“Oh,” she said on a soft sigh. “A-are you m-making light of me?”
“No.” He’d never again be able to manage such a feat. Not knowing her as he now did.
Anne glanced at his hand upon her wrist and with reluctance, he released her. She ran a suspicious gaze over his face. “And you’ll not tease me for—?”
He marked an X over his heart. “On my word.”
She continued to study him with an intent seriousness in her blue eyes and then stood. “I’ll play, Harry.” From the place she occupied at the far end of the room, Anne’s maid coughed. Anne’s eyes went wide. “Er, that is, I’ll play, my lord.” She waggled her golden eyebrows at him as she settled into her seat. “Though I imagine you’ll merely be bored with Dibdin.”
From his spot kneeling, he grinned at her. “I assure you, I’ll not.”
Her fingers danced upon the keyboard with an expertness the master Dibdin himself would have applauded, the jaunty, uplifting melody of the former resident composer of Covent Garden’s The Lass that Loves a Sailor. Her contralto filled the parlor; the beauty of the husky, emotion-laden tone could rival the most lauded opera singers upon the Continent. Yet, he’d instructed to use her voice as a tool of seduction. Now hearing her, witnessing the depth of her instrument, he recognized the travesty in merely seeing such beauty reserved for the bedroom.
His lips pulled in a grimace. Egad, next he’d be spouting sonnets of the lady’s fair skin. What mad spell had she cast upon him?
She sang, unaware that she’d captivated him with her intelligence, beauty, and now song. “But the standing toast that pleased most…” Anne tipped her head jauntily back and forth to the quick, staccato rhythm, as she continued; all the while she smiled through her singing.
At her infectious enthusiasm, he grinned. A grin that had nothing to do with seduction or passion or lust, but rather a smile that came from the joy of just being with her.
“The ship that goes…” Her playing increased to a frenzied rhythm. “And the lass that loves a sailor.” She ended on a dramatic flourish. Her cheeks a healthy pink, an, unfettered smile upon her lips, he was struck motionless wishing he was, in fact, a poet so then he could commit the memory of Anne Adamson to a page, forever immortalizing the spirited beauty. She dipped her head as their gazes locked.
A charged moment froze the room. The tick-tock of the ormolu clock marked the passage of time. A servant entered with the tray of tea and pastries, and set the world to spinning once more.
Harry stood, and clapped. “Brava, my lady.”
Anne hopped up from her bench on a laugh, breathless. “Oh, do hush,” she said, brushing off his compliment like a drop of rain upon her skin.
He reclaimed his seat upon the sofa and looked at this woman whom he’d thought he knew, whom he’d unfairly judged, and judged quite harshly. And looking at her, he was humbled by the truth of how little he or anyone else in Society, in fact, knew of her. For Society’s opinion of Lady Anne as a vain, attention-seeking young lady, she neither wanted nor welcomed even deserved praise.
She hurried over and this time sat beside him.
He dipped his lips close to her ear. “You’re remarkable, Anne.”
She snorted. “And you’re a flirt, Harry.”
“Yes, indeed I am.” He leaned over and tweaked her nose. “But I’m also a truth-teller.”
She hastened to pour herself a cup of tea. He studied her precise, ladylike movements, surely perfected many years ago through lessons ingrained into her by a stern governess. Lady Anne Adamson evinced everything of a perfectly proper, English lady and was therefore everything he’d avoided since Margaret’s betrayal. Now, however, studying her as he did, Harry found her to be far more than one of the insipid, colorless young ladies in the market for a husband. As though she felt his gaze on her, Anne glanced up. Her long, graceful fingers curled about the handle of the pale blue porcelain teapot trembled.
Ah, the minx wasn’t immune to him after all, and masculine satisfaction flared in his chest.
Liquid splashed over her hands and splattered the edge the mahogany table. She set the teapot down with a firm thunk. “Blast and double blast,” she hissed.
From across the room, her maid jumped up from her tucked away seat. “I’ll see to an ointment, my lady.” She fled as fast as if a fire had been set to the parlor.
