She’d believed he would go to his Margaret and that thought had shattered her, but this, knowing he’d become the same Harry meeting his scandalous ladies in conservatories with two flutes of crystal champagne glasses wrenched at her insides.
She’d lashed at herself in the six days, twelve hours, and handful of minutes since she’d fed him every worst perception he’d ever carried of her. She’d forced her eyes to make sense of the words in the gossip sheets…and had seen enough to recognize his name linked to any other number of widows and scandalously wed ladies.
In the end, Harry had proven himself to be…well, Harry. And there was little consolation in knowing her lies had wrought the transformation upon him once more, because ultimately all he’d revealed was how little she’d meant to him.
Which really wasn’t all that fair, considering she’d set him free. Tears filled her eyes. She blinked them back.
Katherine sat up. “You need to make an appearance at some event, Anne. Society has noted your absence.”
Inevitably she would. At her betrothal ball. Anne rolled onto her back. She flung a hand over her eyes. “I don’t care.” In the past, polite Society’s singular interest on Lady Anne Arlette Adamson would have mattered.
“I’m not leaving,” Katherine said, firming her jaw.
Guilt needled at Anne. Each morning, Katherine had come and stayed with her, nearly throughout the day. Her sister had fashioned herself as something of Anne’s protector through the years. Everyone had believed Anne in need of saving. She’d never have imagined the only one who could save her was in fact the single gentleman she’d taken to be a rogue and scoundrel.
“You are going to the Vauxhall Gardens masquerade tonight.”
“I’m not.” With its secret paths and illuminated groves, it posed the perfect place for trysting couples. Harry would undoubtedly lead one lady or another down to one of those trysting places.
Katherine hopped to her feet in a flurry of greenish-blue diaphanous Grecian skirts. She made a splendid Amphitrite, the goddess of the Mediterranean Sea. Her lips pulled. Unlike her, with her foolish shepherdess costume. Of course Harry would have always preferred one such as sophisticated Katherine to Anne and her silly golden ringlets. “But you always love a masquerade, Anne,” her sister said, pulling her back from her self-pitying musings. Katherine hurried over and picked up the costume set out by her maid earlier that evening. “Tell me you don’t long to don this splendid garment.”
The world, twin sister included, still saw Anne as a young lady fixed on nothing more than the fabric of her gown or her attire for a silly masquerade. “I don’t long to don that splendid garment,” she mumbled. Harry hadn’t. He’d seen her as a clever woman with real thoughts inside her head.
And I let him go.
Agony knifed at her heart, once again.
“You’re going.” She crossed over and threw the wispy, silken confection at Anne. Her mouth tightened. “I’m fetching your maid and you’re putting the damned garment on. I’ll sooner eat this costume than see you pine for the Earl of Stanhope. Do you understand me?” The impassioned response burned her sister’s cheeks red.
Quite clearly. Anne’s guilt intensified at her sister’s clear displeasure with Harry. Katherine and Harry had been friends long before Anne. Back when she had identified him as a scoundrel and cad, Katherine had confided in him and embraced his friendship. Until Anne had gone and ruined that, too…
“Don’t be foolish. You are my sister,” Katherine snapped, clearly interpreting her twin’s private musings.
The door opened so swiftly Anne would wager her every worldly possession the maid had been waiting outside in the hall. Her sister handed the costume off to the young woman. “My sister requires assistance.” She sailed to the front of the room “This is not finished, Anne. And do not tarry, we’ve a masquerade to attend.”
A short while later, Anne wound her way through the long corridors and down the winding staircase to the foyer. Her mother and Katherine stood in costume, quietly conversing. An uncostumed Jasper, with arms folded behind his back glanced up. He murmured something to his wife.
Katherine glanced upward. Pleasure lit her eyes. “Splendid, Anne. You look just splendid. Doesn’t she?” She jabbed her husband in the side.
Jasper grunted. “Yes, indeed.”
Her mother studied her with a critical eye and frowned. “You look pale,” she said bluntly.
“I have a mask on,” she murmured when her slippered feet touched the floors.
