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

by Christi Caldwell

  Her sister, Katherine whispered something against her ear. The ghost of a smile played about Anne’s red, bow-shaped lips and he cursed himself for the inherent weakness inside that made him long to cross over, rip the gauzy mask from her face and make love to her deceitful mouth.

  As though his wicked thought burned an awareness into her, she squared her creamy white shoulders and continued her search. Their gazes collided.

  The din of chatter and the orchestra’s distant strands faded into nothing more than background noise. …You’ve served your purpose… Her cruelly, mocking words weaved around his mind and he touched the slip of fabric buried inside his coat, pressed against his heart, a forever reminder of Lady Anne Adamson’s faithlessness. He raised his glass in mock salute.

  Color flooded her cheeks and she dropped her stare to the ground, but not before he detected the trace of hurt.

  He scoffed. A heartless, title-grasping wench like Anne was incapable of being wounded.

  From across the stretch of lawn, Katherine glared at him. He bowed low at the waist. If looks could kill a person, he’d have been flayed to bits by the fury in her once friendly eyes. She snapped her skirts and presented him with her back.

  Just another thing destroyed by Anne’s cruel hands; not only his heart, but his friendship with her loyal, devoted sister.

  “Look away, Stanhope,” Edgerton murmured at his shoulder. “Neither of those ladies is worth your time or efforts.”

  Katherine had been. Her sister, well, Anne had not, nor would she ever be worthy of his time and efforts and yet, he could not ignore this tangible pull between them.

  A familiar, loathsome form materialized behind Anne. The bastard, in his arrogance hadn’t even deigned to wear a costume. The Duke of Crawford called her attention away and capturing Anne’s fingers, he bowed over her hand.

  Harry tortured himself with the blush that climbed her neck and cheeks, a blush she surely summoned on will alone. Fleecing hearts, indeed.

  “One viper for another,” his friend muttered. Harry followed his stare to the approaching, Athena in pleated Greek skirts.

  Lady Margaret stopped before them. “Hullo, Harry,” she greeted, her voice thick with emotion.

  He cast a glance over her delicate shoulders and found Anne’s focus on his exchange with Margaret. Relishing the momentary flash of regret that flickered in her eyes, he raised Margaret’s hand to his lips. And this time, he allowed her to drag him away from the reminders of his greatest mistake in life.

  As he followed her down the dimly lit gravel path, he registered a pair of eyes trained on his back. It was foolish to imagine it was Anne. She’d been quite explicit in her feelings for him and her aspirations for Crawford.

  “The Lord Stanhope I remember was always full of humor and quick to speak,” Margaret murmured, pulling him back to the moment.

  “Fighting a duel for a young lady who then chooses an old letch tends to make a gentleman more cautious.” But not cautious enough to know better than to give his heart to Anne.

  Margaret paused beside a towering fountain. Fireworks lit the sky in hues of red and orange, illuminating the bubbling water. She stared down silently as though searching for words. “I spent nearly eight years regretting my marriage, Harry. I thought I might be happy with the title of duchess,” she confessed.

  Just as Anne. Only Anne’s duke would be pleasantly handsome, unfailingly polite, wealthy and in possession of one of the oldest titles… His gut tightened. “And you’ve not been happy in eight years?”

  She toyed with the fabric of her skirts and gave a curt shake of her head. “No. I’ve not been happy,” she said tersely.

  He expected he should find some sense of victory in her misery. Only, with time he’d found he’d not truly loved Margaret. A young gentleman’s arrogance and the battle he’d waged with Rutland for the lady’s affections had driven him more than any real sentiments of love. He’d failed to realized that—until Anne.

  “You don’t love me,” she whispered, the word bore traces of shock and pain.

  He said nothing.

  “I believed at Lady Preston’s ball your treatment of me was driven by jealousy and old hurts. But it wasn’t. Was it?” She turned to face him. Her lower lip trembled, indicating there was, in fact, more depth to the capricious woman who’d walked out of his life. Still, he felt no stirring of emotion, no desire for more with her. Lady Margaret belonged to his past. “You’ve come to care for another.”

  No. He didn’t care for Anne Adamson. He loved her. Even with her betrayal, he would always love her.

  Margaret caught her lower lip between her teeth.

  “I’m sorry, Margaret,” he said, simply. Finding that he truly meant it.

  She folded her arms across her waist. “Is it…?” She hesitated “The Lady Anne Adamson?”

  Even though Anne didn’t deserve any loyalty from him, he’d not betray the memory of her with this woman.

  When his silence confirmed that he’d not share Anne’s identity, she sighed. “I can’t imagine she deserves you, Harry.”

  His jaw tightened. No, she didn’t and yet, she’d forever hold his heart—whether he wished it or not.

  Margaret’s lips turned up in a wistful smile. She leaned up on tiptoe and pressed her lips against his cheek.

  A gasp cut into their private exchange. He glanced over Margaret’s shoulder. Twin sisters, foils in every way, stood at the end of the path.