Harry yanked out a handkerchief. “Here—” He snapped it open.
She drew her fingers back. “It’s fine,” she said softly.
His mouth hardened. Did she see herself as nothing more than an obligation to him? “Don’t be daft.” Did Anne not realize she’d come to mean something to him? “Let me see.” He took her hands in his and turned over the injured digits. He cursed.
“It’s fine,” she murmured. The delicate skin of her three middle fingers bore the red, angry marks from her tea.
He popped the digits into his mouth, drawing the soft flesh deep.
The quick intake of her breath filled the quiet between them. The muscles of her throat moved up and down. He expected her to politely avert her gaze and draw her hand back. In the time he’d come to know Anne, however, he should realize she never did that which was expected. A little sigh escaped her lips. “That feels splendid.” She leaned close to him.
Had anyone told him he’d be sucking upon a lady’s fingers and there was nothing the least bit sexual in the act, he’d have laughed in the gent’s face and proceeded to list twenty acts one could do with one’s mouth and a lady’s fingers. She somehow made him forget the rogue he’d been and turned him into a man he didn’t recognize—one who wasn’t solely fixed on tugging up Anne’s skirts and making sweet love to her, but rather, one who wanted to know the little pieces that made Anne—well, Anne.
Harry pressed his eyes closed a moment. He drew her fingers out of his mouth and studied the reddened flesh. This was very bad, indeed.
Chapter 13
Harry had been accused of doing many things that were the height of foolishness, and on more scores than he could count. He could even readily take ownership of any number of those foolish decisions. Agreeing to school Lady Anne Adamson on the art of seduction, however, was the height of all foolish acts to come before this. Though, staring at the collection of delicate, wire-rimmed spectacle frames spread out on his immaculate desk, he could admit this was certainly the second.
He picked up an oval pair and weighed them in his hands.
“They are a lovely pair,” the doctor murmured.
Harry glanced at the seventy-somethingish doctor who’d served his family through the years. There were not many he could trust with such a delicate, such an intimate matter. “But how can I be certain she…?” He flushed. “That is…a person might be able to see more accurately.”
The older man swiped a hand over his mouth, and Harry suspected it was a meager attempt to conceal his mirth. “Er, well, this uh…person…does not struggle to see things which are in the distance?”
I can see. I just cannot see so very well when I’m reading…
Harry gave his head a curt shake. “She…Or, rather he,” The doctor’s lips twitched once more, “claims to have no difficulty seeing objects in the distance.”
Harry set down the gold-framed spectacles and reached for another lighter, oval-shaped pair. He turned them over in his hands, imagining her as she’d been squinting desperately to make sense of the words on a page, words which had been about him and his actions the previous evening. Why should Anne care whether he’d been with another woman? Why, unless…she cared… And why did he want her to care? History had shown him the dangers in forming any emotional entanglements with a woman who’d pledged to wed a duke.
“And how blurred are the words when this,” the doctor coughed into his hand, “person is reading?”
Startled, Harry dropped the pair of spectacles. They landed with a soft clink upon the collection of other frames assembled before him. “Quite blurred,” he said quickly. Unbidden,
a smile pulled at his lips in remembrance of Anne with her copy of The Times and the indignant expression on her furious, heart-shaped face.
“My lord?”
The doctor’s prodding jerked him from his senseless musings. Harry gave his head a disgusted shake and grabbed another pair. “Sh…He, squints.” He picked up a forgotten copy of The Times at the corner of his desk. He held it up and angled the pages away from him to display the angle. “Holds the page about here and squints.” He demonstrated for the old doctor once more the extent of Anne’s squint. “In this manner.”
“Ahh.”
That was it? Just ‘ahh.’ “Also tilts the page toward the light.” He remembered her as she’d been, endearing and enticing in her innocent attempt to muddle her way through the reading of that page. Harry threw the paper down and reached for a third pair of the thin metal frames. “And can you help h-…this person?”
The doctor’s face settled into a very somber, very doctorly mask. “I would have a better gauge on just what is best for this,” he arched an eyebrow, “gentleman in terms of the actual lenses if I were to meet—”
“No.”
