Chapter 11
Anne imagined Mother England had faced lesser challenges than she had this evening trying to be rid of her quite obviously overprotective family members so she might meet Harry. After their set, Mother and Katherine had maintained a resolute presence at her side, until Anne began to feel like one of the heroines in her Gothic novels constantly trying to escape the vile clutches of an evil guardian.
After tearing her own hem, she’d at last managed to sneak off to see to her gown. Instead, she now made her way down the corridor of Lord Huntlys’ home. Heart pounding, blood racing, she braced for inevitable discovery. She came to the end of the hall and paused to peek around the corner.
She didn’t know how Harry carried on this way. This clandestine business was enough to streak a young lady’s hair with grey. She tapped her foot and considered which corridor to turn next. If she were Lord Huntly, where would she have a conservatory? It couldn’t be at the left portion of the palatial townhouse as it—
Quiet whispers sounded down the corridor behind her.
Decision made. She sprinted down the right corridor and walked onward toward the back of Lord Huntlys’ home. Anne shook her head. She intended to ask Harry just what in thunderation the appeal was of all this furtive sneaking. She’d far prefer a proper picnic in Hyde Park in some tucked away copse in Kensington Gardens. Anne had a rather unromantic tendency to sneeze whenever a bloom was near. Which was rather unfortunate. Pale, pink peonies really were quite beautiful. Even with the cluster of ants that tended to make the unfurled bloom their home.
She drew to a halt. A thrilling sense of victory filled her as she stared at the clear, double doors leading to a final room. The conservatory.
Anne stole a quick glance around, and then tiptoed forward. The soft tread of her satin slippers was somehow thunderous in the empty space. She reached for the handle and paused. There would be two crystal champagne flutes. Just as there had been for his viscountess in her dampened gown.
Her feet twitched as a sudden urge to flee coursed through her. She stared at her fingers upon the brass handle as though they belonged to another. She didn’t want to be Harry’s scandalous lady in the conservatory, sipping on fine, French champagne. She didn’t want that, because that is what every single lady to come after Miss Margaret Dunn had been to the hopelessly handsome Earl of Stanhope.
And the moment she pressed the handle, entered the room, sipped the champagne and partook in his kisses, she would be nothing more than the viscountess. She pulled her hand back and touched the ribbon woven through a loose strand draped over her shoulder.
The satin fabric served as an aide-memoire of the perils of gentlemen who sipped too much brandy and collected mistresses like she amassed ribbons. In a handful of days, Harry had charmed away nearly every unfavorable opinion she held of the roguish gentleman. Ultimately, however, he would always be the seductive scoundrel meeting his ladyloves in the midst of his host’s soiree. Some poor, unfortunate miss would wear the same pasted smile Anne’s mother had affected through the years.
“Are you having second thoughts, Anne?” a husky voice sounded against her ear.
She shrieked, the damning sound swallowed by a familiar, large hand.
Harry pressed the handle and gently propelled her forward. He took his hand away and closed the door quietly shut then turned the lock.
Anne took a step backward. “H-harry.” She detested the tremble underscoring her greeting that sent one of his golden-blond eyebrows upward.
He leaned against the door and folded his arms across the broad, expanse of his chest. “Have you reconsidered the wiseness of your plan in enlisting my help, sweet?”
She had. More times than she could count on her toes and fingers combined. The moon’s light slashed through the clear ceiling and cast a white glow about the room.
Harry shoved away from the door and wandered closer. “Or is it that you no longer need my help? That you’ve already garnered an offer from Crawford?”
He tugged at her orange ribbon. She swatted his fingers. “Don’t be silly.”
“About the necessity of my help or Crawford’s offer?”
“Both,” she said with a weak smile. The papers had remarked upon the duke’s seeming interest. However, ices at Gunter’s and an afternoon visit hardly equated an offer of marriage.
She wandered deeper into the room, trailing her fingertips over the Calamander wood table only to pause beside a single potted rosebush. The sweet, fragrance of the pinkish-red bud hung in the air like a heady reminder of the past. She brushed her knuckles over the satiny softness of the bloom. Before she’d lost her ribbons, Katherine her books, and Benedict his toy soldiers, there had been Mother’s gardener. One of the first expenses to go.
The quiet tread of his steps filled the otherwise silent conservatory.
