Chapter 16
Standing in front of the bevel glass mirror at the corner of her room, Anne came to a very unexpected revelation. She might perhaps be just a bit more than a pleasingly-pretty-proper-English-miss, as the paper’s had labeled her during her first Season. Those same gossip columns had lamented that a placid English miss should find herself still unwed after a second Season. Now, she thought perhaps there was a bit more merit to Harry’s claims on the art of seduction and beauty than she’d originally credited. Oh, that isn’t to say she’d not trusted his judgment over hers in matters of…of…er, ensuring a person’s notice.
She’d just not quite imagined how a single gown, a different coiffure, and a strategically placed strand of hair could transform someone.
Anne tilted her head and studied herself objectively as she tried to see the woman Harry might see that evening. If the lout left his clubs to attend a single one of the same soirees Mother had accepted invitations to. The diaphanous burnt orange satin clung to her skin. A single thread of gold lined the daring décolletage. She touched the loose curl woven with a pale orange ribbon that dangled between the swell of her breasts.
Would he be indifferent toward the woman who employed the carefully taught strategies he’d given her this past week? Would he see her as a hellish termagant, as he’d called her on countless occasions? Or would he see in her a sufficient match when he…nay, if he ever decided to set aside his roguish ways?
“You are beautiful, my lady,” her maid, Mary, breathed over her shoulder.
She caught her maid’s shocked visage in the mirror. “Do you believe my mother will concur?”
Mary snorted.
Anne’s lips pulled up in a humorless smile. “When do you venture she’ll permit me to leave the townhouse after this display?”
“Perhaps next winter,” Mary replied automatically. She held up the silver muslin cloak in her hands.
Anne presented her back and allowed the young woman to assist her into the garment. She fastened the hooks at her throat. Approaching her twenty-first year and mid-way through her third Season, certain liberties were afforded the young women who claimed the same unwed status. She squared her shoulders, feeling she imagined much the way Wellington had at Waterloo, and marched to the door. Mary pulled it open.
Anne concentrated on the soft pad of silver slippers upon the thin, carpeted floor. She counted each step, in doing so she’d not have to consider Mother’s inevitable outrage, but worse—the possibility that all her efforts tonight would be for naught. The scandalous measures she’d gone to, seeking out the most sophisticated, lauded French modiste and turning over every last coin of her pin money to have a stunning creation readied in such a short span of time.
She reached the top of the winding staircase. Her mother glanced up. “Hurry, hurry, Anne. The duke has surely arrived by now.” She tugged on her stark white evening gloves.
If Mother were to find out that the Duke of Crawford had mentioned marriage and Anne’s name together and her daughter hadn’t managed even a hint of joy or gratitude, she’d have Anne wed to cousin Bertrand as certain punishment.
As Anne made her slow descent, she gave thanks for the protective cover of her cloak. Her mother would have ordered her back abovestairs, to her chambers, and into a new, more suitable gown if she’d caught one glimpse of Anne’s scandalous gown.
The butler pulled the door open. She smiled up at him as she trailed after Mother, onward to the waiting carriage.
The driver stood beside the black lacquer carriage. A footman assisted Mother inside, and then handed Anne up. She murmured her thanks and settled into the thick, plush red-velvet squabs. The door clicked closed lending finality to her bold decision this evening. She swallowed hard, toying with the fabric of her cloak.
“I venture he’ll offer for you soon, Anne,” Mother said, with a smile to rival a child given the last cherry tart at dessert.
“Who, Mother?”
Her mother’s eyebrows snapped together. “Do not make light of this, Anne. This is your third Season. And you were the one I’d imagined would have made a match within the first month of your Come Out.” She patted the back of her head. “Though, if you manage to bring Crawford up to scratch, well then all will be forgiven.”
Ah, yes, because she’d only served one purpose for the Countess of Wakefield—marriage to a lofty lord. Over the years, Anne’s worth had been measured in the match she might make and not more than that. She bit back the stinging words on her lips. “Is my unwed state something that requires forgiveness?” she asked, her tone dry.