“And assess—”
“Still no.” Harry tugged his cravat. “This gentleman is quite busy. Quite,” he added. A gentleman did not give a young lady gifts unless he was prepared to declare for her.
“I see.”
A knowing sparkle lit the man’s kindly blue eyes. Dr. Craven likely assumed Harry’s delicate purchase was for a well-favored mistress. Nothing could be further from the truth.
And all the more dangerous for it. Harry, the Earl of Stanhope, did not call family physicians to his townhouse with a collection of lady’s spectacles and have a pair commissioned; not for a respectable young woman.
Outside of expensive, extravagant, and emotionally insignificant jewels he’d purchased for mistresses through the years, he’d never gifted such a personal and meaningful item—to anyone. And yet, he wanted, nay, needed to make this purchase for Anne.
His mind shied away from the implications of this gift. He looked at the pair of spectacles he currently held. Silver, delicate. He weighed this pair in his palm the way he had the previous pairs. This frame would not be uncomfortable for the lady to wear. He held them up. Sunlight filtered through the drawn back curtains from the full floor-length windows. It reflected off the metallic rim. He imagined Anne in the spectacles and not much more. Biting back a groan at the enticing image, he shoved the pair toward Dr. Craven. “These will do.”
Perfectly.
The doctor tucked them into the front of his coat. “I cannot promise the lenses will be completely perfect for the young…person.”
“Do the best you are able.” Without seeing the lady. Because if this intimate gift for the unwed Lady Anne was discovered by the ton, the young woman would be ruined as surely as if he’d been discovered with her in Lord Essex’s conservatory that first night. “I imagine whatever you manage will be a vast improvement to what the la…person sees now while reading.” Which was next to nothing based on Harry’s earlier observation.
The physician stood up. He opened his mouth to speak but was interrupted by a knock at the door.
Renshaw, Harry’s butler, opened the door and cleared his throat. “Lord Edgerton,” he announced and backed out of the room.
Harry hopped guiltily to his feet. Heat crept up his neck as his friend entered the room.
The other man swept an entirely too astute gaze over the room, lingering a moment upon the doctor, and then of course, the collection of spectacles still littering Harry’s desk. He quirked a mocking eyebrow.
Harry silently cursed and gathered the wire frames into a neat little pile and handed the stack over to Dr. Craven who accepted the awkward bundle in his aged hands.
Dr. Craven executed a slight brow. “If that is all, my lord?”
“That is all,” he said tersely. “Thank you,” he added as an afterthought. The old doctor was hardly to blame for Edgerton’s ill-timing.
“I will bring them round as soon as they are complete, my lord.”
“Splendid.” And it would be a good deal more splendid if the other man took himself off. For the more he spoke, the more interest flared in Edgerton’s amused eyes.
The doctor sketched another bow and then hurried past Edgerton and out of the room. He closed the door behind him with a soft click.
Harry propped his hip on the edge of his desk and folded his arms across his chest. “To what do I owe the pleasure of this visit?”
His friend scoffed. “Come, now, can a friend not pay another friend a visit?” He didn’t await an answer. Instead, he crossed over to Harry’s sideboard and availed himself to a decanter of brandy and a crystal glass. He carried them to the front of the room and claimed one of the leather winged-back chairs at the foot of Harry’s desk. Edgerton yanked the stopper out and splashed several fingerfuls into his glass.
“By all means, help yourself,” Harry said drolly.
“Indeed I shall.” Edgerton raised the glass in mock salute and took a drink. He hooked his ankle across his knee and drummed his fingers along the edge of his boot. “Spectacles.”
Of course he could not expect his friend would abandon all questions about Dr. Craven’s visit. “Is that a question?” he asked, with a touch of impatience.
Edgerton took another sip and eyed him over the rim of his glass. “Never tell me you’ve begun taking on with a bluestocking mistress?” He shuddered. “Egad, you’re becoming stuffy in your advancing years.” Humor fled and he leaned forward. “Who is she?”
