Chapter 6
“The gall of that man!”
Anne glanced up from her stacks of ribbons on the rose-inlaid table before her. Mother stood in the doorway, brandishing a paper like it was a weapon of old and she the knight defending his keep. Fury snapped in her melodramatic mother’s eyes. She bit back a sigh. “Mother,” she greeted. With both her sisters gone and married and her brother away at school, Anne found she far preferred her solitary company and collection of ribbons to her mother’s hysterics.
Her mother sailed into the room. “The gall of him,” she seethed. Just in case, Anne assumed, she’d failed to hear the same utterance mere moments ago. Mother paced. “Gentleman,” she scoffed. “Why, how loosely that term is applied. To bounders and scoundrels and rogues.”
A momentary twinge of pity struck her. She imagined the pain of Father’s betrayal would forever turn a woman bitter as it had Mother. This is what marriage to a scapegrace would do, and a fate Anne now actively sought to avoid.
Her mother launched into a tirade that involved mention of dastards and their dastardly deeds. Anne shifted her attention back to her meticulous stacks of ribbons. She picked up an ivory satin strip and laid it carefully atop the others. Six. Six white ribbons. She rested her chin in her hand. Which seemed rather silly, as Harry had pointed out. All this white and ivory business. She glanced down at her ruffled skirts, also of ivory. After all, a lady who’d seen two Seasons should certainly have the luxury of… She picked up the aqua-blue ribbon, a luxuriant color that might make a gentleman think of ocean waters and—
“Have you heard a single word I’ve uttered, Anne?” Mother cried.
She dropped the ribbon. “Uh, yes.” She waved a hand. “The whole dastardly behavior business.” Which seemed rather close to whatever Mother had been carrying on about, for the older woman gave a pleased nod. Anne reached for another blue-green ribbon.
“And to do so after he’d spent the evening expressing a clear interest in you.”
She froze, her hand poised over the pile. “What?” she blurted.
Mother let out an exasperated sigh. “Do try to keep up.” She waved the paper in front of Anne’s eyes, which did her little good. Unless squinting and angling the page just so, it was nigh impossible for her to make out a single word. “That bounder.”
Her heart hammered. “What bounder?” She really wished she’d been paying closer attention.
Mother tossed her hands up. “The Earl of Stanhope. First, he sought your sister’s favor.” She snorted. “As though your sister would ever be so foolhardy as to toss away her affections on such a cad.” Her pointed look, a damning statement more powerful than words, spoke volumes of her opinion on Anne’s discernment.
She frowned. She’d never been considered the intelligent one of the family. Her family, polite Society, they all failed to realize Anne was a woman who saw much, heard more, and had actual thoughts inside her head beyond the fabric of her gown or the tons gossip. “Mother, what is it?” she asked, impatiently.
Mother tossed the paper onto the table. The faint breeze stirred the pile of white and ivory ribbons. Several strips of satin sailed onto the floor. Ribbon piles forgotten, Anne picked up the copy of The Times. Her mother leaned over her shoulder and jabbed her finger somewhere in the middle of the page. “There. Read that.”
Anne held it up. She tried. She truly did. She squinted hard. If she blinked in rapid succession and the light was just right, she could make sense of the blurred words.
A certain Lord HS was…
Her eyes flew wide and the page blurred out of focus. She wanted to stomp her foot. Blast! Lord HS was what? Smitten? Enamored? Captivated?
“Oh, do give me that.” Mother snatched it from her fingers. “’Lord HS abruptly fled a certain Lady AA’s side.’” She glanced up from the page. “That is you,” she said as if Anne were a simpleton.
“Undoubtedly.” A pressure tightened about her heart. It shouldn’t matter what Harry did after he’d left her company, and yet…it did. Unwilling to let her mother see the effect her words were having upon her, she yawned into her hand. “He’s a rogue, Mother. Why should we care about his goings on?”
Her mother continued as though she hadn’t spoken. “At which point he sought out…’” A shudder wracked mother’s frame. “I’ll not even say it. After his express interest in you last evening—”
“It was not an express interest in me.” It had merely been part of their overall plan to secure the duke’s notice. And really, what, or worse, who had Harry sought out? Her heart kicked up a frantic beat, consumed by a desire to know the blasted woman’s identity.
“Do you know how this appears to the ton?”
She could wager any number of ways, none of which were kind or pleasant. “How?”
“As though you are a young lady unable to hold the attention of a gentleman who previously expressed an interest in you.”
Her heart tugged at those bluntly spoken words. Mother, often wrong, happened to be very close to the mark in this regard and the truth of that pierced the foolish organ.
“Now the duke will never pay you a call.” Her plaintive wail was as aggrieved as if she’d learned Doomsday was nigh.
The duke? She cocked her head. Oh, yes. As in the Duke of Crawford; the real reason she’d sought Harry out.
“Whatever shall we do?” Mother wailed. She tossed the paper down where it landed on the floor, disrupting the pile of purple-pink ribbons in its wake.
Anne stared emptily down at the ribbon mess, a multi-colored confusion not so very different from what her life had become. “Whatever can we do?”
