“And you’d have me for your wife.” She’d spent so very many days attempting to capture a duke, and yet so very little time in considering the best, most polite way to decline a duke’s offer. She took a deep breath.
He placed his index finger upon her lips. “Think on it. Stanhope’s past has returned and I suspect it impacts your future. Therefore, I’d like to claim that spot in your future, Anne. I don’t require an answer now.”
She knew so very little about the duke. No one truly knew a thing of this man or his past, and yet, she suspected he would make some young lady a wonderful husband. It didn’t matter if she gave her answer now or two years from now. The answer would still be no. That young lady would never be her.
As he stood, to take his leave, she suspected he knew it as well.
Harry strode through White’s, daring some foolish bastard to look his way. Since Margaret’s scandalous reentrance into Society, his name, her name, their past, the question of their future had been splashed across every last scandal sheet. He yanked out the chair at his table and sat with his back to the club. A liveried servant rushed over, with a bottle of brandy and an empty glass. Harry reached for them. And then remembered Anne’s damned father and shoved it aside. Instead, he picked up the empty glass and rolled it between his hands.
He’d paid her a visit earlier that afternoon, but he’d been politely, if coolly, turned away by the aged butler. Not receiving callers.
Harry growled. As though he were any other suitor and she was any other woman. Nothing could be further from the truth. Why, she was…hell, he still didn’t know quite what Anne Adamson was or meant to him. It was enough to know fury roiled in his belly at being turned away from her front door.
He imagined she was cross with him for having failed to meet her in Lady Preston’s gardens last evening. Any woman would be annoyed at having been abandoned with a scheduled meeting. Even as he’d ached to find the temptress in orange satin, her damned brother-in-law and then Margaret had cut off all hopes of seeing Anne, alone, removed from the gossipy ton. Anne had never struck him as a vindictive female. Yes, she’d made him want to gnash his teeth on more scores than he could count, but he’d never imagine she would turn him away.
He set the empty glass down with a thunk! He’d not truly allowed himself to consider what Margaret’s appearance meant to him and Anne, because even now, he didn’t even know what the hell he and Anne had, or were, if anything. What Harry did have the sense to realize, however, is that Margaret’s arrival in London would inevitably impact his relationship with Anne. In the span of a single evening, he’d been forced to confront his past and try and sort out just where Anne fit into his future.
With Margaret’s reentry into his life he’d at last found an unexpected sense of peace. The resentment and fury he’d carried had been the passionate response of a headstrong, competitive gentleman vying for her hand. There had been no real love there.
Anne mattered. She mattered in ways that no woman, not even Margaret truly had…or ever would.
Could he wed Anne?
Could he, when after Margaret’s betrayal, he’d sworn to never give his heart to another?
Tension knotted in his stomach. Since his first meeting with Anne, she’d vowed to capture the heart of a duke and Harry had done his damnedest to teach her just how to land not just Crawford, but any gentleman’s notice.
He swiped a hand over his eyes. Could he humble himself before her, in the hope that she would invariably choose him? Choose him, when there was another more titled, more proper choice?
“You look to be in need of company,” a haughty, now hated voice drawled.
He glanced up at the more titled, more proper choice. The illustrious Duke of Crawford didn’t wait for a response. Instead he slid into the vacant seat opposite Harry. And the pressure in Harry’s gut tightened. The last thing he cared for was company. Particularly with the man Anne had set her sights upon.
Crawford gestured to the brandy. “May I?”
Wordlessly, Harry shoved the unused glass across to the other man. Someone should make use of the fine spirits.
A servant rushed forward and the duke waved him off. “Believe it or not, I can manage opening my own bottle and pouring myself a glass of brandy.” His dry humor, as crisp as autumn leaves, gave Harry pause.
He preferred the image of lofty noble who considered himself well-above the lesser lords and ladies. He preferred that image because he’d rather hate the man Anne would have as her husband, in her bed, the man who’d place his hands upon her breasts, and bring her pleasure, and—
“I just visited with Lady Anne.”
