Anne stared emptily down at the ribbon mess, a multi-colored confusion not so very different from what her life had become. “Whatever can we do?”
Another cry split the Ivory Parlor. Alas, Anne only seemed incapable of the wrong answers where anyone was concerned. “Oh, why can you not understand, Anne? The earl’s clear disinterest matters a good deal. You might find him a clever, charming rogue, but he’s disgraced you.” Her mother pressed her palms against her cheeks as though shamed by her outburst. She drew in a breath and when she spoke icy, resolve steeled her words. “I’ve had grand hopes of the match you will make.”
“Thank y—”
“I am not finished,” Mother snapped. “I never dared imagined Katherine would wed a duke, though this family could certainly have done without the scandalous past of Bainbridge.”
Anne tightened her lips to keep from pointing out Katherine was hopelessly and helplessly in love with Jasper, and that nothing else should matter but the young couple’s happiness and the happiness of their beautiful babe, Maxwell.
“Do you remember my expectations for Katherine?”
There really were too many expectations for each of the Adamson daughters for Anne to remember a specific one. She gave her head a slight shake. It was often easier to allow Mother her rant.
“I expected one of my girls would wed Bertrand Ekstrom.”
She stifled a groan. Mr. Betrand Ekstrom. Their odious second, or was it third, cousin? Mother had planned on wedding Katherine off to the miserable bugger. A man Anne had heard faint whispers of. Something pertaining to Mr. Ekstrom’s perverse fascination with riding crops and violent lashes. She wrinkled her nose in distaste. What manner of gentleman abused his horseflesh? The miserable bugger.
“And I never imagined it would be you.”
Anne blinked. “Never imagined what would be me?” she blurted, trying to recall her mother’s previously spoken words, wishing she’d been paying closer attention.
Her mother threw her hands up in exasperation. “I never imagined you would wed Bertrand.”
She scratched her brow. “Why would I wed Mr. Ekstrom?” She wouldn’t. Ever. Not unless she was in the habit of sacrificing her very own happiness, which she wasn’t. She quite enjoyed being happy.
“Because you are now on your third Season, Anne.” Her mother gave her head a pitying shake. “You are unwed.”
Anne moistened her lips, knowing when Mother sank her teeth into an idea she was worse than one of the queen’s terriers with a bone. “Hardly on the shelf,” she said, defensively.
“But certainly not married, either.” Mother claimed her hands. “This is not a threat. This is me speaking to you with direct honesty. A young lady must wed and have security; for herself, her family. And if you are unwed, well, we cannot afford to risk something happening to your brother and the most logical plan…” Her words trailed off.
The most logical plan was to forego Anne’s happiness for their family’s security. In trying to earn the duke’s favor, isn’t that what I’m doing? For somehow, Mother desired another ducal connection since the one to Katherine’s duke was apparently not enough. Her mother squeezed her hands. Anne’s fingers twitched with the desire to yank free of her grip. “I’ll not wed Mr. Ekstrom,” she said quietly.
Mother inclined her head. “Do not be silly, my dear.” The corners of her lips turned down ever so slightly. “I’d rather you not wed, Bertrand.” She released her hold on Anne. “Unless you have no other option.” She gave Anne a long, pointed look, and then sailed from the room.
Anne folded her arms across her chest and attempted to rub warmth back into the chilled limbs. She’d known through the years that making advantageous matches for each of her daughters was the Countess of Wakefield’s ultimate goal. Anne mattered so little that she’d be wed off to her corpulent, oft-rude cousin? A man so very different than the gentleman who now taught Anne the art of seduction.
The thought of Harry slipped in and then memory after memory of the dashing earl poured over her. Her mother, sister, and Society on the whole would call her all kinds of fool for desiring him as she did. After all, she very well knew the kind of charmer Lord Harry Stanhope happened to be—the manner of gentleman who placed two crystal glasses of champagne in his host’s conservatory and almost partook in a scandalous assignation.
