Harry set down the gold-framed spectacles and reached for another lighter, oval-shaped pair. He turned them over in his hands, imagining her as she’d been squinting desperately to make sense of the words on a page, words which had been about him and his actions the previous evening. Why should Anne care whether he’d been with another woman? Why, unless…she cared… And why did he want her to care? History had shown him the dangers in forming any emotional entanglements with a woman who’d pledged to wed a duke.
“And how blurred are the words when this,” the doctor coughed into his hand, “person is reading?”
Startled, Harry dropped the pair of spectacles. They landed with a soft clink upon the collection of other frames assembled before him. “Quite blurred,” he said quickly. Unbidden, a smile pulled at his lips in remembrance of Anne with her copy of The Times and the indignant expression on her furious, heart-shaped face.
“My lord?”
The doctor’s prodding jerked him from his senseless musings. Harry gave his head a disgusted shake and grabbed another pair. “Sh…He, squints.” He picked up a forgotten copy of The Times at the corner of his desk. He held it up and angled the pages away from him to display the angle. “Holds the page about here and squints.” He demonstrated for the old doctor once more the extent of Anne’s squint. “In this manner.”
“Ahh.”
That was it? Just ‘ahh.’ “Also tilts the page toward the light.” He remembered her as she’d been, endearing and enticing in her innocent attempt to muddle her way through the reading of that page. Harry threw the paper down and reached for a third pair of the thin metal frames. “And can you help h-…this person?”
The doctor’s face settled into a very somber, very doctorly mask. “I would have a better gauge on just what is best for this,” he arched an eyebrow, “gentleman in terms of the actual lenses if I were to meet—”
“No.”
“And assess—”
“Still no.” Harry tugged his cravat. “This gentleman is quite busy. Quite,” he added. A gentleman did not give a young lady gifts unless he was prepared to declare for her.
“I see.”
A knowing sparkle lit the man’s kindly blue eyes. Dr. Craven likely assumed Harry’s delicate purchase was for a well-favored mistress. Nothing could be further from the truth.
And all the more dangerous for it. Harry, the Earl of Stanhope, did not call family physicians to his townhouse with a collection of lady’s spectacles and have a pair commissioned; not for a respectable young woman.
Outside of expensive, extravagant, and emotionally insignificant jewels he’d purchased for mistresses through the years, he’d never gifted such a personal and meaningful item—to anyone. And yet, he wanted, nay, needed to make this purchase for Anne.
His mind shied away from the implications of this gift. He looked at the pair of spectacles he currently held. Silver, delicate. He weighed this pair in his palm the way he had the previous pairs. This frame would not be uncomfortable for the lady to wear. He held them up. Sunlight filtered through the drawn back curtains from the full floor-length windows. It reflected off the metallic rim. He imagined Anne in the spectacles and not much more. Biting back a groan at the enticing image, he shoved the pair toward Dr. Craven. “These will do.”
Perfectly.
The doctor tucked them into the front of his coat. “I cannot promise the lenses will be completely perfect for the young…person.”
“Do the best you are able.” Without seeing the lady. Because if this intimate gift for the unwed Lady Anne was discovered by the ton, the young woman would be ruined as surely as if he’d been discovered with her in Lord Essex’s conservatory that first night. “I imagine whatever you manage will be a vast improvement to what the la…person sees now while reading.” Which was next to nothing based on Harry’s earlier observation.
The physician stood up. He opened his mouth to speak but was interrupted by a knock at the door.
Renshaw, Harry’s butler, opened the door and cleared his throat. “Lord Edgerton,” he announced and backed out of the room.
Harry hopped guiltily to his feet. Heat crept up his neck as his friend entered the room.
The other man swept an entirely too astute gaze over the room, lingering a moment upon the doctor, and then of course, the collection of spectacles still littering Harry’s desk. He quirked a mocking eyebrow.
Harry silently cursed and gathered the wire frames into a neat little pile and handed the stack over to Dr. Craven who accepted the awkward bundle in his aged hands.
Dr. Craven executed a slight brow. “If that is all, my lord?”
“That is all,” he said tersely. “Thank you,” he added as an afterthought. The old doctor was hardly to blame for Edgerton’s ill-timing.
“I will bring them round as soon as they are complete, my lord.”
“Splendid.” And it would be a good deal more splendid if the other man took himself off. For the more he spoke, the more interest flared in Edgerton’s amused eyes.
The doctor sketched another bow and then hurried past Edgerton and out of the room. He closed the door behind him with a soft click.
Harry propped his hip on the edge of his desk and folded his arms across his chest. “To what do I owe the pleasure of this visit?”
His friend scoffed. “Come, now, can a friend not pay another friend a visit?” He didn’t await an answer. Instead, he crossed over to Harry’s sideboard and availed himself to a decanter of brandy and a crystal glass. He carried them to the front of the room and claimed one of the leather winged-back chairs at the foot of Harry’s desk. Edgerton yanked the stopper out and splashed several fingerfuls into his glass.
“By all means, help yourself,” Harry said drolly.
