ON THE AFTERNOON of St. Valentine’s Day, the charity sale was moving along nicely. Thanks to the pleasant weather and the thawing of the snow, half of Shrewsbury seemed to have turned out to buy embroidered gloves, needlepointed screens, and scores of other fripperies, not to mention Anne’s hats.
She ought to be ecstatic over that, since they’d raised an enormous sum for the orphanage. But the absence of Hart made it difficult for her to rejoice. She hadn’t seen him once today, and she was starting to worry.
Perhaps she’d been too harsh last night. But what had he expected? He’d told her that he’d spent the past few years being a spy, yet he hadn’t lifted a finger to find her! How was she supposed to take that?
Was she reading too much into it? Had he thought so, too?
Or had he, as usual, just given up on her? If he had . . .
No, she refused to let herself grieve over that. If she mattered that little to him, it was better she know it now than later. Yet the thought that he really could only have cared about her for her connections, flimsy as they were, cut her to the bone after all his sweet words and passionate actions this week.
Was it really possible for a man to show so much affection to a woman he didn’t care about? Was her heart that foolish? The part of her that loved him and wouldn’t listen to her practical, doubting side still wanted to trust him.
“Lady Anne,” murmured a low male voice next to her. “Might I have a word with you?”
She whirled around, hoping to see Hart, but it was only Lord Fulkham. “Of course.”
He nodded to a door leading onto a balcony, and as soon as they went out onto it, he blocked the door handily with a potted plant. “First, do you know where Hart has gone? I need to talk to him.”
She shook her head. “He and I had . . . a bit of an argument last night, so I fear he’s returned to London.”
His features softened. “Don’t worry about that. I checked with the grooms and they said he took a horse and left late last night. But he had no bags, and he promised to return the horse today. I thought perhaps he told you where he was going.”
“No.” Still, relief coursed through her. At least she hadn’t driven him beyond reach.
“There’s something else we should discuss. I fear that I may have given you the wrong impression about your fiancé last night.” He glanced out over the extensive grounds of Lord Knightford’s hunting lodge. “I should have regarded your questions more seriously, instead of using them to torment Hart. But he’s such a joking fellow that I sometimes forget the true nature lying beneath the easygoing façade.”
She swallowed. “What true nature is that?”
“Surely you’ve noticed it yourself. He’s loyal, responsible, and thorough. He takes his work very seriously, and I consider him an asset to my office. Which is what I should have told you.”
“You didn’t know who I was to him,” she said. “At least not until last night.”
“But I did know.” He turned to fix her with a hard stare. “He asked me about you, remember?”
“Yes, but you didn’t know why he was asking.”
“Actually, I did. Because when I asked why he wanted to know, he told me he’d offered marriage to you in your youth and had been turned down by your father.”
She blinked at him, shocked to hear that Hart had been so truthful about it, even from the beginning.
“He and I have no secrets, Lady Anne. Indeed, he told me he wished to renew his courtship of you. If you’d allow it.”
As hope wormed its way into her heart, she sucked in a breath. “But . . . but last night you seemed not to know . . . not to be aware of who I—”
“Because I never show my cards first. It’s always best to see the hand of one’s opponent before making a play.” He scrutinized her closely. “I assume Hart told you what he actually does for me?”
She drew into herself, unsure how much she should say.
“It’s all right. I assumed he would—he’s in love. And a man in love will reveal whatever he must to gain the woman of his dreams.”
Pain sliced through her. “How can you be sure he’s in love?”
Lord Fulkham chuckled softly. “My dear lady. Not for nothing have I been a spymaster all these years. It’s written all over his face when he speaks of you, talks to you, looks at you. I’ve never seen Hart like that with any other woman.” He fixed her with a serious glance. “But I haven’t quite determined how you feel about him.”
She tipped up her chin. “That’s not your concern.”
“It is, if it means that marrying you will distract him or throw him off his game. I have to be sure you’ll support him if I make his position more permanent.”
“Of course I’ll support him!” she said hotly. “If I marry him, it will only be because I intend to put everything I have into the marriage.”
“If you marry him? Why wouldn’t you?” He frowned. “Don’t you share his feelings?”
“Why don’t you tell me,” she snapped, “since you seem to have a knack for reading minds?”
That made him laugh. “Very well. I think you’re in love but scared. Though I haven’t quite figured out what it is about the prospect of being married to him that scares you.”
Her throat tightened. “I . . . I fear he’s only marrying me to help his career now that I’m the daughter of an earl and no longer that of a provincial merchant.”
“Ah. Well, if it helps, when he came to me that first night, he didn’t ask one word about your dowry or financial prospects. He asked if you were engaged or married or widowed. He asked about your parents. That’s all.”
