“Refreshments!” The single word utterance burst from her lips. The duke quirked an eyebrow. She fanned her hot cheeks, and then remembered herself. “That is,” she said, her tone even. “Would you care for refreshments, Your Grace?”
“I imagine I have all I need in terms of sustenance for the day with your company, my lady.”
Anne’s mouth pulled and she buried the grimace in her fingers. Egad, had she really desired a silly sonnet penned on her behalf? Harry’s face flashed into her mind. With his bold assertions and his unrepentant words, she found she preferred the honesty in his responses than in the duke’s overdone compliments. She sat in the King Louis XIV chair and rested the book on her lap, wishing for the uncomplicatedness of life before Harry when there was nothing more than the dream of security and stability to be had in the role of duchess.
The duke sat at the edge of the sofa so that their knees brushed. “And what does a lovely young lady take enjoyment reading, Lady Anne?”
Scandalous Gothic novels. Shameless tales of unrequited love and gentlemen vying for a lady’s hand. With someone ultimately always meeting an untimely, ugly demise. She glanced down at the book her maid had brought her and silently cursed the excuse orchestrated by Mary to explain her absence during Harry’s earlier visit. She handed the leather volume over to the duke.
He examined the title. “I imagine a lady such as you wouldn’t need the help of anyone to maintain proper ladylike decorum.”
One of Mother’s favorites: Mrs. Deerleander’s Guide to Decorum.
Did she imagine the hint of rebuke buried in the duke’s words? “Oh, quite the opposite, Your Grace,” she said blandly, disabusing him of any notions he carried about her suitability as his future duchess. “It is likely why my mother is insisting I read it.”
A half-grin pulled at his lips. If she were being perfectly honest with herself, she’d admit he was a rather handsome gentleman. Even more than pleasantly handsome. With thick chestnut hair, fashionably cropped, and a powerful blue-eyed stare that could bore into a person’s soul. When most of the other dukes were doddering old letches with monocles held to their eyes, His Grace possessed a tall, well-muscled form. His smile deepened, though it never quite reached his eyes. “You’re a delight, my lady.”
His platitudes set her teeth on edge. Confectionary treats and ices from Gunter’s were a delight. People were not. “Oh, not at all. I’m the bane of my mother’s existence,” she said, with the lack of appreciation that had made many a wallflower into spinsters. Stop talking, immediately, Anne. You’ll drive him away.
“Oh?”
She angled her head, wagering he’d perfected that haughty ducal eyebrow-arching business as a small boy. “She claims I’m too spirited,” she went on. From across the room, Mary groaned.
“Is there such a thing, my lady?”
And in that moment, the proper, respectable duke who’d paled in the shadow of Harry, rose in her estimation. She leaned over and dropped her voice to a low whisper. “I imagine a duke would expect a lady to be perfectly proper and not at all spirited.” Her words seemed to carry over to the maid for Mary dropped her head into her hands and shook it forlornly back and forth.
The duke either failed to notice or care about the beleaguered servant in the corner, for he said, “I imagine a demure, too-proper lady would make for a very dull duchess.”
“Which is how most gentleman would prefer their wives,” she rejoined.
He leaned down. “I assure you they do not, my lady.” His breath fanned her ear.
“Oh.”
He sat back in his chair, a challenge in his eyes, daring her to ask questions about what type of lady gentlemen in fact, preferred. Only, such an intimate topic was not one she’d care to discuss with the duke. Even if she would have him as her husband, she could not boldly engage in his repartee. Not in the way she did with the charming, affable, Earl of Stanhope.
The duke drummed his fingers on the arms of the sofa, cutting into the awkward stretch of silence.
She detested this newfound preference for charming, affable gentleman.
Anne mustered a smile, and shifted the discussion to safer, more appropriate topics. “I imagine it would gall my mother if I were to fail and initiate proper matters of discourse. May I?”
He tipped his head. “Please, do.”
She glanced to the window. “We’re enjoying splendid weather, Your Grace.”
He lifted his head, his gaze fastened to her. “We are.”