“Indeed I shall.” Edgerton raised the glass in mock salute and took a drink. He hooked his ankle across his knee and drummed his fingers along the edge of his boot. “Spectacles.”
Of course he could not expect his friend would abandon all questions about Dr. Craven’s visit. “Is that a question?” he asked, with a touch of impatience.
Edgerton took another sip and eyed him over the rim of his glass. “Never tell me you’ve begun taking on with a bluestocking mistress?” He shuddered. “Egad, you’re becoming stuffy in your advancing years.” Humor fled and he leaned forward. “Who is she?”
Harry gritted his teeth. “Who is who?” He didn’t need the other man asking probing questions when all answers led back to Lady Anne Adamson.
Edgerton’s brown eyebrows knitted into a single line and then he let loose a slow whistle. He gave his head a pitying shake.
Harry tightened his jaw. “What?” he bit out. He really didn’t want to feed the other man’s humor but really, what had merited Edgerton’s pity?
“Why, they aren’t for a bluestocking mistress, after all, are they?”
Somehow, Edgerton’s words were a question that wasn’t a question. Harry remained silent.
“They are for…”
Christ.
“A lady.”
Harry went taut. In spite of a lifetime of friendship between them, he welcomed the idea of handing Edgerton a well-placed facer for his deliberate needling.
A sharp bark of hilarity exploded from his friend’s chest. The other man laughed so hard, liquid drops of brandy splashed over the side of his glass. “Oh, th-this is rich!” He set his tumbler down on the edge of Harry’s desk and dashed tears from his cheeks.
Harry drummed his fingertips upon his forearms. “I’m pleased you find this hilarious, though I must admit I can hardly fathom, what—”
“Why, you’ve gone and purchased spectacles for a lady who I gather is not your mistress.”
“You know I do not have a mistress,” he replied automatically. Bloody hell!
Edgerton widened his eyes.
Why hadn’t he insisted they were, in fact, for a bluestocking mistress, a lie far safer than the truth? He braced himself, knowing his friend
well-enough to know he’d correctly surmised the young lady’s identity.
Edgerton reached inside his jacket and withdrew a crisp, white handkerchief. He dried the moisture from his cheeks and then stuffed it back inside his front pocket. “By God, it’s the Lady Anne.”
Harry let his silence serve as an answer.
His friend snorted. “Though I suspect a young lady as vain as Lady Anne would not be seen in spectacles, even if the queen herself declared it the latest fashion trend.” He chuckled. “Then, perhaps offer the lady a title of duchess and she’ll walk herself upside down by her hands if she had to.”
He balled his hands into tight fists at his friend’s ill-favored opinion of Anne. I’ll not be destitute again, Harry. Not because I’m avaricious, as you’ve accused me, but because I knew the terror of lying awake and wondering what is to become of your family…
Edgerton uncrossed his leg and rested his palms upon his knees. All earlier humor fled, replaced with a somber concern.
“I know what I am doing,” Harry muttered before his friend could speak.
“Do you?” Edgerton asked. “Do you?” he pressed.
Harry looked away. As wrong as Edgerton’s unfavorable opinion of Anne happened to be, in this regard, the other man was right. He really didn’t know what he was doing; first agreeing to help Anne in her quest for the heart of a duke. And now, in this, buying gifts for a lady who wanted nothing more than the security, stability, and title she could find in Crawford.
“I saw you betrayed once by a grasping, avaricious, fickle creature. Lady Margaret was undeserving of you and so is this one, Stanhope.”
Harry inclined his head. “I thank you for your concern.” Edgerton had been a good friend to him these years. The best. “But it is unwarranted.” He glanced over at the ormolu clock atop his fireplace mantle. “Now, if you’ll excuse me. I’ve business to see to.”
Edgerton eyed him skeptically. “Oh?” There were a million shades of doubt within that single, syllable utterance.
Harry shoved himself off his desk. “I’m meeting Lord Westmoreland on a matter of importance.” He sketched a quick bow and abandoned his friend to his own devices.
As he took his leave, Edgerton’s dangerous charges dogged his every thought.
Chapter 14
A whispery soft spring breeze tugged at Anne’s hair and freed a single ringlet. She brushed the strand from her eyes, her attention fixed on the same page she’d been attempting to read from The Mysteries of Udolpho. With a sigh, she conceded the futility of her efforts. Her inability to focus had little to do with the blurred words of the scandalous volume given her by Aldora, and everything to do with a too-charming Earl of Stanhope.
Anne tossed the book onto the ground and threw herself back upon the blanket. She flung her arms out beside her and stared up at the robin’s egg blue-sky overhead and the smattering of orange and pink sun-kissed clouds from the early dawn.
For the briefest smidgeon of time, as Harry had held her fingers in his and tended her burned digits, she’d imagined he intended to kiss her again. She’d been so certain of it; she’d have wagered every last ribbon of her possession, which said a good deal, considering she’d sooner send all gamblers to the devil than join their ranks. The absence of that kiss only served to reiterate the importance of not wagering—funds, markers, or hearts. None of it.