  Fireworks shot into the sky, illuminating their faces. Katherine singed him to the spot even as Anne swayed against her sister. A momentary expression of grief ravaged her cheeks. Which made little sense. Anne had been quite clear in her feelings for him. Or rather her lack of feelings.

  He raised Margaret’s hand to his lips and pressed a kiss to her knuckles. Anne’s skin took on a sickly pallor and then she presented him her back. Katherine eyed him with such loathing he shifted on his feet, feeling like a properly chastised child. She said something to Anne.

  Margaret frowned. “I gather she is in fact the young lady who captured your heart.”

  He clenched his teeth, giving Margaret his attention.

  “That was rather poorly done of you, Harry,” she chided.

  “Yes. Yes it was,” he agreed and swiped a hand over his face, tortured by the memory of Anne’s pale cheeks and horrified eyes. It shouldn’t matter that she’d been wounded by his meeting Margaret. She’d proven herself faithless and fickle.

  And yet, it mattered.

  Chapter 24

  Katherine guided Anne with a military precision that could have afforded her command of the King’s army, away from the loving tableau presented by Harry and his Margaret.

  Oh, God.

  “Breathe,” her sister muttered, lips unmoving.

  Pain rolled through Anne in vicious waves, one after the other. She blinked back tears, blurring her vision. The joyous, ribald laughter sounded throughout the grounds punctuated by the overhead burst of fireworks. “I cannot stay,” she rasped out.

  Her sister gave her forearm a hard, reassuring squeeze. “I’ll find Mother.”

  Anne jerked free of her sister’s hold and took her by the arms, earning rabidly curious glances from nearby peers. “Please.” She begged with her eyes, needing to be spared her mother’s continual disapproval and angry stares.

  Her sister gave a terse nod and gently guided Anne’s arms back to her side. “Wait here. I’ll gather Jasper.” She hesitated.

  “I’ll be fine.” She lied. She would never be fine again.

  Katherine lingered, recognizing the words Anne left unspoken. Then, that was just part of being a twin. That inherent sense of knowing. Wordlessly, she turned on her heel and strode through the crowd, boldly striding past those who sought a word with the Duchess of Bainbridge.

  Anne hovered, feeling undone and exposed. She cast furtive glances about. Yet, for the way in which her heart now splintered apart, broken and useless, the members of polite Society moved
about with gaiety, merry with drink and the pleasure of the inane amusements. Anne remained invisible.

  A prickle of awareness stole down her spine. She stiffened, and turned seeking out the source of that unease.

  Harry studied her, alongside his splendorous duchess. That icy, blackness in his flinty expression chilled her. Then, he smiled. A dark, emotionless smile that sucked the breath from her. He returned his attention the flawlessly perfect duchess. And Anne was forgotten, once more.

  Oh, God, this is too much.

  A restive panic filled her and sucking in a gasping breath, she hurried away. Away from Harry and Margaret. She quickened her steps, sidestepping lustful lords. Away from all she’d lost. Anne moved in a near sprint. Away from his steely contempt. She slipped inside a skillfully tended maze of towering hedges and ran deeper into the hidden trails. Yet no matter how fast or far her legs carried her, she could not rid herself of the agonized memory of Lady Margaret layering her tall, regal frame against Harry’s. Or the two of them as they’d slipped away. Most likely stealing off to some other hidden trysting corner where he could worship the other woman’s mouth the way he’d once kissed her.

  Kissed her like she was the only lady in the entire kingdom. Fool. Fool. Fool. Her gasping breaths gave way to a sob while her slippers were soundless upon the dampened grass. As though she could ever match his Lady Margaret. In beauty. She wrenched her mask off. In elegance. Her heart pounded hard with the exertions of her efforts and the pain of her musings.

  Her toes collided with a large rock and a gasp of pain escaped her. In grace. She pitched forward, hard on her knees. “Oomph,” the air left her on a whoosh. She attempted to stand and bit back a curse as pain radiated up her leg.

  Anne sank back down and lifted her skirts to inspect the swollen flesh. She gently probed the nasty area and winced. Blast and double blast. She should have never come. Then she wouldn’t have seen Harry and his perfect Lady Margaret. And she wouldn’t have fled like a silly ninny in attempt to be free of the sight of them. Anne sighed. And she certainly wouldn’t be sprawled gracelessly on her derriere like a real shepherdess. She let her skirts flutter back into place and lay on her back. She tossed her arms wide and stared at the glittering stars in the black, London night.

  The irony of life not lost on her. Over the years, her sisters, Society, everyone had taken her as nothing more than a self-serving, selfish young lady who placed her own personal desires before all else. And here she lay, humbled by the loss of her own making, born of the greatest sacrifice she could have or would ever make.

  “It appears you’ve lost your sheep, my lady.”

  Anne sat up quickly. Her heart hammered at the unexpected interruption. She peered up at the long, towering muscle-hewn frame of Harry, Earl of Stanhope. Her heart slowed and then picked up its fast rhythm. “Hello, my lord.” Was he intending to meet his Lady Margaret? A hysterical half-sob, half-cry bubbled past her lips at the idea of having stumbled upon their clandestine tryst.