Anne tapped her feet distractedly upon the floor. “You’re to respond with some comment about the sun or the rain.”
“The sunlight pales when compared with your beauty.”
She wanted his words to wash over her with warmth and send fluttery little sensations spiraling through her being. She truly did. Alas, they stirred not even the faintest hint of awareness. She slid her gaze off to the opposite end of the room.
What am I?
A clever, inquisitive miss, with lots of questions…
“Do you play, my lady?”
She froze mid-tap. “Do I play what?”
He waved a hand in the direction of her beloved pianoforte, a gift given her by Aldora and Michael, the obscenely wealthy second son of a marquess, who’d saved them all from certain ruin.
“I do,” she murmured.
“Would you do me the honor of playing for me, my lady?”
Anne paused. Part of her longed to resist the ducal command contained within that question. If her mother ever discovered such a slight, she’d have Anne wed to horrible Mr. Ekstrom by special license that next morning.
With a curt nod, she came to her feet, wandered over to the instrument and ran her fingertips along the ivory keyboard. She slid into her seat and stared blankly down at the keys. What song did a young lady sing when attempting to ensnare a duke?
You’ll sing in a husky, sultry, contralto…
She opened her mouth and proceeded to sing him Dibdin’s A Matrimonial Thought in her pure contralto. As the duke’s eyes widened with appreciation, she wished she sang in a sultry, husky contralto for an altogether different gentleman.
Chapter 9
Harry stared into his partially filled tumbler of brandy. He rolled the amber brew around in his glass and ignored the casual greetings tossed at him from gentlemen at White’s.
My father was a wastrel, Harry. A drunkard. A profligate gambler, a womanizer…
He set his glass down with a hard thunk and shoved it aside. The image he’d earned in Society as an unrepentant rogue was one he’d welcomed, or even appreciated. The ton recognized in him a gentleman who’d not become embroiled in emotional entanglements. Ladies vied for a place in his bed, knowing because of that reputation there was little hope of attaining his heart; a heart he’d carefully protected after Margaret’s betrayal.
Margaret had opened his eyes to the truth—women were parsimonious, indulgent creatures and he’d neatly placed Anne into the category of grasping young ladies.
Until now.
After bating Anne about her collection of satin ribbons, he’d learned there was, in fact, a good deal more to the young lady than beauty with a mercurial desire for material possessions. In just a handful of days, she had shattered all the notions he’d carried of her as an empty-headed, self-indulgent, title-grasping miss.
Instead, he saw a woman who’d braved great trials in her young life and had been shaped by them. She was a lady who’d be the arbiter of her own fate, and in a world where women were considered mere property of their husbands, Anne would find security where she could.
She’d selected her duke, enlisted Harry’s aid to attain that duke, and in that, would steal what freedom she could as a woman in a world dominated by men who’d wager the happiness of their wives and daughters on a game of chance.
Since leaving her, he found he rather hated himself for the hard-won reputation that placed him into the class of cads like her father. The world of black and white he’
d lived in after Margaret’s betrayal, and before he’d truly come to know Anne, ceased to exist, ushering in a less certain shade between.
“Tsk, tsk. First courting proper, English misses, and now visiting White’s instead of Forbidden Pleasures. The lady has quite the hold over you, doesn’t she?”
Harry glanced up. His friend, Lord Edgerton grinned down at him. He sighed. “Edgerton. Don’t you have a sister to escort around?”
“Two of them to be exact,” his friend muttered. “At Lord and Lady Huntly’s soiree.” He hooked his foot under the chair opposite Harry and tugged it out then settled into the seat, just as a servant rushed forward with a glass. Without asking, he picked up the bottle and sloshed several fingerfuls into his glass.
“Perhaps you should get yourself there,” Harry drawled. All he knew was that he preferred his solitary musings to his friend’s company this evening.
Edgerton grinned. He raised his glass in salute. “Then, one of the benefits of being the spare is being absolved from most responsibilities.”