Harry’s leg jumped in an involuntary reflex. The duke caught the opened bottle before it toppled over. “Did you?” Harry managed to squeeze past tight lips. She’d turned him away but received the duke. “And how is Lady Anne?” Of course, she sent you away, you blasted fool. You’ve served one purpose, to school the lady in the art of seduction. He’d apparently succeeded beyond even his expectations.
The duke took a sip of his brandy. “Quite well.”
Quite well. And here he’d spent all of last evening awake, well into the early morning hours fearful Anne had been wounded with Margaret returning and calling his attention away from their arranged meeting.
Fool. Fool. Fool.
“I’ll speak bluntly, Stanhope. I intend to wed the young lady.”
Harry stared, unblinking at the duke’s throat. It would create quite the scandal if he dragged the other man across the table by his meticulous cravat and beat him within a breath of oblivion. Harry, however, had weathered far greater scandals. “Do you?” he asked with a deliberate yawn. “And does the young lady know of these intentions?”
“She does,” Crawford said quietly.
Another image slipped into his mind. Anne taking Crawford’s kiss, and laughing about Harry, the poor sod who’d grown to… He forced his mind to a screeching halt, not allowing himself to consider just what he’d grown to do exactly.
The duke took another sip. “I brought the lady flowers and spoke quite plainly of my intentions.”
Flowers. His lips pulled in a derisive smile. The bastard knew her so little he didn’t even know the small details that made Anne, Anne. He didn’t know she sneezed at the mere sight of a bloom.
Crawford passed his glass back and forth between his hands. “Though it appears the lady has an insensitivity to flowers.”
It would also appear her damned duke had gleaned that particular detail. He now knew her husky contralto, and likely her sultry laugh and…Harry tightened his grip upon the edge of the table, digging so hard, his fingers were sure to leave crescent indents upon the immaculate surface.
“Why don’t you say what it is you’ve come to say and then be on your way?” Harry snarled, all out of patience with the other man and his veneer of politeness.
Crawford set his glass down. He laid his elbows upon the table and leaned over, all hint of friendliness gone. “May I speak plainly?”
He gave a brusque nod.
“The lady will make me an excellent duchess.”
Harry’s empty stomach churned with nausea.
“There is nothing you can give her that I cannot. Perhaps with the exception of a broken heart, that is.” The other man ran a condescending stare over Harry. “I’m the better man.” He leaned back in his chair. “I suspect you know that, and will allow me to do the honorable thing where Lady Anne is concerned.”
Harry clenched his jaw so tight, pain radiated up to his temple as a tumult of emotion swept through him. Hate burned violent and strong, threatening to consume. Hate for Anne’s having involved him in this scheme. Hate with himself for caring for her when he’d pledged to never care again. And hate for Crawford—for being right.
“Oh, come, now, Stanhope,” the duke scoffed. “No need to act affronted. You’re a rogue,” he said flatly. “A shiftless cad. Then, I gather you know exactly what you are, which is why you’
ll also realize I am, in fact, Lady Anne’s best option.” He shoved back his seat and stood. “Now, if you’ll excuse me.”
Harry stared after the duke’s swiftly retreating form, damning him to hell for being correct.
Chapter 19
Harry suspected that after Margaret’s unexpected return, the woman who’d broken his heart should occupy his thoughts. And yet, since the Duke of Crawford had taken his leave earlier that afternoon, Harry hadn’t been able to rid himself of thoughts of the other man’s visit.
He stared blankly out at the sea of faces, the waltzing couples, not truly seeing anything. He dimly registered Margaret at the opposite end of the ballroom. He yanked his attention away from her and searched the crowd for the woman he truly wished to see.
His friend, Edgerton, strolled over with two glasses of champagne. He handed one of to Harry. “I see Rutland has wasted little time,” Edgerton murmured.
