Chapter 22
Seated in the corner of the 8th Duke of Bainbridge’s spacious office, Anne glanced for surely the hundredth time at the long-case clock across the room.
“He’s not due ‘round for another fifteen minutes,” Jasper called from his place at the mahogany desk, head bent over his ledgers.
She played with the precious pair of wire-rimmed spectacles. “I know that,” she felt inclined to point out.
He dipped his pen into the inkwell “Do you?” he asked, taciturn as usual. He continued to work away.
She very well knew the time Lord Rutland was scheduled to meet with Jasper. Just as she knew the time of his then meeting with Harry. She’d lain awake until the morning sun peeked across the horizon going over exactly what she’d say, drawing on every last negative perception everyone and anyone had ever possessed of Lady Anne Arlette Adamson.
As she’d stared down at her untouched breakfast plate she’d convinced herself she could carry through with her plans, because she loved Harry, even when he could not love her, loved enough for the both of them. Loved him enough to do that which was truly selfless.
She tapped her feet on the hardwood floor. Jasper picked his head up and gave her a pointed look. She continued to beat the hasty, staccato rhythm upon the floor. “Do you believe I can reason with him?” She toyed with the spectacles in her hands, running her finger over the delicate frame.
“I believe if you cannot, I can,” he said, in the low, hoarse voice that had terrified her since their first meeting. In other words, he’d find some way to silence Rutland.
A knock sounded at the door. Anne dropped her spectacles. They fell with a soft clink upon the hardwood floor. She surged to her feet as the butler opened the door. “Your Grace, the Marquess of Rutland to see you.”
In walked the man who’d see her ruined, bold as if he owned the office, really quite an impressive feat considering her brother-in-law had every last single lord and lady in London quaking in his presence.
Jasper remained seated, in a blatant statement of disrespect.
The butler closed the door quietly behind Rutland. “Bainbridge.” he said, a cruel edge to that terse greeting. “A pleasure, and of course a surprise. To what do I owe the honor of this unexpected meeting?” Though, he, Jasper, and Anne all knew there was nothing surprising about this meeting. Well, with the exception of her forgotten figure in the corner.
She took a step forward. “My lord.”
Lord Rutland’s tall, well-muscled frame went taut and he turned stiffly to face Anne. “My lady,” he said, the two-word greeting faintly mocking.
She ticked her chin up a notch. “I’d speak with you.” she said before her courage deserted her and she begged Jasper to handle the loathsome fiend for her. But with all she’d planned for the day, this was certainly the least difficult task she’d undertake.
Jasper stood. “I’ll be right outside the room,” he murmured. He fixed a frosty glare on Rutland that would have had most other men quaking. Instead, the sinister lord inclined his head with icy amusement in his dark eyes. Jasper closed the door with a soft click. She suspected he hovered at the other side, prepared to storm the room and take Rutland apart if she simply whispered it.
Anne smoothed her palms over the front of her skirt. She eyed the impassive gentleman. He’d earned a reputation amongst the ton as a black-hearted fiend, whose presence was accepted amongst fashionable Society for his old, distinguished title. “My sisters believed my efforts in speaking with you today were futile.” Surely a man who’d loved so passionately was still capable of some good?
He spoke on a lethal whisper. “And what do you believe, Lady Anne?”
She managed a weak smile. “You wouldn’t be here if I felt that was the case, my lord.” She took a step toward him, and another, and another. He remained rooted to his spot, his expression a blank mask. “I’ve thought a good deal about…” Her cheeks warmed. “About your discovery. That is my meeting with Lord Stanhope.” She furrowed her brow. “Er, well, them both really.” He quirked a chestnut eyebrow, that very human gesture transforming him from monster, into someone quite…human.
Anne started at the sudden revelation that for all his coldness and legendary escapades, he really was quite a handsome gentleman. Good, human was indeed preferable to the fire-breathing, jagged toothed dragon she’d made him out to be these past days.
She imagined he hadn’t always been the merciless man who’d threaten to destroy a lady’s reputation; imagined he’d been so very different before Lady Margaret.
