits. She‘d need a weapon, and all she had within arm‘s reach was a pillow, a blanket, and a book.
Miss Sainsbury again. Somehow Annabel didn‘t think it was going to save her.
If it wasn‘t a thief, should she try to sneak out of bed? Hide? See if she could make it to the door? Should she do anything? Should she? Should she? What if—? But maybe—
She squeezed her eyes shut, just for a moment, just to try to calm herself. Her heart was racing, and it was taking every ounce of her will to keep her breathing quiet and under control. She had to think. Keep her head. The room was dark, very much so. The curtains were thick, and they covered the windows completely. Even on a full-moon night—which this was not—barely a glimmer of light would sneak in around the edges. She couldn‘t even see the outline of the intruder. The only clues she had as to his location were the soft sounds of his feet on the carpet, the occasional tiny creak of the floor underneath.
He was moving slowly. Whoever was in the room was moving slowly. Slowly, but…
Closer.
Annabel‘s heart began to pound so loudly she thought the bed might shake. The intruder was moving closer. He was definitely approaching the bed. This was no thief, this was someone out to cause mischief, or malice, or pain, or good God, it didn‘t matter—she just had to get out of there.