Page 74 of The Trouble with Anna

Julian pulled away and yanked her sleeves up her shoulders, and Anna sat up in alarm, her hair loose from its pins and half-fallen, her lips puffed to twice their size.

“Are you all right?” Julian said sharply. He strode over to the door and snapped the lock shut.

“What?” she asked in a daze.

“We must go down. At once. Can you fix your hair?”

She patted at it, staring at him, and her face paled as she realized how badly things had come askew.

He pushed her hand aside. “Let me.”

“Julian?” Her voice was as faint as mist. He followed the line of her throat as she swallowed. “Are you angry with me? Did I do something… not right?”

“Of course I’m not angry at you.” He tucked the last pin into her hair and stepped back. “I’m angry at myself. I apologize, Anna. I never should have touched you.”

“Oh!” She sprang up from the desk, clutched her dress against her chest. “Oh! Yes, I see!”

Julian shoved a hand through his hair. “I didn’t mean it that way. I’m angry at myself because—”

“Don’t explain!” Anna pulled her dress firmly into place, fumbling with the ties at the back. She gave a high, hard laugh. “I can’t think what came over me. It’s the champagne, of course! I must be quite drunk.”

Julian whipped his head toward her. “What?”

“Oh yes!” She pressed a shaking hand to her temple. “I’m sure I won’t remember a thing tomorrow.”

His eyes narrowed. “How much have you had to drink?”

She shrugged, and her eyes went wide when his hand came down on her shoulder to hold her still for his inspection. Her color was hectic and her eyes glittered in a way that made his stomach go sour, though they remained as sharp and wary as ever.

Julian pulled her close, took a deep inhale. The sharp, citrus scent of her made him want to draw her to him, but under the lemon-brightness was another, smokier scent.

Scotch.

Julian thought he might be sick. All he could see was the long, gleaming dining table at Ramsay, a decanter of wine at his father’s left and a decanter of scotch to his right. The ugliness of the night that stretched before them.

“You let me kiss you because you’redrunk?”

She nodded vigorously. “Exceedingly drunk! I had scotch withyour grandmother and glass after glass of champagne. I’ll havesucha head in the morning.”

Oh god.Julian reeled. Each kiss she’d given him, each hum and sigh that had rewritten him—that he thought was rewriting their future—was because she wasdrunk?

“Christ, Anna!” he bit out. “You can’t simply—”

The brightness in Anna’s eyes spilled over and she whirled around and wrapped her arms around herself, hard. As if she were holding herself together.

Something was wrong, badly wrong. Julian tried to think, but a sick feeling fogged his head.

“Turn around, Anna,” he commanded. “Look at me.”

She kept her slim back to him, the ties on her pretty dress askew, her hands still wrapped tight around her middle. Was she drunk? He didn’t see any of the telltale signs, and god knew he was an expert.

Julian took a deep breath, and pulled her stiff form up against him, turning her around.

“Why are youlookingat me like that?” she cried.

Hell.

Only the truth would do now.

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