More Than a Duke (Heart of a Duke Book 2)

by Christi Caldwell

  And in that moment Anne realized the Duke of Crawford had a sense of humor. She smiled, suddenly, unexpectedly at ease. “Not horror,” she assured him. She claimed the edge of the ivory embroidered sofa and motioned to the chair opposite her.

  He flicked his coattails and settled into the gold-trimmed armchair. “Shock, then?”

  Shock that had everything to do with a strikingly powerful, golden-haired gentleman, and nothing to do with this man. “Perhaps a wee bit of shock.”

  They shared a smile.

  Relief surged through her as Mary discreetly slipped into the room. The maid sought out her usual chair at the far back corner of the large parlor. Anne supposed she should have welcomed the time without her chaperone. Except she hadn’t. This man, a stranger, did not rouse the gentle ease that Harry’s presence did.

  The duke sat back in his seat. He folded his arms across his broad, surprisingly well-muscled chest. Hmm, she’d have imagined he’d be one of those padded gentleman. It seemed not. His lips pulled at the corner and her skin warmed with embarrassment. He’d clearly noted her study and most likely took it for interest. Which it was assuredly not. Though handsome, it would be nigh impossible to admire any other figure when Harry had taken her in his arms and all but made love to her.

  Or had he made love to her?

  She suspected there was an element of lovemaking to what had transpired between them in their tucked away copse—

  “I would trade my country holdings to know the reason for that delightful smile.”

  She jumped. “That would be rather a waste of your country holdings, Your Grace.” And the end of her reputation if her actions this morning were discovered.

  “Well, I have a good deal in terms of holdings, that it wouldn’t be missed.” At one time that would have mattered a great deal to her. Not anymore. “Why do I gather from your reaction that you seem wholly unimpressed by such a claim?”

  Anne fiddled with the spectacles in her hands. Why, indeed? Why, when she’d craved monetary security above all else these nearly eight years now? Despite her family’s and Society’s ill-opinion of her, she craved more than material possessions. She yearned for stability. Harry’s grin flitted through her mind. And there was nothing stable in loving a man such a Harry. “Not at all,” she said at long last. Long enough for him to surely note her pause and detect the certain lie there.

  He leaned forward. The scent of him, sandalwood and spice, pleasant but not Harry, wafted about her. “May I speak candidly?” he said with a bluntness that surely came from someone in possession of his lofty rank.

  She nodded. “I prefer candid to veiled, Your Grace.”

  That fleeting grin tugged at his lips and then disappeared, settling into a familiar, unsmiling mask of this man who seemed to fear expressions of mirth. Was it merely his station? Or had something happened to turn him so very serious? Her own girlhood had taught her that no one could truly understand what shaped an individual’s past. “I’d ask for your hand if I thought you might say yes,” he said quietly.

  Anne blinked as his words penetrated her musings. “Beg pardon?”

  He stretched his legs in front of him as though he’d asked for refreshments and not just hinted at an offer of marriage. “Marriage, my lady.”

  “But you don’t know me,” she blurted. Her heart drummed loudly in her ears, steady, loud, and hard; a painful staccato that threatened her with a devilish headache.

  “I know enough to know you’d make a suitable duchess.”

  She frowned. That is what he’d base a marital offer upon? Her being suitable. Garments were suitable. Portions of the morning meals were suitable. Potential spouses were not.

  “Most young ladies would be pleased by my words,” he said with a bluntness she appreciated.

  “I’m not most young ladies, Your Grace.”

  He inclined his head. “No. Which is why I’d make you my duchess. If I thought you might say yes,” he added once more. Many marriages had begun from less. Most had begun from more. “Alas, I’d venture you’d toss away the opportunity to be my duchess for Lord Stanhope.”

  Her heart paused mid-beat.

  “You needn’t say anything. It is written in every line of your face when he enters a room.”

  Heat rushed her cheeks. If she’d been transparent to this gentleman, a stranger, then surely Harry had noted her unwise interest. The duke’s gaze fell to her mouth. Smile with your eyes. And your lips as one. A sultry, sweet smile, Anne. A smile that convinces a man he’s the only one in the room… She couldn’t. Not even if a smile were to mean the title of Queen of England.

  “But when you realize Stanhope won’t make you his wife, then I’ll have you.”

  He spoke as a man accustomed to having his wishes honored.

  A knock sounded at the door, and Anne was saved from answering. She glanced toward the door, past the butler, to the commanding gentleman at the entrance. A light sensation lifted her heart at Harry’s unexpected appearance.

  Ollie cleared his throat. “The Earl of Stanhope.” The old servant bowed and shuffled past the earl.

  What is he doing here? Her heart kicked up a beat. With the speed of his earlier departure, she’d thought not to see him until he decided to impart the next lesson.

  Only, Harry stood at the entrance of the room, his primal gaze lingering on the duke. Then, he shifted his attention to Anne. “My lady.”

  Anne rose quickly. Her skirts snapped about her ankles. She dropped a curtsy. “My lord.”