Another cry split the Ivory Parlor. Alas, Anne only seemed incapable of the wrong answers where anyone was concerned. “Oh, why can you not understand, Anne? The earl’s clear disinterest matters a good deal. You might find him a clever, charming rogue, but he’s disgraced you.” Her mother pressed her palms against her cheeks as though shamed by her outburst. She drew in a breath and when she spoke icy, resolve steeled her words. “I’ve had grand hopes of the match you will make.”
“Thank y—”
“I am not finished,” Mother snapped. “I never dared imagined Katherine would wed a duke, though this family could certainly have done without the scandalous past of Bainbridge.”
Anne tightened her lips to keep from pointing out Katherine was hopelessly and helplessly in love with Jasper, and that nothing else should matter but the young couple’s happiness and the happiness of their beautiful babe, Maxwell.
“Do you remember my expectations for Katherine?”
There really were too many expectations for each of the Adamson daughters for Anne to remember a specific one. She gave her head a slight shake. It was often easier to allow Mother her rant.
“I expected one of my girls would wed Bertrand Ekstrom.”
She stifled a groan. Mr. Betrand Ekstrom. Their odious second, or was it third, cousin? Mother had planned on wedding Katherine off to the miserable bugger. A man Anne had heard faint whispers of. Something pertaining to Mr. Ekstrom’s perverse fascination with riding crops and violent lashes. She wrinkled her nose in distaste. What manner of gentleman abused his horseflesh? The miserable bugger.
“And I never imagined it would be you.”
Anne blinked. “Never imagined what would be me?” she blurted, trying to recall her mother’s previously spoken words, wishing she’d been paying closer attention.
Her mother threw her hands up in exasperation. “I never imagined you would wed Bertrand.”
She scratched her brow. “Why would I wed Mr. Ekstrom?” She wouldn’t. Ever. Not unless she was in the habit of sacrificing her very own happiness, which she wasn’t. She quite enjoyed being happy.
“Because you are now on your third Season, Anne.” Her mother gave her head a pitying shake. “You are unwed.”
Anne moistened her lips, knowing when Mother sank her teeth into an idea she was worse than one of the queen’s terriers with a bone. “Hardly on the shelf,” she said, defensively.
“But certainly not married, either.” Mother claimed her hands. “This is not a threat. This is me speaking to you with direct honesty. A young lady must wed and have security; for herself, her family. And if you are unwed, well, we cannot afford to risk something happening to your brother and the most logical plan…” Her words trailed off.
The most logical plan was to forego Anne’s happiness for their family’s security. In trying to earn the duke’s favor, isn’t that what I’m doing? For somehow, Mother desired another ducal connection since the one to Katherine's duke was apparently not enough. Her mother squeezed her hands. Anne’s fingers twitched with the desire to yank free of her grip. “I’ll not wed Mr. Ekstrom,” she said quietly.
Mother inclined her head. “Do not be silly, my dear.” The corners of her lips turned down ever so slightly. “I’d rather you not wed, Bertrand.” She released her hold on Anne. “Unless you have no other option.” She gave Anne a long, pointed look, and then sailed from the room.
Anne folded her arms across her chest and attempted to rub warmth back into the chilled limbs. She’d known through the years that making advantageous matches for each of her daughters was the Countess of Wakefield’s ultimate goal. Anne mattered so little that she’d be wed off to her corpulent, oft-rude cousin? A man so very different than the gentleman who now taught Anne the art of seduction.
The thought of Harry slipped in and then memory after memory of the dashing earl poured over her. Her mother, sister, and Society on the whole would call her all kinds of fool for desiring him as she did. After all, she very well knew the kind of charmer Lord Harry Stanhope happened to be—the manner of gentleman who placed two crystal glasses of champagne in his host’s conservatory and almost partook in a scandalous assignation.
The muscles of her stomach tightened as her mother’s earlier allegations about Harry surfaced. The mysterious woman mentioned in the papers. She’d expected such roguish behaviors from Harry, the man who’d tried to seduce her twin.
Yet… She eyed the forgotten paper at her feet. She’d not thought the Harry who arrived to musicales and joined her for the evening would then do something as appalling as to visit... She wrinkled her nose. Whoever it was he’d sought out after he’d left her side. If he’d taken himself off to some soiree or another with some scandalous widow, she would, well, she would tell him exactly what she thought of him. Even if it was a pretend courtship. She should be a good deal more concerned with Mother’s threat of wedding her off to Bertrand Ekstrom, yet she could not muster the suitable outrage when compared with the hurt fury thrumming through her at the idea of Harry with…with…
Anne swiped the paper. She angled the page in a way that the stream of sunlight shone off the central part of the copy and scoured the page in search of his name—and hers, of course. She squinted hard. Lord HS, some word, some word, Lady AA. Another blurred word. Forbidden… “Forbidden, what?” she muttered under her breath.
Footsteps sounded outside in the hall. Blast and double blast. She’d had enough of her mother to last her the remainder of the Season and all the next combined. “I’m reading it, Mother,” she called. Or desperately trying to, anyway. “I see the reason for your outrage, of course.” Which she didn’t fully see, necessarily. She saw, however, just enough words to understand what had roused her mother’s displeasure. “He really shouldn’t—”
“The Earl of Stanhope, my lady.”