Harry wouldn’t know much of it. As the only son of the late Earl of Stanhope, he’d never had a sibling and both of his parents had died when he’d been in his early days at university. His responsibilities through the years had been to the title and his own self-comforts. And for a very small while—Margaret. He expected the familiar rush of hurt bitterness—a bitterness that did not come.
“I imagined with your courtship of a certain creature with golden-ringlets, you’d be at the lady’s side.”
He eyed his barely touched brandy, filled with a longing to drink until he was bloody soused so he wouldn’t have to think about the agreement he’d entered into with Anne. Considering Crawford’s early afternoon visit, Anne was one near-offer of marriage away from ending Harry’s role in the whole blasted scheme. He gripped the edge of the table so hard his knuckles turned white. “I intend to put in an appearance at Lady Huntly’s later this evening,” he said at last. After all, he’d pledged his support.
Edgerton took a sip of his brandy. “I’d venture you’d be better served going to Huntly’s sooner rather than later, chap.” His friend dangled that damned bit, attempting intrigue.
Harry swallowed down a curse. “What are you on about?”
Edgerton waved over to the betting book at White’s. “Wagers have been placed that the young lady will find herself the next Duchess of Crawford. And you, my good friend, are already at a great disadvantage with a mere earldom.”
Harry growled. He’d not let his friend bait him.
“Rumors have it, Crawford is quite taken with the young lady.” His lips turned up in a wry smile. “Though I must say I don’t see the fascination with a proper English miss with those silly ringlets—”
Taken with the young lady. “They are not silly,” he mumbled under his breath. And why shouldn’t the spirited beauty charm Crawford?
“Crawford was seen with the young lady at Gunter’s yesterday afternoon.”
After Harry had taken his leave of her. His body went taut.
Edgerton chuckled, seeming unbothered by carrying on a conversation with himself. He settled his elbows on the table and waggled his brow. “The gossip sheets report the duke didn’t remove his gaze from the lady’s—”
Harry surged to his feet. He started for the door. As he wound his way through the club, past throngs of dandies and crowded tables, he dimly registered his friend hastening to match his step.
“What in hell is the matter with you, Stanhope?” Edgerton groused.
“Nothing,” he bit out.
The majordomo pulled the door open and they took their leave. His friend scratched his brow. “Is this about Crawford and your Lady Anne?”
He peered around the crowded street for sign of his carriage. “No.” Yes. “And she is not my Lady Anne.” He took a step toward the street as his driver wound through the clogged roadway. Filled with a restive energy he strode onward toward his conveyance. His driver hopped down and opened the carriage door. Harry climbed inside.
Edgerton followed suit. “She is clearly something to you, Stanhope,” he said with far more solemnity than Harry remembered of his friend.
He clenched his jaw hard enough that pain shot up to his temple. “She is not.”
Edgerton rested his ankle over his knee and tapped his foot. “I certainly hope you’d not be fool enough to toss away wasted emotion on a woman such as her.” He knew of the empty shell of a man Harry had become immediately after Margaret’s betrayal. They’d drank together until the liquor had dulled Harry’s pain. And the day she’d wed her lofty duke, a doddering old letch from some far-flung corner of England, Harry drank some more. Then when he was bleary-eyed with too much liquor and a broken heart, Edgerton got him home, and restored him to the carefree rogue he’d been before Margaret.
“I assure you, Edgerton, there is nothing more there. The young lady enlisted my support on a matter.” A matter he didn’t intend to discuss with even his friend. “And as a friend to Lady Katherine, I’ve agreed to help her.” His involvement with Anne had begun as a kind of unknowing favor to the young duchess who’d captured his attention last Season. Only, since that scandalous proposal Anne had put to him in Lord Essex’s conservatory, some great shift had occurred—a desire to help the young minx who’d once been nothing more than a bother.
His friend studied him. He appeared ready to say an additional piece on Harry’s succinct admission, but the carriage rocked to a halt in front of a pale yellow townhouse ablaze with candlelight, cutting into the other man’s words.
