Chapter 8
Harry kissed her. He’d only intended to silence her. Cowardly bastard that he was, he’d needed to bury her words that forced him to imagine Anne as a small girl with great, big blue eyes and golden ringlets lying in bed, staring up at the ceiling hiding a single scrap of orange satin, while her scapegrace of a father wagered away her ribbons. He wanted to cut the flow of words from her sweet lips, because he preferred to think of her as a cold, calculated miss in search of a lofty title, who fit neatly into a category alongside the Miss Margaret Dunns of the world.
With her admission, however, she’d forced him to recognize the fear that drove her marital aspirations. Most young ladies craved flowers and sonnets, but his Anne, she craved security.
And God help him, in that moment she made him wish he were the kind of man she deserved. A man who’d give up his clubs and drink and the strings of mistresses to make her his wife. But he could never be that man. He’d given away his heart and he’d not do so again. Not when there was nothing left of the useless organ.
So, he kissed her. Kissed her so his blasted heart didn’t ache in remembrance of the forlorn frown on her lips at Lady Westmoreland’s recital that now made sense. Kissed her until she twined her long fingers about his neck and moaned into his mouth. Kissed her until his body hardened against her belly. Kissed her until he knew from her gasping pants that desire replaced despair.
He slanted his lips over hers again and again as he longed to learn the taste of her. A hint of berry, a hint of lemon. She was a veritable dessert a man could feast on for the remainder of his days, and just then, he wanted to be that man.
“Harry.” His name, escaped her lips; a desperate entreaty that jerked him back to sanity.
He pulled back and she made a sound of protest. Harry pulled free the neat combs that held her hair in place. Her golden tresses tumbled around her shoulders and back like a waterfall of pure sun. His gut clenched as he imagined the satin strands fanning his pillow while he came over her and laid claim to her. He kissed her eyelids, her cheek. He trailed his lips lower to the elegant line of her neck where her pulse beat wildly. He nipped and sucked at the smooth flesh until her knees collapsed and he caught her against his chest.
Harry planted a hard kiss at the corner of her temple. “This is how you should wear your hair, Anne. Not in tight ringlets,” Though, those ringlets he’d once thought silly now seemed to suit her. “Beautiful and free, just as you are. They should caress your shoulders and breasts.” He brushed his hand over her modest décolletage.
She blinked and shoved him. He stumbled at the unexpectedness of the movement. Anne dragged her fingers through a mass of golden curls with frantic movements, restoring her hair to rights. “Is that what this was, Harry?” she asked, her words bleeding hurt. “Another lesson on the art of seduction?”
He stiffened. Despite her charged accusation, it hadn’t been. His kiss had begun as something far more, when he, Harry, the Earl of Stanhope never gave more. What had been an attempt to drive the sadness from her eyes and the damned ache in his heart had become…this.
And he’d not regret having taken her in his arms but he would never forgive himself if Anne came to believe there could ever be more between them. Not when she’d stated in no uncertain terms the respectable, flawless gentleman she desired.
He forced a grin to his lips. “Isn’t that what you sought me out for, sweet?” She recoiled at his deliberately cruel and mocking tone. “For a lesson on how to seduce Crawford?” he asked, all the while knowing his words would only drive her away from him and into the duke’s arms. His gut clenched at the mere thought of the other man. In thinking his name, in being Crawford and not a mere title, he became somehow more real and Harry detested him for it. The proper, staid Duke of Crawford was what Anne deserved and not a man such as Harry, too much like her shameful father.
She searched his face. “Why are you doing this?” She stuffed her curls back behind her ears in an attempt to put her hair to rights.
He cursed and spun her around.
“What…?”
Harry quickly tucked her golden ringlets into the delicate butterfly combs at the base of her head. He shifted her around and studied his work. She no longer appeared as though she’d been one kiss away from a thorough bout of lovemaking on the parlor sofa. What a travesty.
Anne turned back; a pinched set to her mouth. “You’re very proficient with a lady’s hair.”
Again, her words bore the faintest traces of jealousy, that dangerously dark emotion that had no place between them.
He arched an eyebrow. “You sound disappointed, sweet—”
“Stop calling me sweet,” she bit out.
“Most women appreciate my—”
She slapped him. Hard.
Harry flexed his jaw. Christ, the woman was far stronger than most gents he’d faced in Gentleman Jackson’s ring. He rubbed the wounded flesh.
“You don’t have to be crude,” she said, backing away from him. He took a step toward her. She held a hand up. “D-do not, H-harry.”
“Do you think I’d hurt you?” he snapped. The idea she should fear him burned like acid thrown upon an open wound.
She wrinkled her brow. “Of course not.” She gave a toss of her ringlets. “I’m cross with you.”
“Cross?”
She nodded. “Cross.” The tension eased from her taut frame. “You needn’t worry I’ve come to care for you,” she said with a remarkable insight. She caught a loose tress and gave it a distracted tug. “I would never be so naïve as to believe a kiss from you would mean anything more.”