The muscles of her stomach tightened as her mother’s earlier allegations about Harry surfaced. The mysterious woman mentioned in the papers. She’d expected such roguish behaviors from Harry, the man who’d tried to seduce her twin.
Yet… She eyed the forgotten paper at her feet. She’d not thought the Harry who arrived to musicales and joined her for the evening would then do something as appalling as to visit… She wrinkled her nose. Whoever it was he’d sought out after he’d left her side. If he’d taken himself off to some soiree or another with some scandalous widow, she would, well, she would tell him exactly what she thought of him. Even if it was a pretend courtship. She should be a good deal more concerned with Mother’s threat of wedding her off to Bertrand Ekstrom, yet she could not muster the suitable outrage when compared with the hurt fury thrumming through her at the idea of Harry with…with…
Anne swiped the paper. She angled the page in a way that the stream of sunlight shone off the central part of the copy and scoured the page in search of his name—and hers, of course. She squinted hard. Lord HS, some word, some word, Lady AA. Another blurred word. Forbidden… “Forbidden, what?” she muttered under her breath.
Footsteps sounded outside in the hall. Blast and double blast. She’d had enough of her mother to last her the remainder of the Season and all the next combined. “I’m reading it, Mother,” she called. Or desperately trying to, anyway. “I see the reason for your outrage, of course.” Which she didn’t fully see, necessarily. She saw, however, just enough words to understand what had roused her mother’s displeasure. “He really shouldn’t—”
“The Earl of Stanhope, my lady.”
Chapter 7
Anne jerked her head up hard enough that she wrenched the muscles along the back of her neck. The paper slid from her fingers and took with it her stack of yellow ribbons whereupon they lay scattered like slashes over the other colors just as her thoughts. “Um, well thank you, Ollie.” For absolutely nothing. “That will be all.”
The ancient butler shuffled off.
Harry’s tall, broad frame filled the doorway. He leaned against the doorjamb more tempting than that tantalizingly succulent apple in the Garden of Eden. “What has captured your attention, Anne?”
Embarrassed heat burned her entire body. If it were possible for one to die of humiliation she’d have been a useless heap at his glorious feet. She jumped up. “My attention?” Her mind raced. “My ribbons,” she blurted, and then said on a rush. “I was paying careful attention to organizing my ribbons.” Because her silly habit with the ribbons was only slightly less mortifying than admitting to her wounded hurt over his evening’s enjoyments.
The earl shoved away from the wall and strolled over. His gaze fell to the floor. To the damning piece of evidence. “May I?” he murmured.
She opened her mouth, but he’d already bent to scoop up the copy of The Times. Anne planted the sole of her slipper upon the center of the page. “You may not,” she said between clenched teeth.
He tugged.
She held firm.
Harry yanked once more. She teetered backward and would have toppled onto the cream-and-white upholstered sofa, but Harry leapt to his feet. He shot an arm around her waist and caught her to him. Her heart thumped wildly. “Careful, sweet,” he murmured and suddenly released her.
Anne screwed her mouth up, uncertain whether she was more annoyed by his high-handedness or his seemingly total lack of interest in their body’s positioning. She settled for a healthy combination of the two.
As he read, she shuffled back and forth on her feet, while studying his bent head. A golden lock fell across his brow and g
ave him an almost boyish look. Only she’d venture Harry, the Earl of Stanhope, had never been a boy. Instead, he’d been a man sprung from the earth to torment poor, senseless young ladies.
He finished reading and picked his head up. “Hmm.”
She knew he expected a reply to that dangling ‘hmm’ and loathed feeding his amusement. Anne sighed. Mother had forever lamented her dangerously insatiable curiosity. “Hmm, what, my lord?”
“What should this nameless he not have done?”
Anne cocked her head. “Nameless he…? Oh…” Her words trailed off with the agony of humiliation. He’d of course heard her call out when he’d entered the room. And now, having read the paper, he’d clearly made the correct supposition that he was the nameless someone she’d spoken of. She toed the Aubusson carpet and studied the poor, until-now forgotten ribbons on the floor.