Her mother carried on as though she’d not spoken. “Oh, can you imagine my ultimate triumph over all those who’ve made snide remarks about your unwed state?”
Her stomach muscles clenched involuntarily. She’d not allowed herself to consider the unkind comments made after two failed Seasons—even if those ‘failed Seasons’ had been in large part a decision she’d made. A desire for more. Once, the title of duchess, now…the love of a gentleman who didn’t even believe in that emotion.
She pulled the curtain back and peered out at the passing streets. The irony of her situation didn’t escape her. If anyone had told her a mere week ago that the Duke of Crawford would have courted her and spoken marriage, and she’d have rebuffed any interest on his part for Harry, the Earl of Stanhope, she’d have eaten every last one of her ribbons.
Now, she knew she wanted more than a duke.
And she was determined to not sit around waiting for Harry to realize she was more than sufficient. Her smiling visage reflected back in the windowpane.
I hope you are prepared to have your lessons used fully against you, Harry Falston, Earl of Stanhope.
~*~
He’d not seen her in three damned days. Which, in the scheme of time, wasn’t altogether very long. Rather, a mere seventy-two hours. That somehow managed to seem like a bloody eternity. With Anne’s profession of love, he should have run as far and as fast as his legs would carry him. Instead…
Harry scanned the crowded ballroom. He passed his gaze over a sea of blonde hair either a shade too-light or a touch too-dark, searching for the pale honeyed tresses kissed with liquid sunshine.
“You do know Society has noted your interest in the particular lady,” Edgerton drawled at his side.
“Go to hell,” Harry muttered, dismissing his friend. When he’d handed Anne the truth those three days ago, he’d suspected she’d been wounded. He’d not however, imagined she’d cut him from the fabric of her life as neatly as she’d snip the thread from an embroidery frame.
A servant came over bearing a tray of champagne. Edgerton retrieved two glasses. He handed one wordlessly over to Harry.
Harry took a sip and continued his search over the rim of his glass. And that was another matter entirely. Did Lady Anne embroider? He didn’t know if the lady was proficient or whether she enjoyed it. He knew she tasted of raspberries and lemon. He knew the way her brow wrinkled with annoyance. He even knew the breathy little moans that escaped her lips when she came undone in his arms. But he didn’t know the littlest pieces that together made Lady Anne and he intended to rectify that.
As soon as he found her.
He skimmed the hall. Where in hell was she? His footman had it on good authority from her tight-lipped maid the lady would be attending Lady Preston’s. He took a long swallow of fine, French champagne. Alas, it would seem it had come to this. He, the Earl of Stanhope likening her hair to hues of gold and sunshine like a lovesick poet, and sending his servants to ascertain the lady’s plans for the evening.
A buzz filled the crowded space, like a swarm of angry bees knocked from their nest. He ignored the overly loud whispers and continued his search.
Edgerton whistled. “Well, well,” he murmured.
“What is it?” Harry asked distractedly.
“It would seem you, my friend, saw a diamond amidst paste baubles.” He motioned with his nearly empty glass to the receiving line at the crest of Lord and Lady Preston’s staircase into the main hall.
“What are you on...?" He fixed his gaze on the arrival of a golden beauty draped in burnt orange satin. The candles strategically placed throughout the ballroom cast a pale glow about her lending an almost ethereal, otherworldly quality to the woman. “…about.” The air left him on a slow exhale.
Vaguely familiar, and yet…not. The slender, sweetly curved temptress had the look of a siren who’d just broke through fiery waters and climbed ashore. She fingered a loose blond curl artfully arranged between the crevice of her delectable mounds of white flesh, calling Harry’s—and every living, breathing gentlemen’s—attention to the enticing décolletage. She stood, regally elegant while introductions were made. She worked her gaze over the crowd, bypassing the interested stares trained on her by lustful lords and jaded rogues.
He willed her stare to his, willed her to forget every single last, unworthy gentleman present. As though she sensed his silent beckoning, her pale blue eyes collided with his.
A slow, inviting smile turned the corner of her lips. Smile with your eyes…and your lips as one… The air left him on a soft hiss. Ah, God, she was. With her lips, eyes, her every movement she smiled. Lady Anne Arlette Adamson.