Harry glanced up in time to see Rutland cut a path through the ballroom floor. He stared dispassionately on as his old rival for Margaret’s affections, a man he’d nearly fought to the death for the right to her made his way to the young duchess. Odd he should feel nothing. Not even the faintest stirrings of regret, jealousy…just a detached disinterest in these two people who owned a piece of his past and shaped him into the bastard he’d become. Rutland paused before Margaret and bowed. The crowd caught and held a collective breath in anticipation of the lady’s reaction. The duchess placed her fingertips in Rutland’s hand and allowed him to kiss her fingers.
“I heard you had a visitor at your club today.”
Bloody, Crawford. He’d love to send the arrogant bastard to the devil.
“Vying for a young lady’s hand.” Edgerton shook his head pityingly. “A bit of history repeating itself, one could say.”
“One could not say,” he snapped, despising the eerie similarities that had cost him first Margaret, and now, his greatest loss—Anne Adamson.
“He’s better off with her, Stanhope,” his friend continued, following Harry’s unspoken thoughts. “She’s an empty-headed, pleasantly pretty miss, who desires nothing more than the most advantageous match.”
Harry curled his hands into tight balls and fought the urge to bury his fist into Edgerton’s face.
“Do you know what I believe?” the other man went on, clearly having no idea how very close Harry was to laying him out.
“No.” Nor did he care about his friend’s opinion just then. With each word Edgerton uttered, the idea of delivering a well-aimed facer became more appealing.
“Take your Margaret. Avail yourself to the pleasures of her body” he urged with a trace of annoyance. “Everyone saw the lust in her eyes, Stanhope. Take her. And once you tire of her, be done with the lady. Just as you would any other widow.” He jerked his chin across the room. “And leave that one to Crawford.”
Harry followed his friend’s movement. The sight of Anne sucked the breath from his lungs. He’d not seen her in but a day and it was too long. Her expertly arranged, gloriously free tresses hung about her shoulders giving her the look of a woman who’d discovered sin and delighted in it. A lone ribbon woven through one errant strand, hung between her breasts. Ah, she was an excellent study. He wished she’d been a horrid student. Wished she’d failed miserably. Instead, she glided down the stairs with the grace to rival all the queens in Europe. Her eyes searched the crowd and he allowed himself to foolishly believe he was, in fact, the one she sought.
Katherine sidled up to her. Strange, he had ever favored Anne’s sister. Now, the duchess seemed a dull shadow to Anne’s effervescent beauty. She whispered something close to Anne’s ear. Even with the space of the ballroom between them, Harry detected the imperceptible stiffening of Anne’s bared shoulders. She gave a curt nod and then followed Katherine off.
He cursed as he lost them in the crowd of bodies.
“You’ve the look of a lovesick swain etched upon your face,” Edgerton whispered. “By God, man, I’m trying to help you.”
Harry straightened the lapels of his jacket. “Go to hell, Edgerton,” he said, tiring of his friend’s sage advice.
“Hullo, Harry. I’ve been waiting for you all evening.”
His body went taut, wishing it had been an altogether different woman waiting for him. “Have you?” He turned and greeted Margaret with frigid coldness. “If you’ll excuse me, there is someone I need to speak with.”
And the desire to find Anne had nothing to do with Margaret or revenge…and everything to do with Anne.
“What do you see?” Katherine whispered up to her husband. More than a foot taller than Anne and Katherine’s heights of five feet two inches, Jasper skimmed the crowd.
Anne’s heart paused at the unholy glint in her brother-in-law’s eyes. “What is it?” she asked, reaching for his sleeve, and then drew her fingers back.
He brusquely shook his head. “Nothing.” The curt, one word utterance told an entirely different tale.
Anne arched up on tiptoes and craned her neck.
Her sister pinched her arm. “Do behave, Anne. You’ll attract notice.”
She ignored her prudent warning and scanned the ballroom in search of Harry. Her heart tripped a beat as she spied him. He stood, a glorious, golden god beside a lush fertility goddess. Anne sank back on her heels, a hopelessly empty feeling spiraled through her.
“I’ll kill him,” Katherine muttered. Her cat-like eyes narrowed into thin slits. “Oh, the bounder, coming this way.”