It did help, even though she’d already ruled out the possibility that Hart had been after her fortune. It reinforced what she’d been coming to see more and more. That this older, wiser Hart was a man of character.
Still, it didn’t negate her other, more pressing fear. “Tell me truthfully. Do you think I’m too odd to be the wife of a man with his prospects?”
He raised an eyebrow. “So you’ve decided I’m not taking advantage of Hart after all, have you?” he drawled.
She winced. “I suppose I shouldn’t have said that, but—”
“You didn’t know the circumstances. It’s fine.” He flashed her a rueful smile. “And you made a good point. I have been taking him a bit for granted. Ever since my appointment as foreign secretary, I’ve put off giving him a permanent post because I knew it would create a fuss among other, more seasoned fellows.” He dragged in a heavy breath. “But it’s time I give him his due. Especially if he plans to marry.”
She dearly hoped he still did. “You haven’t answered my question.”
“About what? Ah, whether you’re too odd to be his wife.” He cocked his head. “I rather think you need to ask him that question.”
She sighed. “I will as soon as he returns.”
“But I believe I know what his answer will be. And I believe you do, too, if you just search your heart.”
With a smile, Lord Fulkham left.
Though Anne knew she should return to the ballroom, she just stood there. Lord Fulkham was right. She did know what Hart’s answer would be: that he loved her for herself. That he didn’t find her odd at all, and that it was only her own fears and insecurities that made her think otherwise.
Perhaps he hadn’t tried hard enough in their youth to keep them together, but then, neither had she. She could have left a letter behind for him with a trusted friend in Stilford. Why hadn’t she? Because of pride. She could have told Delia that she knew her brother-in-law, so Delia could arrange for them to meet again, and she hadn’t . . . because of pride.
They’d both made mistakes. But somehow they’d found their way back to each other, and she would be a fool indeed to let her fears stand in the way of her being with the man she loved.
That didn’t mean, however, that she should let her oddness stand in the way of his advancement. As Lord Fulkham said, Hart needed her full support. He could love her oddness all he liked in private, but if she were to be a politician’s wife, she must learn to be more circumspect in public.
So when he returned—oh, please, Lord, let him return—she would show him that she could be fully supportive of whatever Lord Fulkham had planned for him. Then perhaps they could finally put the past to rest and begin their new life together.
Hart barely made it back to Hatton Hall and into the ballroom that evening in time to hear the big announcement, delivered with great aplomb by Clarissa.
“Thanks to the wonderful people of Shrewsbury—and to the Ladies of St. George’s Club, of course—I’m pleased to announce that we’ve raised 5,246 pounds for the Burke Orphanage!”
Thunderous applause ensued as the head of the orphanage came to the stage, clearly dumbstruck by the amount as Clarissa handed him a large cheque. While the man launched into a long, droning speech, Hart searched the crowd for Anne, but he didn’t see her anywhere.
He was just starting to panic when Delia appeared beside him. “Where on earth have you been?” she demanded. “You were supposed to help me with the sale, and then you just disappeared into thin air—”
“Where’s Anne?”
“And now you waltz in here—once again not at all appropriately dressed for a ball—and—”
“Where the bloody hell is Anne?”
She blinked. Finally, he had her attention.
The fellow giving his speech was done now, so the crowd was mingling. Delia scanned the room. “There. Right there.”
The woman she’d indicated, who had her back to him, couldn’t possibly be Anne. She was the right shape and height, but she wore the tiniest of turbans, only large enough to cover all her hair from the back. But she was talking to Fulkham, and now she turned just a fraction so that he caught a flash of brilliant red curls. It had to be her.
With his heart pounding in his ears, he strode toward her. Had Anne abandoned her flamboyant hats because she’d already given up on him and was seeking another husband? What the devil was going on?
“Lady Anne!” he called out when it looked as if she might walk off.
She turned, and the rush of relief on her face reassured him. “Hart! Oh, thank heaven! I was so worried. I thought something might have happened to you. Where have you been? His lordship and I have been frantic!”
Fulkham raised an eyebrow. “I have not been frantic, but I did wonder.”
“I’ll tell you where I’ve been,” Hart said tersely, noticing the crowd of his friends and relations forming around them, “but privately.”
“Oh, no, you don’t,” his brother said as Delia went to his side. “If this is what I suspect it is, then you are definitely doing this publicly. After all the ribbing you’ve given the rest of us, it’s our turn to watch.”
The other chaps wholeheartedly agreed, to Hart’s chagrin.