Harry gritted his teeth. “Who is who?” He didn’t need the other man asking probing questions when all answers led back to Lady Anne Adamson.
Edgerton’s brown eyebrows knitted into a single line and then he let loose a slow whistle. He gave his head a pitying shake.
Harry tightened his jaw. “What?” he bit out. He really didn’t want to feed the other man’s humor but really, what had merited Edgerton’s pity?
“Why, they aren’t for a bluestocking mistress, after all, are they?”
Somehow, Edgerton’s words were a question that wasn’t a question. Harry remained silent.
“They are for…”
Christ.
“A lady.”
Harry went taut. In spite of a lifetime of friendship between them, he welcomed the idea of handing Edgerton a well-placed facer for his deliberate needling.
A sharp bark of hilarity exploded from his friend’s chest. The other man laughed so hard, liquid drops of brandy splashed over the side of his glass. “Oh, th-this is rich!” He set his tumbler down on the edge of Harry’s desk and dashed tears from his cheeks.
Harry drummed his fingertips upon his forearms. “I’m pleased you find this hilarious, though I must admit I can hardly fathom, what—”
“Why, you’ve gone and purchased spectacles for a lady who I gather is not your mistress.”
“You know I do not have a mistress,” he replied automatically. Bloody hell!
Edgerton widened his eyes.
Why hadn’t he insisted they were, in fact, for a bluestocking mistress, a lie far safer than the truth? He braced himself, knowing his friend well-enough to know he’d correctly surmised the young lady’s identity.
Edgerton reached inside his jacket and withdrew a crisp, white handkerchief. He dried the moisture from his cheeks and then stuffed it back inside his front pocket. “By God, it’s the Lady Anne.”
Harry let his silence serve as an answer.
His friend snorted. “Though I suspect a young lady as vain as Lady Anne would not be seen in spectacles, even if the queen herself declared it the latest fashion trend.” He chuckled. “Then, perhaps offer the lady a title of duchess and she’ll walk herself upside down by her hands if she had to.”
He balled his hands into tight fists at his friend’s ill-favored opinion of Anne. I’ll not be destitute again, Harry. Not because I’m avaricious, as you’ve accuse
d me, but because I knew the terror of lying awake and wondering what is to become of your family…
Edgerton uncrossed his leg and rested his palms upon his knees. All earlier humor fled, replaced with a somber concern.
“I know what I am doing,” Harry muttered before his friend could speak.
“Do you?” Edgerton asked. “Do you?” he pressed.
Harry looked away. As wrong as Edgerton’s unfavorable opinion of Anne happened to be, in this regard, the other man was right. He really didn’t know what he was doing; first agreeing to help Anne in her quest for the heart of a duke. And now, in this, buying gifts for a lady who wanted nothing more than the security, stability, and title she could find in Crawford.
“I saw you betrayed once by a grasping, avaricious, fickle creature. Lady Margaret was undeserving of you and so is this one, Stanhope.”
Harry inclined his head. “I thank you for your concern.” Edgerton had been a good friend to him these years. The best. “But it is unwarranted.” He glanced over at the ormolu clock atop his fireplace mantle. “Now, if you’ll excuse me. I’ve business to see to.”
Edgerton eyed him skeptically. “Oh?” There were a million shades of doubt within that single, syllable utterance.
Harry shoved himself off his desk. “I’m meeting Lord Westmoreland on a matter of importance.” He sketched a quick bow and abandoned his friend to his own devices.
As he took his leave, Edgerton’s dangerous charges dogged his every thought.
Chapter 14
A whispery soft spring breeze tugged at Anne’s hair and freed a single ringlet. She brushed the strand from her eyes, her attention fixed on the same page she’d been attempting to read from The Mysteries of Udolpho. With a sigh, she conceded the futility of her efforts. Her inability to focus had little to do with the blurred words of the scandalous volume given her by Aldora, and everything to do with a too-charming Earl of Stanhope.
A Heart of a Duke Collection: Volume 1-A Regency Bundle Page 52