Harry touched his fingers to her chin and forced her gaze to his. “I gather you read the section about a certain Lord HS and a certain Lady AA?”
She managed a tight nod. She’d read bits of the piece. Most of which she’d learned, however, had come from Mother’s squawking.
“And?”
“And, what?” she said on an exasperated sigh.
He stroked her chin with his thumb and forefinger. “I imagine a lady such as you would have questions for me?”
She frowned. “A lady such as me?” She rather disliked the whole ‘lady-such-as-you’ nonsense.
“A clever, inquisitive miss with lots of questions.”
Anne touched a hand to her heart. No one in her life; not Aldora, Mother, not even her twin who knew so very much of her soul, found Anne in any way insightful. They failed to see she had opinions on matters of actual significance; on life, love, happiness. “You think I’m clever?” she asked softly.
Harry worked his gaze over her face.
If he teased her, she’d slap his hands and hate him forever. “I do,” he said solemnly.
And a small sliver of her heart would forever belong to Harry, the Earl of Stanhope for such an admission.
“Well?”
Her mind spun as she tried to recall his earlier question. Only she remembered Mother’s outrage and then the blurred words about a forbidden someone or another. All her earlier hurt and annoyance melded to create a potent blend of fury, the easiest emotion to decipher from the swirling confusion roused by this new, startling awareness of Harry. She settled her hands upon her hips. “Who is this woman?” She gestured to the copy of The Times. “This forbidden woman.” A forbidden woman he’d abandoned her for. She gave her head a shake. Rather, the forbidden woman he’d left Lady Westmoreland’s recital for. Their arrangement was strictly a matter of business. He had no obligations to Anne. None at all. Why did that thought rankle?
Amusement flickered in the green-gold flecks of his hazel eyes. “Jealous, sweet?”
She swatted at him. Had she really just thought a mere moment ago, she’d dare love anything about the outrageous scoundrel? She spun away from him.
“You didn’t read the story,” he said as though with the surprise of one who’d just discovered the New World.
“I did,” she said, defensively. “Or I intended to,” she groused.
“Here.” He slapped the wrinkled paper into her hands. “Read your gossip, my lady, and then ask your questions.”
Her mouth went dry as she studied the page, and then she shook her head. “No, I don’t believe I shall.” She pushed back at his hands.
“I insist,” he said, pressing.
On a sigh, Anne took the paper and made a show of smoothing it out. She carried it over to the window for better illumination and read. Or attempted to. She squinted at the blasted, blurred words.
A sharp bark of laughter burst from his chest. “By God.”
She glowered. “What is it?” Did he expect her to be a woman who cared about the blasted comings and goings set out in the gossip rags? When in truth, her real concern was the mention of a certain Earl of S.
“You can’t see the damned words, can you?”
She bristled with indignation and gave a flounce of her golden ringlets. “I can see them. Some of them,” she amended. “And you really shouldn’t curse in front of a lady.” Though that was likely one of the lesser charges she could level at the dashing earl.
His long, powerful legs ate up the distance between them as he strode over. “You need spectacles,” he said.
“I don’t.” With him finding it a matter of such hilarity, she wouldn’t dare admit that truth to him, not when he’d already had such a laugh at her expense.
“You do,” he spoke with a finality that suggested he considered the debate ended.
“I don’t.” She held the copy of The Times protectively in front of her. “This isn’t about what I can see or not see, Harry. This is about your behavior last evening with…”
He arched another quizzical eyebrow. “With?” he prodded.
“Oh, hush, you very well know I didn’t read—”
“Because you couldn’t see it.”
“—the entire article,” she finished. She tossed aside the paper and once more settled her hands on her hips. “Did you leave me and go see one of your fancy pieces?” His lips twitched. She narrowed her eyes. “This is not a matter of amusement.”
“Yes, I do believe you are jealous, sweet.”