Hart glared at them all. “I am not going to embarrass Lady Anne by—”
“It’s all right,” Anne said. “I don’t mind if they hear.”
He glanced at her to find her gazing at him with such melting softness that it revived all his hopes. “Well then.” He steadied his nerves. “I’ve been to your family estate in Lancashire to speak to your father’s heir.”
That seemed to take her entirely off guard. “What? Why?”
God, he hated doing this in front of an audience. But at least the St. George’s Club chaps and their wives formed a barrier between him and the onlookers from town. “Because I wanted to be sure you had sufficient income to be comfortable while I’m finishing my education to become a barrister.”
As her mouth dropped open, Fulkham muttered a curse and said, “I’m putting an end to this nonsense right now—”
“Let him finish,” Anne said. “I want to hear what he has to say.”
When a murmuring began among his friends, he swallowed hard, then forced himself to continue the speech he’d practiced all the way back from Lancashire. “I fear I can’t support you on a law clerk’s salary, so as much as I wish to marry you right away, we should probably wait until I become a barrister.”
She eyed him uncertainly. “But you said you didn’t want to study law.”
“I don’t want you thinking I’m marrying you to further my career in politics, and I can think of no other way to prove it to you than to take up my previous profession. Besides, you want me to have a more steady position, and law is that.” He stepped closer to take her hands in his. “Truth is, I don’t care what I do, as long as I have you as my wife while I’m doing it. I love you, Anne.”
“Awwww,” the ladies around them said, almost as one.
Anne beamed at him. “I love you, too, Hart.” Then, oddly enough, she turned to Fulkham. “All right, now you can put an end to his nonsense.”
“You are not becoming a law clerk or barrister or any of that,” Fulkham snapped. “You’re going to work for me as my undersecretary. And that is final.”
For a moment, Hart just gaped at Fulkham. Then, looping his arm about Anne’s waist protectively, he stared the man down. “Only if Anne agrees.”
Anne stretched up to whisper in his ear, “We worked it all out while you were gone. You’ll have a salary and everything as undersecretary and spymaster. Say yes, Hart. I want you to if it’s what you want.”
He gazed down at her, and the love shining in her eyes fairly set him back on his heels. Then he held out his free hand to Fulkham. “Very well. I accept your offer.”
As Fulkham shook his hand, the crowd burst into cheers and applause, though Hart doubted any of them really knew what had just gone on.
When the group around them erupted into chatter, he bent down and murmured in Anne’s ear, “Now can we speak privately?”
“I should hope so.” Anne glanced at his mud-spattered trousers. “Besides, you aren’t remotely dressed for dancing.”
“As I recall, you hate dancing, anyway.”
She grinned. “You know me so well.”
Chuckling, they slipped from the ballroom and found the library, which seemed to have become their favorite meeting place. He wasted no time in tugging her into his arms and kissing her for a good long while.
Then he drew back to say, “Happy Saint Valentine’s Day, dearest.”
“Happy Saint Valentine’s Day, my love.” She fussed with his cravat. “I hope that your acceptance of Lord Fulkham’s offer means we don’t have to wait to marry. Once you were gone, I realized that all I wanted was you, however I could have you.” Her eyes shone with tears of happiness. “We’ve wasted enough time already, and we’ve both made mistakes that brought us to this pass. So perhaps we should start making memories together, instead.”
His breath caught in his throat. God, he loved this woman so much.
But he did want to clear up one thing. “Does that mean you’ll get rid of this ridiculous excuse for a hat?” he asked as he poked her silk turban. “Why, it doesn’t even have any feathers.”
“Hart! Now that you’re going to be undersecretary, I can’t be wearing outrageous hats anymore.”
“If a requirement for the post is that you give up your hats, sweetheart, then I’m resigning before I begin.” He cupped her cheek in his hand. “Those hats are the essence of who you are. I would no more trade them for boring ones than I would trade you for one of those insipid debutantes with blond hair and unfreckled skin and dull conversation about the weather.”
She gave him such a tremulous smile of joy that he just had to kiss her again.
Then he touched his forehead to hers. “So how about you go upstairs, exchange that ridiculously demure turban for one of your gloriously spectacular hats, and then we’ll sit out every dance and discuss what sort of house we mean to rent in London.”
“Or,” she said, eyes bright, “why don’t we both go upstairs and you can help me pick out my hat.” She skimmed his form with a sultry look. “Then I can help you change into clothing more appropriate for a ball.”
His blood leapt in his veins. “I like the way you think. Though you should take care. It shows you’re becoming almost as wicked as I, sweetheart.”
“That’s the risk of rogues, sir. They tempt women to be wicked.” She grinned. “Thank goodness.”