One of those familiar hard smiles played at his lips.
She flushed at having been discovered studying him so.
“My lady?” he whispered, an invitation in his words.
Anne wrinkled her nose. Did he truly imagine she would desire him? Oh, the arrogance of men. “I have not called you here for…” She clamped her lips shut, not finishing that bold supposition.
The first flash of amusement flared briefly in his eyes. “Then why am I here?” he asked, that flinty look in place once more.
“Er, yes, well, right.” What could she ever say to a jaded, broken man like Lord Rutland to make him see? She took another breath. “I’ve thought of nothing else since our,” she averted her gaze, “meeting, last evening.”
“Is that what we are to call it?” he mocked, calling her attention back once more.
She gritted her teeth, not rising to his baiting.
He folded his arms across his chest. “And?”
“You’d have me wed Harry for what purpose? So you’ll be free to your Lady Margaret?” A muscle jumped at the corner of his eye, the sole indication she’d been correct in her supposition. “I thought about it a good deal last evening.”
“Undoubtedly,” he said, coolly mocking.
She carried on as though he’d not spoken. “You’d force me to wed Lord Stanhope and there is nothing that would bring me greater happiness than having him as my husband. And I thought about that well into the morning hours. I thought about how very happy I could be.” She held his gaze. “Only, do you know what I realized, my lord?”
“What was that?” the response came as though dragged from him.
“I don’t doubt he’d do the honorable thing and marry me if for no other reason than to save me.” So, in this, she would save him, even at the expense of her own name. “I realized even as I love him, if I allowed you to force us into marriage, the time would come, now or in the future, when he’d grow to resent me. Perhaps even hate me.” She closed her eyes a moment. That she could not bear. “I would forever remind him of the woman he could not have.” She folded her arms across her chest and rubbed warmth back into her limbs. She’d rather have no marriage than the bleak, empty existence her own mother had known. “I’ll not marry him,” she whispered. “Not like this.” And so, not ever.
He froze, unblinking.
Anne slid her gaze to the forgotten pair of spectacles, a splendid gift from a man who would never be anything more than a memory. She wandered over and stooped to retrieve them. “They are beautiful, aren’t they?” she murmured, more to herself. With the delicate spectacle frames in hand, she stood, and carried them over to the window. The slight crack in the brocade curtains cast a narrow stream of sunshine through the opening. It reflected off the metal frames and painted the opposite wall with a magnificent display of shimmering light. She held the gift given her by Harry, up to that streaming ray of sunshine, appreciating the light refracting off the metal. “Do you know, something?”
“What?” he asked, voice gruff. The slight widening of his eyes indicated he’d surprised the both of them with his question.
She gave him a small, gentle smile. “I spent the whole of my life told if I wore spectacles I’d never make a proper match.” She managed a laugh. “So I didn’t wear them because I thought they might detract from my pleasant prettiness.” She shot him a wry look over her shoulder at those words he’d hurled at her last evening, and then returned her attention to her spectacles. “I thought I was protecting myself, only now I think of all those wasted years…not seeing. Yet with these,” she held the slight pair up, “small and so very insignificant…” The muscles of her throat moved up and down with the force of her swallow. “They changed me.” She met his gaze. “They helped me see differently.” The kind of person she was. The kind of person she wanted to be. They’d helped her see more clearly. About everything. “Sometimes one simply needs a little help bringing life more clearly into focus. Don’t you agree, my lord?”
A muscle jumped at the corner of his mouth, and she knew the hard, but not unintelligent, Lord Rutland knew exactly was she said, knew she spoke of the jealous rage that had blinded him all these years. He cursed. “You won’t wed him?” he asked, at last.
She shook her head. “I won’t.” What had he expected? That she would have some sage words to ease the heartache he’d known.
“You’ll be ruined,” Rutland shot back.
Anne lifted her shoulders in a little shrug. “Yes.” She paused. “But only if you allow it.”