Anne plucked at the thick blades of grass in the tucked away copse. She raised a strand to her lips and blew the long, green wisp. It fluttered and danced, and ultimately landed upon the earth. She grabbed the forgotten volume and held it over head, determined to set Harry from her thoughts, determined to call forth the images of an entirely suitable, pleasantly handsome duke who smiled at the right moments and never, ever did anything as scandalous as try to kiss her.
Kisses intended mostly to silence her that did not reek of cardamom and brandy as Lord Ackland, but rather the hint of cinnamon and mint like a holiday treat. She groaned and knocked the book against her forehead. “Do. Not. Be. A. Fool, Anne Arlette Adamson.” Not for one such as Harry, whose heart belonged to an unworthy lady who bore some lofty title and little else…
She shoved herself up onto her knees. Her heart dropped to her stomach. Just as you, yourself will, a niggling voice taunted. She remembered the harsher charges Harry had leveled at her and guilt hammered her breast.
Only, on the heels of that was her mother’s recent warning about Harry. The rub of it was, Anne had spent years determined to not be the bitter, heartbroken woman her mother had evolved into over the years. She’d resolved to wed a perfectly respectable, staid, pleasantly handsome, unfailingly polite nobleman.
She flung herself back upon the lush blanket of grass and fanned the pages of her book. The gentle breeze wafted across her face. Harry, or anyone, could certainly construe her desire for a powerful, and powerfully wealthy, duke’s hand as mercurial. Only after the string of mistresses held by Father, his betrayal of Mother and their family’s security, Anne’s girlish notions of love had been forever shattered—replaced instead with a calm practicality and a hope for love…nothing more than that—hope.
Then Aldora found Lord Michael Knightly who loved her eldest sister to distraction. Then Katherine had fallen madly in love with Jasper. And Anne had begun to believe perhaps, just perhaps, she too could know love, as well as the heart of a duke prophesied by a gypsy woman to the young ladies who wore the gold charm.
Anne touched the talisman about her neck. It really needn’t be a duke. Why, he might be a marquess, a viscount, or even…an earl. Wistfulness swept through her. She’d barter her every last ribbon and all hope of the title duchess for the man who wanted nothing more than to hold her heart, which flew in the face of her resolve to never be reduced to her mother’s sorry state. Sometime between Lord Essex’s conservatory and this very moment, her firm resolve to find security and stability as a formidable, wealthy duchess had slipped.
Harry’s face danced behind her eyes and she forced his visage back. She pressed the spine of the book against her eyes. There were too many follies to count in wishing for anything more from him, to whom every woman bore the moniker sweet. She frowned. The least the ever-charming earl could do was to adapt something cleverer such as…goddess of my heart, keeper of my love…anything but sweet.
No, to hope for anything more from one such as him would be tantamount to disaster. Determined to forget thoughts of Harry, she lowered the book closer to her face and squinted. She angled the page in attempt to bring the words into focus, damning her blasted vision. Hating the vanity of her mother and the haute ton that discouraged necessary pleasures…such as sight. A gentleman never weds a woman in spectacles, Anne, Mother had scolded on more scores than she could remember. Of course, Aldora had secured a happy, if less illustrious match, with a wealthy gentleman who loved her to distraction—spectacles and all. Mother pointedly ignored that reminder whenever Anne put it to her.
She stuck the leather volume out, arm’s length in front of her and deepened her squint in attempt to make sense of the words. A shadow fell across the early morning sun. She blinked as she registered Harry’s towering figure. He stood above her, a grin on his firm lips…and all her earlier resolve weakened at the ease of his smile. “Harry,” she greeted. “Whatever are you doing here?” She returned his smile from around the opened book.
He leaned over and plucked the tome from her fingers. “I came to see you.”
Her heart fluttered wildly, even as she knew the dangers of that fool sensation. “You did?”
He nodded.
“How did you know where to find me?”
He winked. “I’ve my ways, love.” He paused. “My footman bribed one of your maids.”
A startled laugh burst from her lips. “You’re incorrigible.” However, warmth spiraled through her belly and fanned out, heating her through. He’d cared enough, wanted to see her enough that he’d sent a footman to find her maid to discover her whereabouts.
&nbs
p; Then she froze. The air suspended in her lungs as his words registered. All of his words. In the span of a moment she’d become more than just ‘sweet’… She’d become his ‘love’. And though a man such as Harry would never mean anything more by that endearment, warmth exploded into a fiery conflagration inside her heart, and spread out with a growing force through every corner of her being.
His next words snuffed out all hint of romantic musings faster than a strong night wind on a candle’s wick. “It is as I suspected before,” he murmured. “You cannot see.”
Anne made no attempt at ceremony. “I can see.” She made an unsuccessful grab at her book. “I just cannot see so very well when I’m reading,” she muttered.
“Tsk, tsk.” He held the book out of her reach. “Never tell me you are too proud for something as common as spectacles.” He crouched beside her.
More Than a Duke (Heart of a Duke Book 2) Page 15