Lord and Lady Preston’s majordomo could have rattled off the name. Or mayhap the four words, her name, echoed around the chambers of his mind.
He held his glass of champagne out.
Edgerton accepted it with a cynical chuckle. “You’ve gone all moon-eyed.”
Perhaps he had. She’d captivated him, mind, body, and soul.
Harry cut a quick path through the crowd. He shouldered his way past gentlemen determined to encroach on that which was Harry’s but whose wits had been dulled by the mere presence of her. She hovered at the edge of the ballroom floor. The orchestra struck up the chords of a waltz. He quickened his step. So close.
Lord Rutland, rogue, reprobate, everything Anne deserved so much more than, sidled up to her. The same bastard he’d sparred with for Margaret’s affections would now turn his lecherous sights upon Anne?
Harry growled. He’d meet the bastard at dawn once more, and this time it wouldn’t merely be for the draw of first blood, but to the damned death. He nearly sprinted the remainder of the way. His footsteps beat an angry rhythm upon the Italian marble floor as he recalled her boast more than a week ago to enlist Rutland’s support. He’d put his fist in the other man’s face before he allowed him to sully her with his presence. Couldn’t Rutland realize a woman of her wit, humor, and beauty deserved more than a jaded lord with a hard-edged smile?
He narrowed his gaze upon the couple as Rutland dared to touch the dance card dangling from her wrist. “I believe this set is mine,” Harry barked as he came upon them, attracting rapacious stares from nearby lords and ladies.
Anne started as though startled by his sudden appearance which was of course, madness. Surely her body’s awareness of him rivaled his own sense of knowing whenever she was near. Another seductive smile tugged at the corners of her lips.
He fisted his hands at his side. Where in hell had Anne learned such a thing? Then Harry blinked with the sick, slow realization—she’d learned every last seductive trick from him. Harry had schooled her—too well.
Rutland eyed Harry with an ice-cold grin. “Stanhope,” he said, running a contemptuous glance over him. “The lady’s only just arrived. Her dance card is as of yet—”
“Filled with my name,” he bit out. If Rutland cared to debate the point, he’d gladly do it with his fists outside the fashionable ballroom floor. Harry held out his hand.
Anne eyed him a long while. His stomach roiled as a sudden, irrational fear coursed through him that she intended to reject his offer, that she intended to allow Rutland to put his lecherous hands upon her satiny soft shoulders and touch her waist and this, this would be so much different than the fight he’d waged for Margaret’s affections. This would eat away at Harry like a fast-moving cancer.
She placed her fingertips in Harry’s hand. He folded his around them and studied the interlocked digits a moment.
Home.
He guided her to the ballroom floor while Rutland glared after him. A primordial sense of masculine victory consumed him at Anne’s clear decision. They took their positions at the rapidly filling ballroom floor. He settled his hand upon her waist and guided hers upon his shoulder. “You aren’t to go near Rutland. I thought I’d been clear,” he said, his tone brusque.
Anne arched a golden brow. “Come, Harry. Surely you don’t care if I take Rutland or the Prince Regent himself as my partner.”
Actually, yes. Yes, he did. He eyed her. She played some manner of game with him. And yet, was still completely ensnared by her trap unwanting and unwilling to shake free of her hold. The orchestra plucked the strings of a waltz. “You know, I despise the manner in which the men present eye you.”
She pinched his shoulder. “Do you?” The teasing words, the slight pinch were more reserved for a bothersome older brother rather than a man who wanted to lay masterful claim to her. She touched the ribbon cleverly woven in that lone golden curl.
A groan built in his chest at the sweetly erotic gesture and then with all the force of the king’s men riding into him it occurred to him. He narrowed his eyes. The little spitfire. The bold minx. Why, she’d used his own lessons against him. “You’re seducing me, aren’t you?” he whispered for her ears alone. Satisfaction flared in his chest. She didn’t use her wiles upon her damned duke, but instead Harry.
She winked. “Is it working?” Bold as you please, for all to see, she winked at him.