  An awkward pall descended upon the room. The duke stood. Tension fairly dripped from his formidable frame. He issued a stiff bow. “If you’ll excuse me. I’ll leave you to your visit.” He held Anne’s gaze. “I encourage you to think on what I’ve said.”

  Harry stepped aside as the duke made to take his exit. The two men eyed each other a long moment, and then without a word, the Duke of Crawford left.

  Harry strolled into the room. Once again the familiar, affable, coolly elegant gentleman she’d come to know. “What was that about?” he asked on a lazy drawl.

  She fisted her hands. How could he appear so unaffected by her nearness when he now consumed her sleeping and waking thoughts? “He expressed an interest in courting me,” she said bluntly. Though his words had actually danced more around marriage than anything else. Something called that truth back.

  He paused mid-stride. Then he completed the step. He continued walking until he came to a stop before her. “Oh?” he arched a golden brow.

  “Mary,” she called to her maid across the room. “Will you fetch my book?”

  “Which book will you require, my lady?” The young woman sprang from her seat.

  “Any book shall do.”

  The maid hesitated and then raced from the room

  Anne drew in a breath. She dug her toes into the soles of her slippers so tight, the arch of her foot ached. She loved him. Against all better judgment. Against all her earlier convictions to never be one of his ladies in the conservatory. But then, in matters of the heart, things such as logic and reason ceased to exist and deep down, she believed his curt ‘oh’ concealed more than he wished to reveal.

  Even if it didn’t, she needed to tell him. She needed for him to know he owned her heart in ways Crawford or no other gentleman could. If she didn’t confess her love and allowed him to think he meant no more to her than a lesson in seduction, there would never be even the hope of more. Not with him.

  ~*~

  Harry affected an attitude of indifference. He glanced disinterestedly at the suspicious maid who hurried to do her mistress’ bidding even as a volatile force thrummed through his entire being. A primitive urge filled him. A desire to drag Anne close, and brand her as his with a hot, furious kiss.

  He captured the heart pendant around her neck between his thumb and forefinger. She’d enlisted his aid solely to win the heart of a duke and by Crawford’s appearance and the lady’s words, it seemed to have proven wholly effective. “It wou
ld appear your bauble has served you well.”

  She flinched as though he’d struck her.

  Sheer madness had compelled him to visit. He’d taken his leave of her in Hyde Park just a short while ago. Yet, she’d managed to weave some captivating spell that drove back logic and the sense to avoid a woman like Anne. A woman who’d settle for nothing less than marriage…and in her case, a duke.

  Just like Margaret.

  Yet, at the same time nothing like Margaret. Only now could he force himself to acknowledge that truth. Instead of finding comfort in the differences in the women, panic battered his insides. He preferred the Lady Anne he’d believed her to be this past year who would sell her soul for the title of duchess because then it would make the idea of losing her, something he could survive. “You’ll marry him, then,” he said, his voice flat.

  She placed her hand over his, stilling his distracted movement. “I don’t believe I will.”

  Harry froze. He studied their connected fingers. “Why?” he demanded hoarsely.

  She tilted her head back. The graceful column of her throat moved up and down. “I find I do not really want a duke, after all, Harry.”

  Don’t ask the question unless you’re prepared for her answer. “Why?”

  Her lids fluttered. “I rather find an earl would do quite nicely.”

  He sucked in a breath. “What game do you play?” he asked, his tone harsh.

  Anne eyed him with gentle warmth that threatened to undo him. “There is no game, Harry.”

  For a long time, he’d viewed Anne as a selfish, title-hungry miss, who’d have Crawford at any cost. After all, isn’t that ultimately what all young ladies craved? But now, for the first time, someone had chosen Harry…over a powerful duke.

  Nay, not someone. Anne. She’d chosen him. And it scared the bloody hell out of him. Christ. Set her away. Release her hand. Turn on your heel. He could never be all she required in a husband, nor could he open himself up to trusting again. Why not? a voice needled. She could have Crawford, but she would throw him over—for me. “Anne,” he said gruffly. But for her name, for the first time, in a very long time, words failed him.

  “You needn’t say anything.” She gave him a small smile. “I do not expect a pledge of love or undying devotion.” she wrinkled her nose. “Though a strong modicum of devotion would do.” Her lips turned down. “That isn’t to say I’d appreciate your conducting yourself in a roguish manner as you have these years now. I wouldn’t. So in that sense, I’d rather you be devoted.”

  A quiet laugh rumbled up from his throat. “What are you trying to say?”

  She looked him square in the eyes. “I love you, Harry and I know it is the height of foolishness to entrust my heart to one such as you…”

  At her innocent admission, a blinding panic filled him. The cynical Harry who’d first kissed her in Lord Essex’ conservatory would have sneered at Anne’s words of love. This new man, a stranger he no longer recognized, instead fixed on her last four words. One such as you…? He rather detested the sound of that. Granted, the lady was, of course, accurate—it was madness to entrust any part of her to his unscrupulous hands.

  God help him, though.

