The bounder.
And the only reason she cared about his absence was the whole business of his lessons on seduction. A lesson each day, he’d pledged. Well, now he owed her two lessons for this nearly completed day.
Only… she looked back to the spot he’d been a moment ago, now vacant. He was assuredly with that scandalous Viscountess Kendricks. The very same woman whose assignation Anne had interrupted five days ago.
She bit the inside of her cheek hard enough to draw blood. She gasped and slapped her hand to the injured area.
“Is there a problem, my lady?”
At the dry, far-too amused baritone she bit down hard on the same poor piece of wounded flash. She gasped, again. “Blast, don’t you know to not sneak up on a lady?” She despised the manner in which her heart sped up at Harry’s sudden appearance.
He’d not followed his viscountess. Instead, he’d come to Anne. Why should that cause this fluttery warmth to unfurl inside her belly, she did not know. Anne continued to study the couples as they performed the delicate steps of a quadrille. “And there is no problem,” she said as an afterthought to his earlier question. There are several problems, you rogue. Your absence, your interest in the viscountess, your promise to school me in the art of seduction, your—
“You’re frowning,” Harry pointed out, a smile in his words.
“Am I?” Which meant he studied her, at least enough to notice whether she frowned or smiled.
“You are. As is your mother. In fact, she has a rather nasty glower trained on the both of us.”
“With good reason,” Anne muttered under her breath. “You’re an unrepentant rogue.”
He grinned as though she’d handed him the finest compliment. Which she hadn’t. She’d intended her words to sting an apparent conscienceless gentleman. “Shall I wave to her?”
Anne stole a glance at her mother, who stood conversing with the Marchioness of Townsend. “You’ll do no such thing.” Though there was some merit to Harry’s observation about Mother. The truth of the matter was that the countess had been furious since Anne had appeared in the foyer with her golden ringlets gone and her loose tresses partially pinned up, the other locks draped about her back and shoulders. The black look in her mother’s eyes suggested she knew very well who to blame for the scandalous arrangement.
And it hadn’t been her maid, Mary.
In fact, if they’d not already been extremely late to Lady Huntly’s’ soiree, Anne suspected her mother would have ordered her above stairs and stood over Mary until each strand of hair was restored to a proper ringlet.
She fingered one of the flowing locks. This is how you should wear your hair, Anne. Not in tight ringlets, but beautiful and free, just as you are. They should caress your shoulders and breasts…
Her mouth screwed up. Yet, for all his opinion of her silly ringlets, he’d not made a mention of her hair. Not that she cared about Harry’s opinion of her ringlets or lack thereof. After all, her intention was to secure the Duke of Crawford’s hand. She merely wanted to know whether she’d affected the appropriate look.
Liar.
Harry leaned ever closer and whispered into her ear. “What has so captivated you, sweet, that—?”
“Do not call me sweet. Especially not here.”
All traces of his relaxed humor fled. “You won’t even deign to look at me?”
She clasped her hands primly in front of her and stole a peek at him from the corner of her eye. “I’m merely trying to better study…” He quirked a golden eyebrow. “The dancers,” she finished lamely. The set concluded.
Lord Forde, a pleasantly handsome, young viscount rumored to be in the market for a wife came forward to claim his set. A waltz.
“Forde?” Harry drawled, the single word a lazy whisper close to her ear.
“Lord Forde is an entirely congenial, honorable,” his eyes narrowed at her deliberate emphasis, “gentleman who would make a—”
The tall, lean gentleman in a sapphire coat drew to a stop before them.
“Get the hell out, Forde,” Harry snapped, not so much as sparing a look for the viscount.
The other gentleman opened and closed his mouth like a fish plucked from a pond. He tugged at his lapels and spun on his heel. “Well,” he mumbled.
Anne closed her eyes. “You cannot go cursing in the middle of the ballroom and running off my dance partners.”
“The hell I can’t,” he muttered.
The orchestra struck up the beginning chords of a waltz. Harry held out his arm.