She glanced up. “Where is the champagne, Harry?”
He furrowed his brow. “The champagne?”
Anne gestured about the room. “Isn’t that part of your rules for seduction, my lord?” Regret tinged her words. She’d become any other woman to Harry. “Two crystal flutes filled with bubbling champagne?” Then, had she ever really been anything different?
A cloud passed over the moon and sinister shadows descended over the room. A dark look glinted in his hazel eyes, but then moonlight lit his face and she realized she must have imagined anything more serious from the affable, rogue. “Ah, but you’ve requested lessons in seduction. Two champagne glasses would indicate my intentions of seducing you. Which I don’t intend to do. Seduce you, that is.”
Humiliated shame blazed up her neck and burned her cheeks. She yanked her gaze away, knowing she should feel a small measure of relief she didn’t have to muddle through dangerous sentiments for a rogue like Harry. So, why did the relief not come? “Er, perhaps we can be on with this seduction business then,” she said with a wave of her hand. She strove for nonchalance. His amused grin indicated her grand failure.
She gasped as he snaked his arm around her. “Wh-what are you…” Her words died on a breathy whisper as he touched the pad of his thumb to her lips.
“I’ll teach you anything and everything you desire to know about seduction within reason,” he amended, correctly interpreting the inappropriate question that sprang to her lips. He gently squeezed her waist, as if familiarizing himself with the curved contours of her body. Which was really a silly thought, when he’d been abundantly clear for more than a year now he desired her no more than he might desire Lady Jersey’s prize pug.
“Oh,” she said lamely. “Then what…?” He pulled her into the vee of his legs. Her body burned at the point of contact. She couldn’t string together a single syllable or a bout of sustained airflow to form a suitable word. Words, Anne Arlette Adamson. Words. She cleared her throat and tried again. “Then what is my lesson for the day, Harry? What sage words on the art of seduction do you have?”
~*~
After Margaret’s betrayal, Harry had perfected the art of seduction. Yet, suddenly the idea of imparting a single lesson more for Anne to employ all to snare Crawford burned like fire in his gut. Lady Anne Adamson was worth more than all the dukes in the English kingdom. She deserved more than a portentous bore who’d keep separate chambers for propriety’s sake.
He cupped her cheek, cradling the silken smoothness of her creamy-white skin. “You want advice. You want guidance.” She nodded. If any Society matron knew she came to him for any form of assistance, the lady’s reputation would be shredded beyond repair. All sensible members of the ton knew Lord Stanhope to be beyond redemption.
He moved his hand to the graceful line of her neck. “Allow him,” Crawford or the nameless bastard who’d inevitably take her to wife. “To know just how clever and spirited and quick-witted you are. Allow him to appreciate you for more than your golden tresses.” Which should be memorialized in poem. “Or your lush body.” Which he’d barter his soul to explore. “You deserve a man who’d have you for who you really are.” A woman who’d completely and utterly captivated him, when he’d sworn to never be so enthralled.
“For who I am?” she whispered. And because but the span of a finger separated their persons, he detected the manner in which her throat bobbed up and down.
He set her back. “A woman of intelligence, Anne,” he said bluntly. “Do not be one of those simpering debutantes prattling on about the weather.” Red color suffused her cheeks. He burst out laughing. “You’ve spoken to Crawford on the topic of weather already, have you?”
She tossed her blonde tresses. “I may have.” His laughter doubled. “It is an entirely suitable matter of discourse between a lady and a gentleman.”
He snorted. “An entirely dull matter of discourse.” He sighed. “I see, I must guide you on topics of discussion, then, as well? I imagine you also sang to him in a sweet, lyrical soprano some of Dibdin’s work and he showered you with praise on your trip to Gunter’s.”
“First, I’ll have you know I quite enjoy Dibdin’s work. He’s a grand storyteller. Secondly, a lady cannot simply alter the quality of her singing voice. I’ve told you as much,” she scolded, sounding remarkably out of patience with him.
Which still didn’t answer what in hell her singing voice sounded like.
He straightened his back. He’d yet to hear her sing. Crawford had. Now, Crawford knew whether she possessed a lyrical soprano or a contralto; while Harry remained wholly ignorant, left to wonder, left to imagine—
Anne jabbed a finger at his chest. He winced. “Furthermore…” She angled her head, her words trailing off.