Anne’s heart kicked up a beat. She clutched her sister’s forearm. “Is he?” Then, the crowd parted for Harry’s tall, well-muscled frame as he continued his forward course, in her direction. She knew her mother spoke the truth and inevitably there would have to be a goodbye between her and Harry. For now, all she knew was him. A lazy smile played about his lips.
Oh, how she’d missed him. He stopped before the small trio that represented Anne’s family. He inclined his head. “Bainbridge.”
For a moment, Anne suspected her brother-in-law might not return the greeting. She held her breath, but then Jasper sketched a short, if insolent, bow. Katherine glared at Harry.
He seemed wholly immune to her sister’s displeasure. His gaze remained fixed on Anne while the crowd’s laughter soared above the crescendo of the lively country reel.
“Lord Stanhope,” Katherine said in a cold tone Anne had come to know of their mother but never her twin.
“Kat,” he replied absently, in a way that snapped Jasper’s eyebrows into a single, menacing black line.
Anne fisted her skirts at the unwitting reminder of the ignominious beginning to Katherine and Harry’s friendship. If her sister didn’t love Jasper to distraction, then she would have been the Adamson sister who’d earned a place in Harry’s bed. And Anne wouldn’t know Harry in this beautifully intimate way. She’d never know this man who saw in her a clever woman with actual thoughts beyond the fabric of her gowns. How empty her life would have been, if there’d never been Harry.
The dancers erupted into a bevy of applause as the country reel drew to a close.
She looked away. And how much emptier it would be when he ultimately wed another.
Harry glanced down at the dance card about Anne’s wrist. “Will you do me the pleasure of partnering me in the next set?”
Ignoring her sister’s pointed look, Anne placed her fingertips upon his sleeve and allowed him to draw her out onto the floor as the orchestra plucked the opening strands of a waltz.
“I missed you last evening, Anne,” he murmured, as they took their places amongst the other dancers.
If it weren’t for the insolent grin on his cynical lips she might believe him. She looked to a point beyond his shoulder, ultimately finding the lush widow. The woman stood eying them with such pain dripping from the depths of her eyes, Anne forced herself to look away. “Did you?” she said tightly.
He applied slight pressure to her waist. “Never tell me you were displeased w
ith me?”
She fixed her angry stare upon the expert lines of his white cravat. This was all a game to him. Margaret’s reentry into his, and subsequently, Anne’s life. The ton’s morbid fascination with the small scandal. All the while he’d met with his former love, Anne had fended off Lord Rutland’s vile advances.
“What, nothing to say? Were you this silent with Crawford earlier this morn? After you’d sent me away.”
Her eyes flew to his. A hard glint reflected in their hazel depths. “How…?”
“How did I know about Crawford?” he correctly finished her question. “I’ve my ways, sweet.”
She gritted her teeth. “I’d ask you not to call me sweet, Harry.”
“Particularly if you are to become the Duchess of Crawford,” he said, his words taunting.
She would never be Crawford’s anything.
Anne said nothing. She’d not give Harry the satisfaction of baiting her, not when she was the one suffering so.
He pulled her body closer. She wanted to shove him away, remind him of the rules of propriety, but more she longed to feel his body close to hers. Harry dipped his head. “I gather our lessons are at an end,” he said, close to her ear.
He might as well have taken a blunt dagger and thrust it into her breaking heart. Anne dropped her gaze to his cravat shamed by the truth; she’d broken the promise he’d required of her in Lord Essex’s conservatory. “I gather you’re indeed, correct,” she said, her voice a near whisper. She’d fallen hopelessly in love with him.
“Will you meet me, sweet Anne?”
Fool that she was, she’d steal this one final moment with him, for herself. “Where?” So someday, when she was miserable and alone, she’d recall there had been a gentleman who’d made her heart race, even as his heart had belonged to another.
“In the conservatory.” Her eyes slid closed of their own volition. Of course. The conservatory. “Will you?” His husky whisper brushed her skin. Like any other one of his scandalous widows and unhappily wed ladies.
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