Ten Things I Love About You

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.”

“Mrs. Grey and the Beloved Husband. No, no, Mrs. Grey and Her Beloved Husband,” she said, with an emphasis on “her.”

“Will it be a story in progress?” he asked.

“Oh, I think so.” She reached up to give him a kiss, then stayed there, their noses touching. “So long as you don’t mind a new happy ending every day.”

“It does sound like an awful lot of work…” he murmured.

She pulled back just far enough to give him a dry look. “But worth it.”

He chuckled. “That didn’t sound like a question.”

“Plain speaking, Mr. Grey. Plain speaking.”

“It’s what I love about you, soon-to-be Mrs. Grey.”

“Don’t you think it should be Mrs. soon-to-be Grey?”

“Now you’re editing me?”

“Suggesting.”

“As it happens,” he said, looking down his nose at her, “I was right. The ‘soon-to-be’ has to be placed before the ‘Mrs.,’ else it sounds like you were Mrs. Something Else.”

She considered that.

He gave her an arch look.

“Very well,” she gave in, “but about everything else, I am right.”

“Everything?”

She smiled seductively. “I chose you.”

“Mr. Grey and His Beloved Bride.” He kissed her once, and then again. “I think I like it.”

“I love it.”

And she did.

Newbury’s eyes opened.

Annabel shrieked, and she dropped him.

“Almighty God,” her grandmother cried out. “Did neither of you check to see if he was even dead?”

“I just assumed,” Annabel protested. Her heart was racing, and she couldn’t seem to slow her breathing down. She sagged against the edge of the bed. It was like the time her brothers had thrown sheets over their heads and jumped out in front of her on All Hallows’ Eve, only a thousand times worse. A thousand thousand.

Lady Vickers turned her glare on Sebastian.

“I believed her,” he said, setting Lord Newbury’s head gently back down on the carpet. They all peered over him. His eyes had closed again.

“Is he dead again?” Annabel asked.

“If you’re lucky,” her grandmother said acerbically.