Feigning nonchalance, he quirked an eyebrow at her. “What is it?”
“How did you know the duke escorted me for ices at Gunter’s?”
His mind froze. How, indeed? “The papers,” he said entirely too quickly.
She wagged her jabbing finger under his nose in a disapproving manner. “I didn’t take you as one of those to read the gossip columns.”
“I don’t,” he said with a frown. He’d not have her thinking he was one of those dandified fops who gave a fig for the scandal sheets. Except…
“Then however did you discover about my trip to Gunter’s?”
Harry tugged at his uncomfortably tight cravat. He really must speak to his valet about the knot. Odd, he’d not noticed just how damned tight the blasted fabric was—until now. Which presented the even odder possibility that Lady Anne Adamson was responsible for the tightened cravat. “I’m fairly certain you mentioned the ices at Gunter’s.”
She shook her head, a mischievous grin on her lips. “No. No, I didn’t Harry. I never uttered a single word.” She took a step toward him. He retreated. “Do you know what I believe?”
He backed up again. “What is that, sweet?” He shot a glance over his shoulder at the locked door, eager for escape. She continued her forward approach until his legs knocked against one of the Italian gold rope stools. He fell into the seat.
She stared down at him victoriously. “I believe you’ve come to care for me,” she whispered with a mischievous glimmer in her eyes.
His heart paused mid-beat. Anne’s voice came as if down a long, muffled corridor. Her bold words echoed around his mind. Could he have come to care for Lady Anne Adamson, the termagant who’d peered down her insolent nose at him since their first meeting a year ago? He, who’d sworn to never care for another woman, not when it was so bloody dangerous?
“Harry?” She waved her hand in front of his face. “Are you listening to me?”
His heart resumed its normal cadence and his hearing restored itself. He shook his head.
“You needn’t look so horrified.” She cuffed him under the chin. “I was merely teasing.”
Most ladies, from debutantes to dowagers, clamored for a place in his bed. Not once in all his thirty years had a single lady cuffed him under the chin as though he were a naughty child. He wrapped his arms loosely around her waist and pulled her between his legs.
Her eyebrows dipped. “What are you doing?” Nor did young ladies speak to him in this waspish tone. She shoved against him, but he held firm.
“I’m kissing you, sweet.”
She edged back. “You most certainly are not.”
“I’m not?”
She shook her head quite emphatically and, as though she didn’t think him capable of understanding the significance of that shake, added, “You are not to kiss me. Not any more. There have been far too many kisses, Harry.”
He grinned lazily up at her. “There is no such thing as too many kisses.” He leaned up to claim her lips. His mouth collided with her cheek.
“Now, that isn’t true.” She inched a hand up between them and ticked off on her fingers. “There are the kisses of married women.” She shook her head. “Even a single one of those types of kisses would be too many.”
He made it a point to avoid dalliances with married ladies—well, with the exception of the unhappy ones with miserable, philandering blighters for husbands. Those women were perfectly appropriate ones to partake in too many kisses with.
Her eyes narrowed at his guilty silence. “Humph,” she muttered. “Then there are the kisses stolen from unwilling women.”
He gently squeezed her trim waist. “I assure you, I’ve never encountered an unwilling woman,” Her expression darkened. “I’d never force my…” His words trailed off. A black haze descended across his vision.
Anne winced. “You’ve hurt me.”
“Forgive me, sweet,” he murmured. He lightened his grip but retained his hold on her person. “Has there been a gentleman who forced his kiss on you?” If there was, God help the bastard, Harry would separate his limbs from his person and tuck them into the blighter’s bedsheets with him.
A rush of pink flooded her cheeks. “No,” she said quickly.
By God, he’d kill the bastard. Kill him dead.
“It matters not. We’re not discussing the gentlemen who’ve kissed me.”
Which suggested the young lady had kissed more than one gentleman. Fury licked at his insides.
“Rather…” she wrinkled her pert, little nose. “What were we discussing?”
He really didn’t remember much beyond the fact that there had been another man who’d tasted and explored her plump, bow-shaped lips. He growled. One other man who’d done so against her will. “We were discussing the gentleman who stole your kiss.”
She tapped his arm reproachfully. “We weren’t.”
He pulled her closer. “We are now.”