She stared at the corded muscles that tightened the black fabric of his coat and blinked rapidly. “What are you doing?”
“Claiming your next set. You don’t have a partner.”
Anne pointed her gaze to the ceiling. “Because you ran him off, my lord.” Goodness, the unmitigated gall of him. He’d avoided her for several days, brazenly seduced the viscountess in the midst of Lady Huntly’s’ ball, ran off Lord Forde, a perfectly respectable partner, and now demanded her waltz.
“Anne?”
“Yes?”
“Take my arm,” he commanded through gritted teeth.
“Charming,” she muttered and placed her fingertips along his coat sleeve.
“What was that?” he asked as they reached the dance floor. He guided her hand to his shoulder and placed his long, powerful fingers at her waist.
Her skin burned at his touch upon her person. Her mouth went dry. “I merely was wondering that you’d ever be considered charming. Boorish. Rude. Pompous.”
His gleaming white teeth flashed in a smile. The orchestra plucked the beginning strands of the waltz and Harry guided her through the ballroom in long, sweeping circles.
She directed her gaze to the folds of his cravat, determined to not let him bait her. Something which he seemed remarkably proficient in doing in the year they’d known one another. He applied a gentle pressure to her waist, forcing her stare upward.
“You seem more surly than usual, Anne.”
“I’m not pleased with you, Harry,” she said between gritted teeth.
“I gathered as much,” he said dryly.
Suddenly, his high-handedness and worse, his singular lack of interest or notice boiled like a fresh brewed pot of tea. “You did not come ’round.” She curled her toes into the soles of her slipper at the revealing admission. And promptly stumbled.
Harry easily caught her. He righted her in his arms. “It’s been a day.” A gentle admonition underscored his response.
Pain slapped at her heart. Fool. Fool. Fool. Why should I care about his singular lack of notice when he should be so indifferent toward me? But blast and double blast…she did care. And she hated that she cared. She dipped her gaze to his cravat. “There are my lessons,” she said. “You pledged to help me—”
He nudged her chin up. “And I am—”
“Each day.”
He shook his head ruefully. “Did I truly say every day?”
Anne nodded solemnly. “Oh, yes. I’m certain of it.” Though in actuality, she couldn’t remember whether they’d settled on a specific number of visits or lessons. She pinched his shoulder. “You owe me a lesson.” She dropped her voice to a hushed whisper. “On seduction, Harry.”
Chapter 10
You owe me a lesson on seduction, Harry…
Harry swallowed a groan as her huskily whispered words conjured all manner of delicious images that involved Anne Adamson spread out in all her naked glory in his bed, atop satin sheets, with her golden hair a silken waterfall about them. He strove for the indifferent, affable grin he’d affected through the years.
Anne frowned. “Why are you grimacing?”
Apparently, he failed in his attempt.
She pinched his arm again. “You didn’t grimace with your viscountess,” she said, voice as tart as if she’d sucked on a slice of lemon peel.
“My—?”
“You know,” she said on a furious whisper. “The lovely widow you’re too
busy carrying on with to honor your obligations to me. The one with the dampened gown. And your glasses of champagne.”
So, Anne had noticed his exchange with the young widow? His lips twitched. “I—er, gathered which particular…uh viscountess you spoke of.” The same woman he’d left furious at the edge of the ballroom, all to seek out Anne. He’d never been filled with this desperate hungering for the viscountess. “And how was your visit with Crawford?” he asked, turning the questions back on her.
She blinked. “Crawford?”
He angled her body closer to his and dipped his head down. “As in the Duke of Crawford, your future bridegroom.”
“Oh, do hush.” She pinched him again. “You’ll be overhead by someone if you’re not careful.” A beatific smile wreathed her cheeks. “You were correct.”
He quirked an eyebrow. “I’m correct on any number of scores. Which matter do you refer to?”
Anne laughed. “Oh, you’re insufferable. I referred to your lesson on song.”
