Her grandmother gave her a rather jaded look, with a tinge of incredulity and a twist of ennui. “The earl. When I agreed to take you in I never dreamed we might land anything above a baron. What good luck for you he’s desperate.”

Annabel smiled wryly. How lovely to be the object of desperation.

“Sherry?” her grandmother offered.

Annabel shook her head.

“Louisa?” Lady Vickers cocked her head toward her other granddaughter, who gave her head an immediate and negative shake.

“He’s not much to look at, that’s true,” Lady Vickers said, “but he was handsome enough when he was young, so your children won’t be ugly.”

“That’s nice,” Annabel said weakly.

“Several of my friends set their caps for him, but he had his eye on Margaret Kitson.”

“Your friends,” Annabel murmured. Her grandmother’s contemporaries had wanted to marry Lord Newbury. Her grandmother’s contemporaries had wanted to marry the man who most likely wanted to marry her.

Dear God.

“And he’ll die soon,” her grandmother continued. “You couldn’t hope for more.”

“I think I will have that sherry,” Annabel announced.

“Annabel,” Louisa said with a gasp, giving her a what-are-you-doing glance.

Lady Vickers nodded approvingly and poured her a glass. “Don’t tell your grandfather,” she said, handing it over. “He doesn’t approve of spirits for ladies under the age of thirty.”

Annabel took a large swallow. It went down her throat in a hot rush, but somehow she didn’t choke. She’d never been given sherry at home, at least not before supper. But here, now, she needed fortification.

“Lady Vickers,” came the voice of the butler, “you had asked me to remind you when it was time to leave for Mrs. Marston’s gathering.”

“Oh, right,” Lady Vickers said, groaning as she rose to her feet. “She’s a tedious old windbag, but she does lay a nice table.”