Harry jerked erect. Her, words intended to reassure, instead ran through him with a savage intensity. He remained silent.
She leaned over and patted his hand. “I’ve enlisted your support to garner the duke’s affection. I understood your rule, Harry.” He started, having forgotten he’d put any rules to her madcap scheme. “I’m not to fall in love with you.” Had he said that? Anne continued, unaware of his inner strife. “So you needn’t be crude or ungentlemanly or condescending,” she added that last under her breath.
He bit back a smile. “You’d have me teach you the art of seduction in a way that is gentlemanly and polite, then?”
She nodded again. “Precisely.”
He opened his mouth to point out that he was the last person to instruct her on anything proper or polite.
A knock sounded at the door. They looked as one to the doorway to where the butler stood with a familiar, increasingly loathsome, ducal figure. Harry fisted his hands at his side.
The servant glared at Harry as though he recognized a scoundrel in his midst. He cleared his throat, and gave his attention to Anne. “My lady, His Grace, the Duke of Crawford.”
The duke swept in as if he was the King of England coming to call. He glanced around the room, and then he fixed a frown on Harry. The message clear. I’ve selected my duchess.
“Crawford,” Harry drawled.
Anne dropped a deep, deferential curtsy. A becoming pink blush stained her cheeks and her eyes darted about the room. Standing as close as they were, he heard her slight sigh as her maid appeared.
“My lady, forgive me.” A young maid swept in. “I retrieved your book.” She held up a copy of Mrs. Deerlander’s Guide to Decorum.
If the Duke of Crawford believed: one, that a passionate spirit like Lady Anne would spend even a moment reading even a word of that drivel, two, the maid’s ruse to explain away the lack of chaperone, and three, that Harry would interfere in the other man’s courtship, well, then he was as mad as a Bedlamite streaking the halls of that infamous hospital.
Anne rushed forward. “Thank you, Mary,” she said quickly. She took the book in her hands, hands that mere moments ago had twisted and twined about his neck like a tenacious vine of ivy. She shifted under the duke’s scrutiny, the leather volume held almost protectively to her chest.
Crawford walked over to her, placing himself between her and Harry. He claimed her hand and raising her fingers to his lips, brushed his mouth over the inside of her wrist.
The pink hue of her cheeks blazed a bold red.
Harry clenched his hands into tight balls at his side, filled with an inexplicable urge to separate the bastard’s fingers from his person. Over the duke’s shoulder, Anne met his gaze.
The tall, commanding duke with ice in his eyes, followed the direction of her stare. He arched a ducal eyebrow at Harry.
Harry tugged at the lapels of his coat. It was on the tip of his lips to order the other man to hell and claim a spot beside the scattered pile of ribbons. Except, something flashed in Anne’s eyes. An entreaty. A plea. Her meaning could not have been clearer than if she’d clambered onto the sofa and shouted the words. Go.
He gave a quick bow. “Lady Anne, Crawford. I’ll leave you two to your visit.” He spun on his heel and beat a hasty retreat. Ultimately, Anne seemed to remember what he’d allowed himself to forget. Their every interaction, their every meeting was a ploy to garner Crawford’s notice and prompt an offer on the other man’s part.
It would seem the lady’s plan had worked brilliantly. Harry would soon be well-rid of the tart-mouthed Lady Anne Adamson.
Harry cursed under his breath, and took his leave. He should be elated with the rapidity of Crawford’s interest.
So why was he so bloody miserable?
~*~
Anne stared at Harry’s swift retreating back and resisted the urge to call out, ask him to stay. Despite of all her earlier, preconceived notions about the roguish Earl of Stanhope, he’d proven himself to be kind and decent. She stared down at her palm, the skin still stinging from the slap she’d dealt him. Regret tugged at her. God help her, she enjoyed being with Harry. Missed him, even now with the illustrious Duke of Crawford in her parlor.
“My lady? I trust you are well?”
She jumped, pressing her hand to her heart. “Er…uh, yes…most well,” she said on a rush. Her maid gave her a pointed look from across the room and from over the duke’s shoulder gestured to the sofa.
Anne motioned to the seat. “Would you care to sit, Your Grace?”
Mary nodded.
The duke inclined his head. “I would,” he murmured, coolly polite.
From across the room, Mary held up an imaginary glass and raised it to her lips.
“Refreshments!” The single word utterance burst from her lips. The duke quirked an eyebrow. She fanned her hot cheeks, and then remembered herself. “That is,” she said, her tone even. “Would you care for refreshments, Your Grace?”
“I imagine I have all I need in terms of sustenance for the day with your company, my lady.”