“Only partially.” Mother’s lips tightened. “Oh, this will never do. The ton will take one glimpse of your swollen eyes and wan complexion and know you’re pining.”
Anne spun on her heel. “You’re indeed, correct.” And Mother was largely incorrect on most scores. “I shouldn’t attend.”
She placed her foot on the bottom step when Katherine settled her hand on her shoulder. “You’re going.” She firmly steered her back around.
Ollie, the family butler threw the door open, anticipating her sister’s efforts. Katherine took her by the elbow and guided her outside and onward to the waiting carriage. “Trust me, you’ll feel a good deal better when you are there.”
She very much doubted that.
Lord Edgerton’s amused chuckle cut into Harry’s silent ponderings. “You’ve consumed nearly an entire bottle of champagne, Stanhope.”
Harry downed the contents of his sixth glass, polishing off as his friend predicted, an entire bottle of fine, French brew. He managed a lazy grin and held the empty glass up in salute. “Indeed.” He scanned the crowd at Vauxhall Gardens purposefully.
After he’d taken his leave of the grasping, self-centered brat, Lady Anne Adamson a week ago, he’d expected word of her betrothal to the Duke of Crawford to break as the latest source of gossip. In the first days, he’d taken care to avoid any polite Society event where he might see the shameless creature who’d broken his fool heart. He’d resumed his all-too comfortable life, returned to the Forbidden Pleasures. Except, all his attempts to bury himself in some nameless, faceless creature who didn’t have blonde hair and blue eyes, a creature who still haunted his thoughts, had proven futile. In the end, he’d not touched a single woman.
And so, he’d reentered polite Society, fully prepared to see the little flirt—the flirt, he’d schooled. Fortunately, they seemed to be now moving in very different social circles. The little viper.
His lips pulled in a sneer, teeming with cynicism and contempt. Even as he’d thought himself prepared for the duplicitousness of a female’s lack of faithfulness following Margaret, he’d still allowed Anne to wheedle her way into his thoughts, and worse his dammed heart. And what had he gotten for his efforts? A reminder as to why the only thing the female form was good for was as a receptacle for a man’s lust. He plucked another glass of champagne from a costumed servant. He took a long swallow and looked around.
Edgerton shot him a sideways look. “Are you searching for anyone in particular?”
“No.” The lie came easy.
His friend snorted. Even if his laconic response didn’t ring with any truth. “I told you the lady was to be avoided,” Edgerton said unhelpfully.
“Would you like me to congratulate you on being correct?”
His friend took a sip of his champagne. “Certainly not. Just reminding you so that when you inevitably see the heartless wench, you take care to not make a cake of yourself.”
Again. The sole word missing from his friend’s warning.
His searching gaze collided with a fair Aphrodite. The trim, Greek goddess touched a finger to the corner of her lip, invitingly. The curls, more brown than blonde didn’t have the same sun-kissed effect of a particular young lady’s golden silk tresses.
He paused, narrowing his eyes…and then looked away.
Another woman, with familiar raven black locks sidled up to him. “Hullo, my lord.” She touched her expertly manicured fingers to the latch of his thick, black clo
ak. “A highwayman,” she murmured. Taller than most men of his acquaintance, the lady leaned up. Her breath fanned his ear. “You may steal whatever jewels I possess, my lord,” she whispered invitingly.
Harry glanced at the scantily clad Cleopatra through the slits in his black, half-mask. With her ample hips, sweetly rounded buttocks and generous breasts, she was a veritable lustful feast. His for the taking.
She sauntered away, crooking one perfectly manicured finger in his direction, inviting him forward.
Take her, then. Lead her off to some tucked away corner, lift her golden skirts, and plunge all your frustration into her warm, willing body.
He took a step forward.
I’d like you to teach me how to seduce a man… Anne’s words whispered around his tortured mind.
And he retreated. The woman’s plump, red lips formed a moue of displeasure, and she moved on to some other less dead inside lord.
“You’re a fool,” Edgerton said with an exasperated sigh.
Harry closed his eyes a moment. Anne had ruined him for anyone else.
