He nodded slowly. “I cannot argue with that. But you are preoccupied with the rules of your social set, and it seems to me that getting married is highly valued in London Society. That is what the Season is for after all, is it not?”
“It’s precisely what it’s for,” Annabelle replied. “Which is why we must get you prepared. Now, your sister gave me a list of the types of things you want in a wife.”
David’s brows drew together sharply. “My sister?”
“Yes, I paid her a visit yesterday,” Annabelle informed him.
“You asked my sister and not me?” He pointed to himself.
She shrugged. “I am asking you now. I’m curious to see if the two sets of answers align, actually.”
He grinned and shook his head. “Heaven help me. I don’t understand females.”
“Yes, Marianne mentioned that. A pity. We’re quite easy to understand, you know. We simply want to be treated as human beings.”
“Rather than prize hogs?” he asked, grinning at her.
“Exactly. Now, shall we begin? The first question is—”
“If Marianne told you my answers, I dare say I don’t need to repeat them. She knows me as well as anyone, I suppose. But I’d be quite curious to hear your answers to the questions.”
Annabelle stopped and blinked. “Wha…what?”
“What’s the first question?” he asked.
“What is your favorite meal?” she breathed.
“Yes, well, go on, then. Answer it.” He nodded toward her.
She frowned. “You want to know what I think about food?”
“Very much so. Food, politics, religion, the best color of drapes for a sitting room? Anything and everything.”
She stared at the wall, a disoriented look on her face.
David winced. “Oh, no. Have I been rude again? Is it improper to ask you such things?”
Annabelle’s ice-blue gaze met his and the look in her eyes was a mixture of confusion and…delight?
“You don’t have to answer any of those questions if you don’t want to, of course,” he assured her.
“No, no. I’m happy to,” she said, the adorable quirky smile popping to her lips. “It’s just that…no gentleman has ever asked me any of those things before.”
David touched her hand and a spark shot up her arm, making her feel warm all over. She glanced up and his gaze captured hers. It was as if he were looking deeply into her soul. “What sort of books do you like to read, Annabelle?”
Chapter Eleven
“When exactly is the Talbots’ ball?” Lord Elmwood—no, David—asked the next morning as soon as Annabelle had entered the salon. Mama was still abed with a megrim, so Annabelle had come down to meet him alone.
He was wearing a fitted dark-blue coat, white shirt, white waistcoat, expertly tied cravat, and buff-colored breeches with perfectly polished black boots. He looked as handsome as ever, and smelled heavenly too. Some mixture of soap and cologne that was making Annabelle’s head spin. She’d told him he needed to take notes. Now she needed to, to keep to the subject at hand. Every time she glanced up at his dark-blue eyes, she inwardly swooned a little.
They’d spent the remainder of the morning yesterday talking. He asked her a variety of questions about herself, her life, her favorite things, and most special memories. To her own surprise, she’d told him. All of it. In fact, she’d been embarrassed when Mama had to come into the salon at noon to tell them it was time for luncheon. Lord Elmwood had refused the invitation Mama had extended for him to join them, clearly thinking he’d overstayed his welcome. Meanwhile, Annabelle had traipsed into the morning room for lunch in a somewhat hazy fog. She’d just had the most unique experience in all her social life. A gentleman had asked her about herself, beyond the usual pleasantries such as how she found the weather and if she was enjoying the opera. He’d asked real questions, and even more amazingly, had listened as she’d answered every single one. And David hadn’t just listened, he’d listened intently, as if he was truly interested in the answers, as if he was hanging on her every word. It had been the most profound feeling, being paid attention to for more than her beauty. Speaking to David yesterday, she’d got the distinct impression that the man cared about her mind.
By the time it was over, she did think of him as a friend. Calling him David only seemed natural. Though she wasn’t about to announce their agreement to Mama and Beau. Not yet. She’d wait till after Beau’s wedding. Then perhaps it would seem less forward.
David had asked her a question just now. What was it? Oh, yes… “The Talbots’ ball?” she replied, purposely glancing away from him, and placing a hand at her throat. “Saturday next.”
“That means we only have a few days?” David clarified, his countenance draining of color.
“That’s right.”
David scrubbed a hand across his face. “Is there any hope I’ll be ready in time?”
Annabelle cocked her head to the side and smiled at him. “There’s every hope. Besides, if you do or say anything too egregious, we’ll simply tell everyone it’s the new rage.”
He chuckled, the color slowing returning to his features. “Is that all there is to it? Why, if I’d known that, I wouldn’t have been so worried.”
Her brows shot up. “You’re worried?”
He grinned at her. “You can’t tell?”
“Not at all.” She shook her head.
David expelled his breath while rocking back and forth on his feet. “I suppose after seeing war, nothing is as daunting, but make no mistake, I’d much rather be on a battlefield than meeting ladies at balls. I’m certain to make a complete cake of myself.”
Annabelle frowned. “I cannot believe a man as handsome as you are would be worried about attracting ladies.”
David cracked a grin. “Perhaps it’s because a very attractive lady once read me the riot act in a garden.”
Annabelle couldn’t help but smile at the fact that he’d called her ‘very attractive.’ “But seriously, why would you be worried about meeting ladies?”
“I don’t know,” David replied, pacing in front of the fireplace. “I wasn’t worried about meeting ladies in Brighton. But I won’t be meeting ladies from Brighton at the Talbots’ ball. I’ll be meeting ladies from London.”
“Ladies from London cannot possibly be much different from ladies from Brighton,” Annabelle assured him, having absolutely no idea if she were speaking the truth. But regardless, the man was anxious, and she wanted to do whatever she could to make him feel more comfortable. Besides, how different could the ladies in Brighton possibly be? Marianne was lovely, and she was from Brighton.
“I knew the ladies in Brighton. I grew up with the ladies in Brighton,” David continued, scrubbing a hand across the back of his neck. He was quite cute when he was nervous. “I’m certain to say something rude to a lady from London that will mark me a clod immediately. I’m likely to ask to borrow her finger bowl at the dinner table or something equally ill-mannered.”