She widened her eyes and opened her mouth. She closed it. She tried again. Words failed her. “I am not jealous,” she managed after a long, uncomfortable stretch of silence. In spite of everyone’s low opinion, she had enough good sense to avoid any emotional entanglements with Harry. He snorted. “I’m not,” she insisted. Anne began to pace. “As Mother said, it reflects all rather poorly on me.” She slashed the air with her hand. “Society will speak about how I’m unable to hold your affections—”
He grinned. “My affections?”
She nodded and continued pacing. “They’ll wonder at what flaw I possess, failing to realize the truth.” She paused mid-stride and met his gaze squarely. He really did have splendid eyes. The flecks of gold put her in mind of the fabled pot at the end of a rainbow.
“And what is the truth, Anne?” he asked, jerking her back to the moment.
She pursed her lips. “That my inability to hold your affections is through a detriment of your own character, my lord. You are unable to love anyone. Not just me,” she hurried to clarify when his eyes narrowed.
Harry wandered close. She retreated. He continued until the backs of her knees thumped against the King Louis XIV chair and she tumbled into the seat. She craned her neck to look at him and swallowed, resenting his height. It hardly seemed fair she should be a mere smidge in his commanding shadow. “You’re wrong. I tried love once before. I’ll not give myself over to weak sentiments.”
His admission sucked the breath from her lungs. Harry, the Earl of Stanhope, unrepentant rogue, scoundrel, bane of every innocent young lady’s existence had been in love? Why did envy knife her heart? “Oh,” she whispered. Because really, what else was there to say to the staggering realization—Harry had buried truths of his own.
He placed his hands on the gold arms of her chair and leaned close. His breath fanned her cheek, a delicious blend of mint and lemon. “Won’t you ask questions, sweet? Don’t you want to know the story of Miss Margaret Dunn?”
She furrowed her brow. No, she really didn’t care to hear one bit about this Miss Margaret someone-or-another who’d held his affection.
They studied one another in stony silence. With mention of some faceless young lady, Harry suddenly belonged to another. Anne frowned, regret turning inside her belly. She, for some inexplicable reason, preferred a world in which he was the grinning, teasing gentleman who courted her—if even just to school her on the art of seduction. “What happened?” Did that whispery soft question belong to her?
“She possessed a beauty men waged wars for.”
Anne’s stomach twisted into a thousand pained kno
ts. With her silly gold ringlets, she’d never inspire that level of passion and devotion in him. She blinked. Anyone. She’d meant she would never inspire that level of passion and devotion in anyone.
“She was a baronet’s daughter,” he carried on, and she prayed he remained unaware of the envy sluicing through her. “She had a gentle voice, a clear laugh, and I was captivated the moment I first saw her.” Unlike Anne, who’d nearly driven him to madness since their initial meeting. A hard smile curved his lips. “And men clamored for her. Dueled for her even.”
The scandal. She dug her fingers into her palm so hard she nearly drew blood. “You fought a duel for her,” she whispered. Oh, the fool. She imagined a world with him no longer in it, all for a woman undeserving of his love and loyalty. Agony wrenched her heart.
“I was a callow youth. Just twenty-two years.”
Not so very young. He’d been a man who surely knew his own heart. After all, at twenty, nearly twenty-one years, she very well knew her heart.
“I fought the Marquess of Rutland for the right to the lady’s affection.”
Rutland. Her eyes slid closed. Oh, God. The very same gentleman whose name she’d bandied about to enlist Harry’s aid. What must he think? “I didn’t know,” she whispered.
He waved her off as though her apology was nothing more than a fleck of dust upon his sleeve. “It was long ago. Eight years,” he added. “I was young.” His lips turned up again in that mocking smile. “Young and foolish. We fought to first blood.” He touched one of her golden curls. “You don’t seem surprised by my admission.”
There was the hint of a question in there. She tipped up her chin. “It will take more than mere mention of a duel to scandalize me. My brother-in-law, Aldora’s husband, Michael, he fought a duel as well.” She sighed. She’d never understand the foolish ways men sought to settle disputes. Even with her desire for stability, she ached to know love. But she’d not ask, expect or want any man to risk his life upon a field of honor for her. “You’d have died for her?”
“I would have.” His automatic response gutted her.
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