Edgerton whistled. “I do say this is a deal worse than the broken heart you nursed over Lady Margaret.”
“Go to hell,” Harry muttered and took another sip.
“Will you at least speak of it, then?” Edgerton asked quietly.
“What would you have me tell you? That the lady merely needed me to entice the Duke of Crawford. She sought nothing more than a tutor who’d help her garner Crawford’s affection.” He’d known all along what Anne’s purpose in seeking him had been, only in the days he’d come to know her, he’d allowed himself to forget the more than a year of needling and annoyance. Instead, he’d come to appreciate her humor, quick-wit, the inner beauty Society failed to see…
Lies. All of it.
Edgerton stiffened. “Ahh, it would appear the shepherdess has arrived to fleece other poor, unsuspecting gents of their hearts.” His mouth formed a hard, flat line.
Harry’s body went taut as he followed his friend’s distracted wave to the demure shepherdess in frilly skirts. Until he was an old, doddering lord who didn’t recall where he’d placed his monocle, he’d forever recall the sight of those golden ringlets piled high atop her head. She tapped her staff upon the gravel path and scanned the costumed crowd. For an infinitesimal moment, he allowed himself to believe he was the someone she searched for. And not Crawford.
Her sister, Katherine whispered something against her ear. The ghost of a smile played about Anne’s red, bow-shaped lips and he cursed himself for the inherent weakness inside that made him long to cross over, rip the gauzy mask from her face and make love to her deceitful mouth.
As though his wicked thought burned an awareness into her, she squared her creamy white shoulders and continued her search. Their gazes collided.
The din of chatter and the orchestra’s distant strands faded into nothing more than background noise. …You’ve served your purpose… Her cruelly, mocking words weaved around his mind and he touched the slip of fabric buried inside his coat, pressed against his heart, a forever reminder of Lady Anne Adamson’s faithlessness. He raised his glass in mock salute.
Color flooded her cheeks and she dropped her stare to the ground, but not before he detected the trace of hurt.
He scoffed. A heartless, title-grasping wench like Anne was incapable of being wounded.
From across the stretch of lawn, Katherine glared at him. He bowed low at the waist. If looks could kill a person, he’d have been flayed to bits by the fury in her once friendly eyes. She snapped her skirts and presented him with her back.
Just another thing destroyed by Anne’s cruel hands; not only his heart, but his friendship with her loyal, devoted sister.
“Look away, Stanhope,” Edgerton murmured at his shoulder. “Neither of those ladies is worth your time or efforts.”
Katherine had been. Her sister, well, Anne had not, nor would she ever be worthy of his time and efforts and yet, he could not ignore this tangible pull between them.
A familiar, loathsome form materialized behind Anne. The bastard, in his arrogance hadn’t even deigned to wear a costume. The Duke of Crawford called her attention away and capturing Anne’s fingers, he bowed over her hand.
Harry tortured himself with the blush that climbed her neck and cheeks, a blush she surely summoned on will alone. Fleecing hearts, indeed.
“One viper for another,” his friend muttered. Harry followed his stare to the approaching, Athena in pleated Greek skirts.
Lady Margaret stopped before them. “Hullo, Harry,” she greeted, her voice thick with emotion.
He cast a glance over her delicate shoulders and found Anne’s focus on his exchange with Margaret. Relishing the momentary flash of regret that flickered in her eyes, he raised Margaret’s hand to his lips. And this time, he allowed her to drag him away from the reminders of his greatest mistake in life.
As he followed her down the dimly lit gravel path, he registered a pair of eyes trained on his back. It was foolish to imagine it was Anne. She’d been quite explicit in her feelings for him and her aspirations for Crawford.
“The Lord Stanhope I remember was always full of humor and quick to speak,” Margaret murmured, pulling him back to the moment.
“Fighting a duel for a young lady who then chooses an old letch tends to make a gentleman more cautious.” But not cautious enough to know better than to give his heart to Anne.
Margaret paused beside a towering fountain. Fireworks lit the sky in hues of red and orange, illuminating the bubbling water. She stared down silently as though searching for words. “I spent nearly eight years regretting my marriage, Harry. I thought I might be happy with the title of duchess,” she confessed.