As though unsettled by her accusatory stare, he strolled to the edge of Jasper’s wide, mahogany desk. He propped his hip at the edge and continued to study her through thick, hooded lashes. Which was of course, madness. Ruthless Lord Rutland wasn’t unsettled by anyone or anything.
She walked toward him, coming to a stop at the leather winged-back chair. “You’ll have your Margaret at any cost.” Anne passed a searching gaze over his face, seeking a hint of warmth, some emotion other than this immobile mask. “Only, what you’ll find is what I already know. She’ll not love you for what you’ve done. She’ll resent you because you’ve robbed her of her heart’s happiness.” Anne had witnessed the unadulterated love and longing in the other woman’s eyes. She took another. “You’ll inevitably make a decision to ruin me to advance your own gains.” She tipped her chin back. “But know this, my lord. You’ll not have Margaret at the expense of mine,” and more importantly, “and Lord Stanhope’s happiness.”
He narrowed his eyes. “You would…” Would. Not— will. “… be cast out of Society, shunned by your friends and family. You’d sacrifice all that?”
“I would,” she said, her answer automatic. “When you love someone,” as she loved Harry, “you’ll sacrifice anything, even your own happiness, if that brings them true happiness.” She glanced at the toes of her slippers, suddenly reminded of how very inadequate she’d always been with words. “If I were my sister, Aldora,” she said softly. “Perhaps I would be more eloquent.” Certainly enough to not mention happiness twice in the same sentence. “Or if I was my sister, Katherine, I could speak to you with logic and clear reason, deterring you from your goals.” She shrugged. “All I can do is appeal to the man you surely once were before your Lady Margaret.”
Silence blanketed the room. He said nothing for so long she suspected he might simply stride from the room and close the door behind him, her words forgotten. “I was never a good man,” he said at last, his words flat and emotionless.
“I don’t believe that,” she said quietly.
“You believe wrong, then.”
Anne passed the spectacles back and forth between her hands. “Well, then. There is nothing else I can say.” Now her mother would know the truth, the truth her family had been good enough to keep from the over-dramatic countess until this particular meeting. She stuck her fingers out, the gesture so very reminiscent of her first meeting with Harry.
“What are you doing?”
“I’m thanking you for having come and at least considered my request. You’ll do what you think is best.”
“And you think my decision is a poor one,” he tossed back, ignoring her hand.
She let her fingers fall to her side. “Undoubtedly.”
The marquess caught his square jaw between his thumb and forefinger. He rubbed his chin contemplatively. Then stopped, suddenly and cursed. He shoved off the desk and started for the door.
Her heart pounded wildly and she was filled with an almost physical urge to call out and beg him to change his course. For everyone’s low opinion of her, however, she’d never been called a coward.
He spun around. “Stanhope’s a bloody fool,” he growled.
She cocked her head.
He spoke between gritted teeth. “Your secret is your secret.”
Her heart kicked up a frantic rhythm. “I don’t understand.” She touched a hand to her pounding heart, besieged by hope.
“I’ll not divulge you and Stanhope’s,” he spat out Harry’s name as though spitting out a vile epithet, “secret.”
Anne sank back on her heels under the enormous weight of relief. “Th—”
“Do not thank me,” he snapped.
She closed her mouth.
He turned to the door and then wheeled around to face her yet again. “You are not empty-headed, my lady. Quite the opposite.”
And that was the instant Anne realized the cold, hard exterior he presented to the world was nothing more than a façade. In his brown eyes, she detected a glimmer of the man buried deep inside the wary, broken-hearted marquess.
Then the stiff, brittle set to his lips masked all momentary warmth. “Oh, and Lady Anne?”
“Yes, my lord?”
“I do wish Stanhope had turned you away. It would have been my pleasure to school you in the art of seduction.” He touched the brim of an imagined hat, opened the door, and…nearly collided with Harry. Jasper stood, stoic at his side.
Harry froze, his mouth fell agape at the appearance of Lord Rutland. The two men eyed each other for a moment, two savage beasts warring over terrain. In a way, they had been for eight years. In a way that didn’t truly have anything to do with Anne and everything to do with Margaret, Duchess of Monteith.