“Yes.” He’d never wanted another more than he wanted Lady Anne Adamson. He tightened his hold on her.
Anne’s smile deepened. “I’ve been told I’ve learned from the most notorious rogue.”
He angled her body closer to his. “The cad who’d dare teach a lady such scandalous tricks.”
She tilted her chin up and whispered softly, “I would meet you, Harry.”
If he were wise, he’d blithely ignore her request, continue waltzing her around the crowded ballroom floor, and then turn her over to her frowning mama’s care. Alas, he’d not been wise in a very long time.
“I’ve heard told Lady Preston has rather splendid gardens,” she continued.
The waltz drew to a finish. Couples around them politely clapped.
Harry studied the beautiful planes of her face knowing the perils in clandestinely meeting her. They danced with ruin. If discovered, they’d be forced to wed. “Perhaps those gardens require exploring, then.” Some risks were worth taking.
Anne smiled, curtsied and took her leave.
Harry stared after her swift-retreating form. There really was no helping it. He was a bastard.
“Have a care, Stanhope. You’re staring,” a low, surly voice growled from over his shoulder.
He spun. Lady Katherine’s husband, the Duke of Bainbridge stood, a familiar scowl fixed to his hard face. Harry gave a crooked grin.
“Wipe that damned smug smile from your face or by God I’ll do it for you.” The duke’s lip curled back in a sneer.
For all of Katherine’s influence in bringing the Mad Duke out of his self-imposed exile after the death of the man’s first wife years earlier, the ugly brutish bear still seemed the boorish lout Harry remembered. Then, if a gentleman dared encroach upon the woman who was his wife, Harry would bloody the bastard senseless and then meet him at dawn.
“What do you have to say?” Bainbridge snapped.
The other man was a surly beast. “Bainbridge, a pleasure as usual,” he lied. He still couldn’t account for Lady Katherine’s love of the fiend.
The duke’s black glare nearly singed him.
“Wrong answer, then,” Harry said with a sigh. “The next dance is beginning.”
Bainbridge took a step closer. They earned curious stares from those around them. Society tended to remember when a gentleman tried to seduce another man’s wife.
Harry held a hand up. “Please, rest assured, Bainbridge. I wasn’t asking you to dance. Merely suggesting we continue this…” he arched an eyebrow, “…er, discussion, elsewhere.”
The other man registered the couples lining up around them for the next set. He spun around and marched from the ballroom floor, clearly, in his ducal arrogance, expecting Harry to follow.
Harry glanced around for a familiar blonde head. Alas, if his Anne, recently schooled in seduction, had been clear in her message—which she had…abundantly—she was even now in Lady Preston's prized gardens while he remained with Katherine’s bear of a husband. “As much as I’d enjoy continuing our discourse, Bainbridge,” he’d far rather find Anne, “I’d—”
“You are to stay the hell away from my wife’s sister.”
Katherine’s sister, as the cold, arrogant bastard referred to her, in fact, had a name. Her name was Anne and she was not defined by her connection to Katherine, even as the lady’s family and Society believed it to be the singularly most important thing about her.
Harry firmed his jaw. He leaned close, his words intended for Bainbridge’s ears alone. “You can go to hell.”
The duke continued as though he’d not even spoken. “If you hurt Anne and through that hurt Katherine, by God I’ll end you, Stanhope.”
Harry suspected that threat had a good deal more to do with his whole attempt to seduce Katherine, than anything else. He gave a curt nod. “Are we finished here?” he said with an affable grin.
If looks could kill, Bainbridge would have smote him with the fire in his eyes and probably eaten the ashes for an evening meal.
A loud buzz filled the ballroom. Knowing it would infuriate the other man; Harry directed his attention to the arrival of the guest who’d caused a stir at the front of the ballroom. He blinked. There was something vaguely familiar about the tall, voluptuous woman at the top of Lord and Lady Preston's stairs. She may as well have been any blousy widow he’d…
The air lodged in his lungs.
“What is it?” Bainbridge snapped.
Miss Margaret Dunn, now the Duchess of Monteith, had returned.