  A cold smile tugged at those once tender lips. “I gather I’ve intruded on your assignation with the duke. Forgive me, I do know the inconvenience of having my trysts interrupted by bothersome people I’d really rather do without,” he said, confirming her earlier suspicions.

  Anne recoiled. She curled her fingers into the soft patch of earth as his deliberate taunting words ravaged her heart. He might see her as a cruel, title-grasping miss who’d toyed with his affections, but she’d done this for him. She angled her chin up. “What do you want, Harry?” she asked quietly, finding little solace in her sacrifice.

  He wandered closer. A faint breeze caught the fabric of his black cloak. It snapped wildly against his legs as he paused above her. His grin, that cold, patently false one, widened. “I must admit, you look quite fetching after an evening’s tryst.”

  An evening’s tryst? She wrinkled her brow. What was he on about? She widened her eyes as the truth settled slowly into her mind. By God, he thought…he believed… she met a lover?

  Anne narrowed her eyes. She knew she’d sent him away quite deliberately believing all the worst about her. But really, was his opinion so very low? Or was it because that is the exact exchange she herself had interrupted? The tender reunion between two lovers, stealing a moment for themselves until Anne and Katherine had the misfortune of stumbling upon their exchange.

  “Will you not say anything, Anne?”

  She folded her arms across her chest. “Thank you,” she said pertly.

  “Crawford?” He quirked an eyebrow. As though he had a right to know the imagined gentleman she’d been…doing…doing that with.

  She gave a flounce of her curls. “Oh, it…was just splendid,” she said on a breathless laugh. That is, if one considered a bruised ankle and injured derriere splendid. “Quite splendid,” she added for good measure, because this was at least preferable to watching him kiss Lady Margaret Monteith.

  A dark look passed over his harshly beautiful face.

  Anne shoved herself up onto her elbows. Harry shot a hand out. She eyed his long, tan fingers a moment and then placed her hand tentatively in his. Not because she craved his touch. No, not that at all. Rather, because she needed assistance. The whole business with her ankle, and all.

  He retained his hold. “You always did have beautiful fingers.”

  She remembered back to a day not long ago when he’d drawn her fingers soothingly into his mouth. “Er…” She cleared her throat. “Thank you.” That seemed like a rather odd compliment. She held her hand up and tried to note what it is he might admire in the five digits but failed to see anything unique in them.

  He tweaked a golden ringlet. “Tsk, tsk, ringlets, again.” The jeering edge of his tone grated along her skin.

  “Yes,” she said, dropping her gaze to the green grass. She’d never wear her hair loose and down about her shoulders. Not again. It would forever remind her of how he favored it.

  “Indeed, perfect for a shepherdess gathering the hearts of dukes throughout the kingdom.”

  She gritted her teeth at the icy condescension in his heartless charge. She found solace in knowing that for his ill opinion of her, she didn’t give a fig about the heart of a duke; that the only heart she longed to gather close and forever hold was his. “Have you sought me out to taunt me, Harry? Does this make you feel better about yourself?” It made her hate this man she didn’t recognize.

  A small squeak escaped her as Harry drew her close. He hooked an arm around her waist and ran his palms over the curve of her hips. “Ah, Anne,” He lowered his lips close to hers. Her lids fluttered and she leaned up, wanting— “sweet, beautiful, and treacherous Anne.”

  But for those last two words, she could almost believe he still cared for her. Anne wanted to push him away, tell him to go to the devil. But she wanted him, more.

  She would wed Mr. Ekstrom at her mother’s insistence, but before she did, she would know what it was to be well and truly loved. She longed to know the true madness that compelled women into the conservatory for Harry’s attention. And she would give herself to him so that for her first time, she knew magic and splendor and not responsibility or necessity. No other decision would truly be hers, but in this, she’d be mistress of her own fate.

  Anne leaned up and kissed him. He froze, as though shocked by either her body’s nearness, or perhaps it was the boldness of her actions. Then, he groaned. His mouth closed over hers again and again. Harry gentled his hold about her waist. He parted her lips with his tongue. Their mouths met in a furious dance of longing and regret.

  And she kissed him. Kissed him as she knew she never could again. Kissed him when she knew it was wrong as he belonged to another, however, she would never be able to give him completely up, at least not where her heart was concerned.

  ~*~

  In his life, Harry had made love to some of the most inventive, sinfully beautiful creatures in England. He’d had French mistresses and eager widows. Not a single one of them had caused th
is fiery burn as Anne did. She roused a grand passion and desire. He wanted to set her away, burn her with the ferocity of her desire, a desire he roused and then leave so he might avail himself to a woman who desired nothing more than a quick tumble in the gardens. So then, mayhap he might forget what Anne made him feel, think, experience…

  Harry trailed feverish kisses along the side of her cheek, down her throat, laving her neck. He nipped and sucked at the flesh marking her and uncaring that she’d return bearing his love bite.