Lord Rutland ran his flinty gaze stare over Stanhope. “A pleasure as usual, Stanhope,” mockery lined that curt greeting. Without a bow, he took his leave.
Jasper motioned Harry forward. “Anne.” He gave her an indecipherable look and then closed the door with a soft click leaving her alone. With Harry.
~*~
Harry stared after Rutland’s swiftly retreating form then swung to face Anne. “What the hell did he want? Has he threatened you?” He advanced forward. Anne backed away. From him? What in hell was Bainbridge thinking allowing her to meet with that reprobate? “Why were you alone with Rutland?” His voice came out an angry snarl he barely recognized.
Anne toyed with a single, deliberately placed strand interwoven with an orange ribbon. She continued to edge backward. “The duke was so good as to arrange a meeting between us,” she said, her voice breezy. “It is, after all, essential that Rutland say nothing about what he observed.” If she believed Rutland to do the honorable thing with their secret, then she was a good deal more naïve than he’d ever believed. She swept her arms wide. “Come in, dear Harry. Do come in. Please.”
He furrowed his brow. “Why are you speaking in that manner?” The faint stirrings of unease unfurled in his belly.
Anne laughed, the sound like clear tinkling bells. “Oh, Lord Stanhope.” She snapped her skirts. “You scoundrel, you know you shouldn’t curse in front of a lady.” She dropped her voice to a scandalized whisper. “Imagine the shock.”
Harry beat a hand against his leg. “Are you flirting with me, Anne?”
She tittered behind her hand and danced backward, until her lower back knocked against the duke’s solid desk and she spread her palms on the surface behind her. “Oh, come, Lord Stanhope,” she fluttered her thick, golden lashes. “We’ve moved well past flirtation.”
He strode forward and stopped, a mere handbreadth between them. “What is going on?” This shallow creature did not bear even a hint of resemblance to Anne. “Why am I suddenly Lord Stanhope?” And why did he crave the sound of his name upon her tempting, red lips? Anxiety roiled like a rapidly brewing storm inside him.
Anne gave a flounce of her luscious golden curls. “You were always Lord Stanhope. Our relationship has been clear from the very beginning.”
He raked his trembling fingers through his hair. “What are you on about?” he asked, his voice gruff. He held a hand out. “Is this about Rutland? I’ve already plans to speak with your mother after my meeting with Bainbridge. You’ll not be ruined.” He’d slice off his own hand before he allowed Rutland to destroy her reputation.
Some emotion flashed behind Anne’s eyes. Grief, shock, agony, together as one. Then gone as her lips curved up in the corner as she smiled with her lips and eyes as one…as he’d instructed her. She eyed his fingers a moment, and then her lips pulled back in a sneer.
Harry staggered backwards. His Anne did not sneer. She wasn’t even capable of such hardness.
“Oh, Lord Stanhope,” she said in a self-aggrandizing way that made him grit his teeth. “Surely you know you needn’t offer for me?”
“I want to,” he said, his answer instantaneous, born of truth. After she’d taken her leave last evening, after she’d coolly, if politely, rejected his offer, he’d realized he wanted her. Not merely because he sought to do right by her. “Mayhap not ten days ago, or a week, but now, I’d wed you.”
Her long, graceful fingers, toyed with a single curl. “Oh, Harry. Poor, poor, Harry.” She shook her head. “Never say you’ve come to,” she widened her eyes, “care for me?” Those handful of words dripped with pity.
“What are you doing?” Disbelief crept into his question.
With the enthusiasm of a child who’d just won at a game of spillikins, she clapped her hands together once. “I’m relieving you of your duties, Lord Stanhope. You’ve served your purpose.” A victorious glimmer lit her eyes.
His mouth went dry. “What?” The one word question emerged hollow and empty.