  He wanted her. And perhaps this desire to hold her, to claim her, to make her laugh and tease her were transient sentiments that would fade in the days and weeks he came to know her. But for now, he could only focus on this overwhelming desire to make her his and drive away any thoughts she might still have of pleasantly handsome, unfailingly polite, and wealthy dukes in possession of one of the oldest titles… He searched her face, and more importantly, searched for words, but he could not promise her forever.

  Harry opened his mouth and Anne jabbed him in the chest. “Don’t look at me like that. As though you pity me,” she clarified. “As though you’re trying to find a sufficient response. I don’t crave empty words from you.” She held his gaze. “I’d have only the truth.”

  And yet, she deserved more than that. For all the times he’d scoffed at her selection of Crawford. The duke was, in fact, the better, more respectable match she deserved. Harry, would always be a rogue. He dropped his brow to hers. “I don’t know if I’ll ever have the words you crave and assuredly deserve, but I know I want you. And when I eventually do right by the Stanhope line, then I imagine a union with you would suffice.” His lips pulled in a grimace. His declaration was not the heartfelt words any young lady hoped for. He’d not fill her ears with platitudes and falsities most young ladies hung their hopes and dreams upon.

  “Suffice?” That low, drawn out whisper would have been enough to raise terror in most men. She stuck another finger in his chest. “Did you say a marriage to me would…suffice?”

  He flinched, recognizing the certain dangers when a lady tended to repeat herself in that outraged tone. He eyed the path of escape over her shoulder. Yes, he really should have a care. “What would you have me say?” He cared about her enough to not lie to her. “I thought you desired the truth, Anne, and I’ve given you that. What would you have of me? I’ve told you before, there is nothing left of my heart.”

  Her body jerked and he would have traded every single one of his holdings to call the words back, if for no other reason than to spare her this hurt. “No. You are indeed, correct,” she said huskily. “I’d not have falsity from you.” Her eyes blazed with the force of her emotion. “I’ll not have a man marry me because I’m suitable. My mother had my father because he sufficed.”

  He growled, not caring about being tucked into a neat little category with men such as her father, as effortlessly as she arranged her satin ribbons.

  She gave a terse nod and stepped out of his arms. “Very well, Harry.” She held a hand out.

  Harry eyed the five graceful fingers warily, knowing Anne enough to know there was certainly more to that ‘very, well, Harry.' He took her fingers in his.

  Anne gave his hand a solid shake. She looked to the doorway. He followed her gaze to the wide-eyed maid who stood in the entrance, a leather book in her hands.

  “Mary,” she said. “Lord Stanhope was just leaving.” She gave a toss of her loose, golden waves. With head held as high as the queen marching past her lowly subjects, she sailed past her maid and out of the room.

  As Harry stood, staring after her, he couldn’t rid himself of a sudden sense of foreboding that Lady Anne Adamson had launched an all out battle.

  Chapter 16

  Standing in front of the bevel glass mirror at the corner of her room, Anne came to a very unexpected revelation. She might perhaps be just a bit more than a pleasingly-pretty-proper-English-miss, as the paper’s had labeled her during her first Season. Those same gossip columns had lamented that a placid English miss should find herself still unwed after a second Season. Now, she thought perhaps there was a bit more merit to Harry’s claims on the art of seduction and beauty than she’d originally credited. Oh, that isn’t to say she’d not trusted his judgment over hers in matters of…of…er, ensuring a person’s notice.

  She’d just not quite imagined how a single gown, a different coiffure, and a strategically placed strand of hair could transform someone.

  Anne tilted her head and studied herself objectively as she tried to see the woman Harry might see that evening. If the lout left his clubs to attend a single one of the same soirees Mother had accepted invitations to. The diaphanous burnt orange satin clung to her skin. A single thread of gold lined the daring décolletage. She touched the loose curl woven with a pale orange ribbon that dangled between the swell of her breasts.

  Would he be indifferent toward the woman who employed the carefully taught strategies he’d given her this past week? Would he see her as a hellish termagant, as he’d called her on countless occasions? Or would he see in her a sufficient match when he…nay, if he ever decided to set aside his roguish ways?

  “You are beautiful, my lady,” her maid, Mary, breathed over her shoulder.

  She caught her maid’s shocked visage in the
mirror. “Do you believe my mother will concur?”

  Mary snorted.

  Anne’s lips pulled up in a humorless smile. “When do you venture she’ll permit me to leave the townhouse after this display?”

  “Perhaps next winter,” Mary replied automatically. She held up the silver muslin cloak in her hands.

  Anne presented her back and allowed the young woman to assist her into the garment. She fastened the hooks at her throat. Approaching her twenty-first year and mid-way through her third Season, certain liberties were afforded the young women who claimed the same unwed status. She squared her shoulders, feeling she imagined much the way Wellington had at Waterloo, and marched to the door. Mary pulled it open.

  Anne concentrated on the soft pad of silver slippers upon the thin, carpeted floor. She counted each step, in doing so she’d not have to consider Mother’s inevitable outrage, but worse—the possibility that all her efforts tonight would be for naught. The scandalous measures she’d gone to, seeking out the most sophisticated, lauded French modiste and turning over every last coin of her pin money to have a stunning creation readied in such a short span of time.