Anne’s mouth pulled and she buried the grimace in her fingers. Egad, had she really desired a silly sonnet penned on her behalf? Harry’s face flashed into her mind. With his bold assertions and his unrepentant words, she found she preferred the honesty in his responses than in the duke’s overdone compliments. She sat in the King Louis XIV chair and rested the book on her lap, wishing for the uncomplicatedness of life before Harry when there was nothing more than the dream of security and stability to be had in the role of duchess.
The duke sat at the edge of the sofa so that their knees brushed. “And what does a lovely young lady take enjoyment reading, Lady Anne?”
Scandalous Gothic novels. Shameless tales of unrequited love and gentlemen vying for a lady’s hand. With someone ultimately always meeting an untimely, ugly demise. She glanced down at the book her maid had brought her and silently cursed the excuse orchestrated by Mary to explain her absence during Harry’s earlier visit. She handed the leather volume over to the duke.
He examined the title. “I imagine a lady such as you wouldn’t need the help of anyone to maintain proper ladylike decorum.”
One of Mother’s favorites: Mrs. Deerleander’s Guide to Decorum.
Did she imagine the hint of rebuke buried in the duke’s words? “Oh, quite the opposite, Your Grace,” she said blandly, disabusing him of any notions he carried about her suitability as his future duchess. “It is likely why my mother is insisting I read it.”
A half-grin pulled at his lips. If she were being perfectly honest with herself, she’d admit he was a rather handsome gentleman. Even more than pleasantly handsome. With thick chestnut hair, fashionably cropped, and a powerful blue-eyed stare that could bore into a person’s soul. When most of the other dukes were doddering old letches with monocles held to their eyes, His Grace possessed a tall, well-muscled form. His smile deepened, though it never quite reached his eyes. “You’re a delight, my lady.”
His platitudes set her teeth on edge. Confectionary treats and ices from Gunter’s were a delight. People were not. “Oh, not at all. I’m the bane of my mother’s existence,” she said, with the lack of appreciation that had made many a wallflower into spinsters. Stop talking, immediately, Anne. You’ll drive him away.
“Oh?”
She angled her head, wagering he’d perfected that haughty ducal eyebrow-arching business as a small boy. “She claims I’m too spirited,” she went on. From across the room, Mary groaned.
“Is there such a thing, my lady?”
And in that moment, the proper, respectable duke who’d paled in the shadow of Harry, rose in her estimation. She leaned over and dropped her voice to a low whisper. “I imagine a duke would expect a lady to be perfectly proper and not at all spirited.” Her words seemed to carry over to the maid for Mary dropped her head into her hands and shook it forlornly back and forth.
The duke either failed to notice or care about the beleaguered servant in the corner, for he said, “I imagine a demure, too-proper lady would make for a very dull duchess.”
“Which is how most gentleman would prefer their wives,” she rejoined.
He leaned down. “I assure you they do not, my lady.” His breath fanned her ear.
“Oh.”
He sat back in his chair, a challenge in his eyes, daring her to ask questions about what type of lady gentlemen in fact, preferred. Only, such an intimate topic was not one she’d care to discuss with the duke. Even if she would have him as her husband, she could not boldly engage in his repartee. Not in the way she did with the charming, affable, Earl of Stanhope.
The duke drummed his fingers on the arms of the sofa, cutting into the awkward stretch of silence.
She detested this newfound preference for charming, affable gentleman.
Anne mustered a smile, and shifted the discussion to safer, more appropriate topics. “I imagine it would gall my mother if I were to fail and initiate proper matters of discourse. May I?”
He tipped his head. “Please, do.”
She glanced to the window. “We’re enjoying splendid weather, Your Grace.”
He lifted his head, his gaze fastened to her. “We are.”
Anne tapped her feet distractedly upon the floor. “You’re to respond with some comment about the sun or the rain.”
“The sunlight pales when compared with your beauty.”
She wanted his words to wash over her with warmth and send fluttery little sensations spiraling through her being. She truly did. Alas, they stirred not even the faintest hint of awareness. She slid her gaze off to the opposite end of the room.
What am I?
A clever, inquisitive miss, with lots of questions…
“Do you play, my lady?”
She froze mid-tap. “Do I play what?”
He waved a hand in the direction of her beloved pianoforte, a gift given her by Aldora and Michael, the obscenely wealthy second son of a marquess, who’d saved them all from certain ruin.
“I do,” she murmured.
“Would you do me the honor of playing for me, my lady?”
Anne paused. Part of her longed to resist the ducal command contained within that question. If her mother ever discovered such a slight, she’d have Anne wed to horrible Mr. Ekstrom by special license that next morning.
With a curt nod, she came to her feet, wandered over to the instrument and ran her fingertips along the ivory keyboard. She slid into her seat and stared blankly down at the keys. What song did a young lady sing when attempting to ensnare a duke?
You’ll sing in a husky, sultry, contralto…
She opened her mouth and proceeded to sing him Dibdin’s A Matrimonial Thought in her pure contralto. As the duke’s eyes widened with appreciation, she wished she sang in a sultry, husky contralto for an altogether different gentleman.