She may as well have drawn back her leg and kicked him square in the gut. She’d sung to the duke. Her bow-shaped, red lips had parted in song for the damned, pompous prig, Crawford. An image wrapped its tentacle-like hold about his mind. Anne’s lovely mouth open as she sang to a captive audience in the Duke of Crawford. The other man’s eyes trained on her mouth and lower… Harry wanted to hunt him down and shred him with his bare hands for knowing whether Anne possessed a light, airy lyrical tone when singing or the sultry, husky timbre that men waged wars over, when Harry himself did not.
He fixed his gaze on the top of her lush, golden-blonde curls, only to recall every blasted word he’d uttered about her luxuriant tresses being arranged exactly as they hung about her shoulders and this moment. And hating he’d ever dared such a seductive coiffure that now earned the attention of every living, breathing man in the room—from footmen to gentlemen.
“Is something wrong with my hair?” Anne continued. She touched the side of her head searching for wayward strands. “I’d thought, that is, you’d indicated…” her words trailed off on a sigh. “I thought you might like it.” She gave him a small smile. “No more of my silly ringlets.”
Had she been any other woman, he’d have believed her grasping for pretty compliments. With her matter-of-factness about everything from marriage and security to those neat little rows of ribbons she stacked, she continued to defy every idea he’d carried of her.
“There is nothing silly about you,” he said quietly.
Anne snorted. “Now, you’ve gone all serious on me. Is this part of your next lesson?”
For the closeness between them these past four days, she still believed his every thought, his every action driven by the damned scheme to bring her duke up to scratch. He’d embraced the image of rogue, worn the societal label with a deal of pride, for it sent a clear message to all—Harry, the Earl of Stanhope did not possess a heart that could be broken. He’d embraced the image.
Until now.
She waggled an eyebrow, unaware of his inner strife.
“Smile with your eyes,” he said, when it became clear she saw in him nothing more than a means to a duke. “And your lips as one. A sultry, sweet smile, Anne. A smile that convinces a man he’s the only one in the room. And eyes that beg to know all the forbidden things a lady has no right knowing.”
Anne tipped her head. Her smile slipped and something passed between them. Something charged and volatile. With a life force.
He sucked in a breath as the implications of his role truly registered. Or worse, the perils in teaching her to seduce another man when Harry himself would be left to wonder the color of her nipples, or the downy softness betwixt her thighs. And more…the sound of her laughter through the years. “You sang to Crawford, then?” he said quietly.
“I did.”
He tightened his grip upon her person. She winced and he lightened his hold. “And did he appreciate the quality of your voice?” Never did he want to hear an answer less.
Anne ran her gaze over his face. “I don’t want to talk about the duke, Harry.”
His heart lifted in the oddest fashion. He blamed his reaction on too much liquor and remembered he’d not touched more than a glass of champagne the whole of the evening. “What do you want?” Let the answer be me, and I will show you the true meaning of seduction.
“I want my second lesson for the evening.”
The chords of the waltz drew to a finish. Harry and Anne stopped amidst the politely clapping couples, gazes fixed on one another.
If he encouraged her bold proposition, he flirted with the parson’s trap, a snare he’d no intention of succumbing to. “Meet me in Lord Huntlys’ conservatory,” he said quietly. He bowed low at the waist and spun on his heel.
Anne’s heart thudded painfully as she stared at Harry’s powerful, now-retreating form.
Fingers touched her arm and she jumped. “What are you doing, sister?”
Anne’s cheeks blazed and she turned to greet her sister. “Katherine, what are you doing here?” she blurted. First the recital, now a ball. Katherine and her husband made it a point to avoid nearly all societal functions. Their sudden appearance had Mother’s hand over it more than the floral embroideries she’d stitched and displayed throughout their townhouse.
Katherine angled her head. A flash of hurt shone in her brown eyes. “You’re not happy to see me.” Dismay and shock blended together and underscored her words.
“No. No, that isn’t true at all,” she said hurriedly.