“My plans to secure the title of duchess.” She giggled. “Do pay attention,” she chided, slapping his fingers teasingly. With a whispery soft sigh, she fingered the golden heart pendant around her neck, an innocently sensual movement learned under his tutelage “You thought it silly, I’m sure. The prophecy told by an old gypsy that whatever woman wears it—”
“Will earn the heart of a duke.” He fixed his stare on the small, golden bauble in this way he didn’t have to see the cool, mockery in her eyes.
“Yes, yes, exactly!” She giggled. “And I truly would have settled on an earl, Harry. If I had to, of course. Which I do not. Have to settle, that is.”
He flinched, silently begging her to stop, begging her to tell him this was all a cruel jest. But he’d not begged Margaret and he’d not beg Lady Anne Adamson.
“The duke,” she went on, each word a dagger in his belly. “Well, it was one thing when he expressed an interest, quite another when he called with a specific offer.”
She clasped her hands in front of her, the grip so tight, her knuckles were white.
Why were her knuckles white? “I don’t understand,” he said numbly. The world shifted under him and he sought purchase atop the leather winged back chair. “You said you loved me.” His voice rang hollow.
Anne again giggled. “That was before he all but offered for me, silly.” She waved a hand. “Before you would have sufficed but now…oh, can you believe it, Harry?” A dreamy glimmer lit the blue irises of her eyes. “Soon, I’ll be a duchess.” She dipped a curtsy. “I wanted to thank you for the invaluable lessons, my lord. Every time I’m referred to as Your Grace, I promise to think of you.”
Harry’s heart wrenched, the pain so great it threatened to cleave him in two. This betrayal on Anne’s part so very much worse than Margaret’s defection. Anne had restored his hope, given him reason to laugh again, and God help him, made him love her. His mouth went dry. “This is a jest.” He could not believe it. Anne was supposed to be different. Not ruthless. Not calculated. Sweetly serene and spirited and honest…
The bright, easy smile on her lips dipped. She stilled and held his gaze with her own. “This is no jest, my lord. This is very real.” She held her hand out. His gaze fell to the wire-rimmed spectacles. “I mustn’t wear these, of course. A duchess cannot be seen in s-spectacles.” Her voice broke and numbly, he picked his head up. A paroxysm of grief contorted her face. The subtle expression so very brief he must have imagined any regret he saw there. She cleared her throat. “Here.” She pressed them into his hand.
Harry stared blankly down at a gift he’d toiled over. Yet again, he’d made a bloody fool of himself where a young lady was concerned. He balled his fingers into a fist. The spectacles bent under the intensity of his grip. He lightened his hold lest he break the lenses and with his other hand absently he rubbed at the spot in his chest where his heart used to be. He could not believe he’d been so very wrong. Not about her. This woman, he didn’t recognize. “Anne,” he tried again. “I’ll protect you from scandal. You needn’t—”
“Tsk, tsk. My, how arrogant you are. Do you imagine this is borne of my love for you? It is not,” she said firmly. “This comes from the sole reason I sought you out in the first place. You’ve served but one purpose. And now, well, now you’ve fulfilled it.” She worked the ribbon free of the lone golden curl. “There will always be ribbons and spectacles, though,” she said.
Harry stared at her, it was as though the veil had lifted and he saw the same self-centered, grasping minx he’d first taken her for more than a year ago. The hellion, the vixen. The woman who’d claimed his heart. And now, the woman who’d broken his heart. He flexed his jaw and yanked the ribbon from her fingers. “I am glad I was able to assist you in your endeavors, my lady,” he said stiffly. He crushed the ribbon in his fist. “If you’ll excuse me,” he said with a short bow.
He didn’t even remember crossing over to the door until she called out to him. “Oh, Lord Stanhope?”
He paused, staring dumbly at the wood panel, begging for her to point her eyes to the ceiling as she was wont to do, and say she merely teased. “That is my favorite ribbon. Treat it with care.”
And all hope withered and died in his chest. He wanted to hurl it at her title-grasping, deceitful face. He yanked the door open and left without a backward glance, her burnt orange ribbon a forever reminder lest he forget the perils in loving.