The driver pulled open the carriage door. Harry leapt out and started for the handful of steps leading into the luxurious Mayfair townhouse. His friend hastened to match his stride. They entered the palatial townhouse and made their way to the now empty receiving line. From his vantage at top of the ballroom, he scanned the dance floor and frowned.
“Are you per chance, looking for a particular young lady?” His friend asked with entirely too much humor. “Perhaps, a young lady who means absolutely nothing to you?”
“Stuff it,” Harry said as the host and hostess rushed forward to greet the two newly arrived gentlemen. He stalked off just as the couple reached him. Lady Huntly rocked back on her heels with an indignant huff. Edgerton, ever the charmer remained behind to speak to the couple with matching stark white hair and wizened cheeks.
Harry walked the perimeter of the ballroom. A servant stepped forward. The liveried footman bore a silver tray with bubbling French champagne. Harry rescued a glass and continued his search. Where in hell was she? He paused beside a Doric column and leaned against the white, towering structure, scanning the rows of couples performing the lively steps of a reel. He’d taken care to find out the precise details of the lady’s plans for the evening. Perhaps the information his servants had obtained from her servants had been erroneous.
The music came to a rousing conclusion, followed by a wave of applause and laughter from the crush of dancers upon the dance floor. He sipped his champagne as gentlemen escorted their respective partners back to their chaperones, methodically running his gaze through the crowd for the ringlet-wearing, cheeky, young miss.
“Lord Stanhope,” a sultry voice purred.
He froze as a figure sidled up to him. He glanced down disinterestedly as the Viscountess Kendrick brushed herself against him. The generous swells of her breasts crushed hard against his arm. She peered up at him through sooty black lashes.
Harry yawned. “Lady Kendrick.” Had he really once desired the over-blown, pinch-mouthed viscountess?
A catlike smile turned her thin lips up at the corners. Though, if she knew the exact direction of Harry’s thoughts, she’d be spitting and hissing like a wounded feline. “Are you bored, my lord?” She stroked a bold finger over the sleeve of his coat. “I can imagine all manner of delicious ways to drive away your tedium.”
Three days ago, he’d have jerked his chin toward the back of the ballroom and led the s
candalous widow to one of the rooms in his host’s home. He’d have tugged up her skirts and made fast and hard love to her and then returned to the ball with a still-bored grin. Now, he shrugged free of her touch and continued to survey the milling guests.
“I missed you the other night, my lord.”
“Did you?” he murmured.
“Have you heard a word I’ve said?” she snapped, the waspish bite to her question at odds with the husky, sultry tone she adopted in most of her exchanges.
“No,” he said. He beat a quick bow. “If you’ll—” The air exploded from his lungs on a rush. The viscountess forgotten, he took a step forward. Then another. And froze.
An Athena with hair dipped in pure gold stood at the edge of the crowded dance floor. She tapped a hand against her thigh as if in time to the one-two-three beat of the orchestra’s tune.
Close your mouth. Breathe. Do something. Do anything.
The glorious beauty, somehow familiar, and yet not, brushed back a long wisp of honey-blonde hair, away from her cheek. Glorious tresses hung in loose waves about her cream-white shoulders. Athena stiffened. She angled her head as if aware of his scrutiny. Or mayhap she registered the interest of every, single gentleman with red blood coursing through his veins, fixed on the perfection of her body, bathed in the soft candlelight.
Then their gazes caught and held.
Harry jerked, as if Gentleman Jackson had delivered a swift, well-placed jab to his midsection.
The pale blue irises of her fathomless eyes, danced with fury.
Anne.
If Anne was perhaps as good with words as Aldora, she’d have something far more potent, more powerful than spitting mad. But blast and hell…she was spitting mad. She yanked her attention away from Harry.
The blighter.
First, there was the whole business at his clubs, the Forbidden Pleasures two nights past. It had taken her the better part of the afternoon following her trip to Gunter’s with the Duke of Crawford to squint her way through the page about just how Lord Harry had spent his evening after he’d left the recital. Then, if that wasn’t enough to boil a lady’s blood, he’d not come ’round for the whole of a day. She tossed her loose waves. Waves not ringlets. As he’d suggested.
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