Just as Anne. Only Anne’s duke would be pleasantly handsome, unfailingly polite, wealthy and in possession of one of the oldest titles… His gut tightened. “And you’ve not been happy in eight years?”
She toyed with the fabric of her skirts and gave a curt shake of her head. “No. I’ve not been happy,” she said tersely.
He expected he should find some sense of victory in her misery. Only, with time he’d found he’d not truly loved Margaret. A young gentleman’s arrogance and the battle he’d waged with Rutland for the lady’s affections had driven him more than any real sentiments of love. He’d failed to realized that—until Anne.
“You don’t love me,” she whispered, the word bore traces of shock and pain.
He said nothing.
“I believed at Lady Preston’s ball your treatment of me was driven by jealousy and old hurts. But it wasn’t. Was it?” She turned to face him. Her lower lip trembled, indicating there was, in fact, more depth to the capricious woman who’d walked out of his life. Still, he felt no stirring of emotion, no desire for more with her. Lady Margaret belonged to his past. “You’ve come to care for another.”
No. He didn’t care for Anne Adamson. He loved her. Even with her betrayal, he would always love her.
Margaret caught her lower lip between her teeth.
“I’m sorry, Margaret,” he said, simply. Finding that he truly meant it.
She folded her arms across her waist. “Is it…?” She hesitated “The Lady Anne Adamson?”
Even though Anne didn’t deserve any loyalty from him, he’d not betray the memory of her with this woman.
When his silence confirmed that he’d not share Anne’s identity, she sighed. “I can’t imagine she deserves you, Harry.”
His jaw tightened. No, she didn’t and yet, she’d forever hold his heart—whether he wished it or not.
Margaret’s lips turned up in a wistful smile. She leaned up on tiptoe and pressed her lips against his cheek.
A gasp cut into their private exchange. He glanced over Margaret’s shoulder. Twin sisters, foils in every way, stood at the end of the path.
Fireworks shot into the sky, illuminating their faces. Katherine singed him to the spot even as Anne swayed against her sister. A momen
tary expression of grief ravaged her cheeks. Which made little sense. Anne had been quite clear in her feelings for him. Or rather her lack of feelings.
He raised Margaret’s hand to his lips and pressed a kiss to her knuckles. Anne’s skin took on a sickly pallor and then she presented him her back. Katherine eyed him with such loathing he shifted on his feet, feeling like a properly chastised child. She said something to Anne.
Margaret frowned. “I gather she is in fact the young lady who captured your heart.”
He clenched his teeth, giving Margaret his attention.
“That was rather poorly done of you, Harry,” she chided.
“Yes. Yes it was,” he agreed and swiped a hand over his face, tortured by the memory of Anne’s pale cheeks and horrified eyes. It shouldn’t matter that she’d been wounded by his meeting Margaret. She’d proven herself faithless and fickle.
And yet, it mattered.
Chapter 24
Katherine guided Anne with a military precision that could have afforded her command of the King’s army, away from the loving tableau presented by Harry and his Margaret.
Oh, God.
“Breathe,” her sister muttered, lips unmoving.
Pain rolled through Anne in vicious waves, one after the other. She blinked back tears, blurring her vision. The joyous, ribald laughter sounded throughout the grounds punctuated by the overhead burst of fireworks. “I cannot stay,” she rasped out.
Her sister gave her forearm a hard, reassuring squeeze. “I’ll find Mother.”
Anne jerked free of her sister’s hold and took her by the arms, earning rabidly curious glances from nearby peers. “Please.” She begged with her eyes, needing to be spared her mother’s continual disapproval and angry stares.
Her sister gave a terse nod and gently guided Anne’s arms back to her side. “Wait here. I’ll gather Jasper.” She hesitated.
“I’ll be fine.” She lied. She would never be fine again.
Katherine lingered, recognizing the words Anne left unspoken. Then, that was just part of being a twin. That inherent sense of knowing. Wordlessly, she turned on her heel and strode through the crowd, boldly striding past those who sought a word with the Duchess of Bainbridge.
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