She sighed. “Very well. Lord Ackland.” Her lips pulled into a grimace. “Lady Lettingworth’s masquerade. He tasted horrid.” So, the bastard had dared put his tongue inside the warm, moist cavern of Anne’s mouth. “Like cardamom and brandy and…” She tapped a finger against her lower lip. “Well, you taste of brandy but it isn’t all that unpleasant when I’ve kissed you, then cardamom doesn’t quite blend the—”
“I’ll kill him,” he muttered to himself. She winced and he realized he’d tightened his grip. Again.
“You’ll do no such thing,” she chided. “And…” She swatted his chest. “Regardless, Harry. This was about the types of kisses that would be too many.” So, she remembered. She invariably remembered everything, it seemed. She was far cleverer than Society credited her with being. She resumed ticking off her list. “Then there are the kisses meant to distract a lady.”
“All kisses are intended to distract.” Distract a woman with the thrill of a hot touch. Distract a gentleman from the pain of a wounded heart. Yes, a distraction was a distraction. And just now, he wanted Anne’s kiss not merely for a scandalous diversion away from their host’s soiree but because he’d not leave this damned conservatory until he drove back the taste, scent, and feel of Ackland from her memory. Harry lowered his mouth to hers to prove his very point.
She gave him her other cheek. “That is my point exactly, Harry. Kisses shouldn’t be used as a distraction.”
“They shouldn’t?” He quite disagreed.
“No,” she said emphatically.
He dragged a hand over his eyes. “Anne?”
“Yes?”
“If you consider yourself so well-versed on the art of seduction, then why did you seek out my assistance?”
She promptly closed her mouth. A frown played on her lips. He pressed his hands against her hips and drew her close. She dropped her head and his kiss fell somewhere in the middle of her brow. He sighed. “What is it?” She had the stubbornness to drive a vicar to drink during Sunday sermon.
Anne gave him a searching look. “Kisses shouldn’t be used to weaken someone. They should be used to convey a gentleman’s unwavering love for an equally unwavering woman.”
Ah, his beautiful Anne. The hopeless romantic, who squinted her way through the pages of The Times, still believed in that foolish sentiment called love.
She touched her fingers to his cheek. “You don’t believe in love,” she said softly. Her words, both matter-of-fact and sad all at once.
Giving up on the hope of a kiss from her tempting, red lips he sank back into his host’s work stool. He pulled her onto his lap. “I don’t, Anne. Not in a world where ladies would trade their very happiness for the hand of the most advantageous match.” Or where a title came before a name, a heart, and all else. “Do you imagine to earn Crawford’s heart?” He couldn’t bite down the mocking edge to that question.
Anne shifted in his arms and frowned up at him. “I believe the duke could love me,” she said softly.
And, if he still believed in the sentiment of love, then he’d venture a woman such as her could certainly earn the heart of Crawford and any other gentleman she’d set her marital sights upon. He stroked the pad of his thumb along her full, lower lip. “What of you, Anne? Do you fancy yourself in love with Crawford?”
He didn’t realize the vise that had squeezed off his airflow until she said, “Of course not.” The pressure about his heart lessened and he could breathe yet again. “But that doesn’t mean I won’t come to love him,” she added.
He set her from his lap with such alacrity she stumbled backward. “Then I imagine, you shouldn’t be stealing away with unrepentant rogues in the middle of your hostess’ ball.” He took her by the shoulders and gently propelled her to the door.
Anne frowned over her shoulder and dug in her heels, until he was forced to stop or continue dragging her along. “But you promised—”
“A lesson. And I’ve given it. Show him your clever, witty self. Do not bury your intelligence for his favor because such a man would never be worth having.” He placed a hard kiss on her lips. “Now, go.” Emotion blazed to life in Anne’s soft, blue eyes. She arched her neck back as if hungering for his kiss, and before he did something like make love to her mouth, then lift her skirts and make love to every last silken inch of her, Harry affected a half-grin. He patted her on the cheek. “Go, sweet.”
Anne gave her head a shake and then wordlessly ran down the length of the conservatory, unlatched the door, and fled.
Harry stood there long after she’d left. It appeared he wasn’t the total dishonorable scoundrel he’d taken himself for these past years. He scrubbed his hands over his face.
Damn it.