Too hurriedly.
She fisted the fabric of her skirts, knowing she was surely the world’s worst twin. For instead of the usual joy she found in Katherine’s company, she resented the reminder of her relationship with Harry. An unspoken communication passed between them. An apology. Forgiveness.
And then the determined warrior her sister had always proven herself to be, replaced the wounded figure who’d eyed Anne with accusation. Katherine guided her from the floor with all the precision of Lord Nelson leading his men at battle. “You have made some truly deplorable decisions through the years.”
Anne bristled. “I have not.”
“Hiding Father’s ledgers. All of them.”
She frowned. “It seemed like a good idea at the time.” As a girl, when she’d first heard whisperings of their father’s financial woes, Anne had believed if Father’s business documents were lost, then he’d not be able to continue wagering away their family’s wealth. Then, that had been the foolishness of a child’s naiveté.
Her sister’s mouth tightened and she continued to steer her through the crowd, onward past smiling couples.
“Where is your husband?” Anne ventured, wishing for her still terrifying brother-in-law’s presence if for no other reason than to be spared from her sister’s haranguing.
“Then there were the letters to that publisher.”
When their family’s circumstances had become truly dire, she’d penned her own Gothic novel and intended to seek publication as Mr. Robert Robertson. Alas, Mother had discovered her plans and tossed every last page of Mr. Robert Robertson’s work into the fiery hearth.
Katherine gently squeezed her arm and forced her to a halt beside a removed alcove. “Then there were your plans for us to attend the Frost Fair. Unchaperoned.”
And no one would have ever learned a hint of what had transpired upon the frozen Thames—if Katherine hadn’t gone and fallen through the one patch of soft ice. “Need I point out that you’d not have met your husband? A duke, whom you very much love, if it weren’t for my bad idea?”
Katherine pursed her lips in that disappointed way she’d done as a child when Anne had bested her at spillikins. “Very well. I’ll concede you were correct on that particular score. However,” she cast a discreet glance about, and then looked to Anne once more. “Dancing and flirting shamelessly with Lord Stanhope can never be considered a good idea.”
“Whyever not?” He’d proven himself to be k
inder, more patient, more, everything than she’d ever before considered of the legendary rogue.
“I’ve seen the way he studies you, Anne,” she said bluntly.
Her heart sped up.
“And do wipe that pleased little smile from your face. No good can come of anything with Harry.”
Anne’s stomach tightened at her twin’s inadvertent use of his Christian name. Her gaze skittered away from her younger sister, who through the years seemed to believe she was the one a whole six minutes and seventeen seconds older.
A resigned sigh escaped her sister’s lips. “I do not want to see you hurt. I know him,” she said, her tone far gentler. Gone was the motherly, patronizing tone, replaced by this kindred spirit who’d shared nearly everything through the years with the exception of that first breath drawn as babes.
Prior to enlisting Harry’s aid, she’d taken him for a carefree, indolent, conscienceless rogue. Now she knew him to be a man who’d had his heart broken by a title-grasping young woman, foolish enough to let him go. “I’ll not be hurt, Kat. I’m not the empty-headed ninny you or Aldora or Mother or anyone else for that matter believes I am.” There could never be anything between her and a man like Harry, whose heart would forever belong to another.
Her sister winced. “Surely you know I think you beautiful and kind and intelligent and…”
Anne laughed. “Oh, do hush. I know what I’m doing.” A familiar figure pulled into focus across the ballroom floor. Even with the space between them, she detected the flash of gold in his hazel eyes. He inclined his head as if knowing just what, or rather, who, she and Katherine now spoke of. She winked at him. Harry’s sharp, bark of laughter carried through the ballroom, the low rumble moved through her and she smiled. There was something so very empowering in making a sophisticated gentleman like Harry—
“Are you listening to me, Anne?” her sister chided.
Anne took her twin’s hands and gave them a squeeze. “I love you. I know you mean well. But I’d ask you to trust me.”
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