She leaned forward and picked up a black-striped pink ribbon. She laid it atop a small pile of other similar-colored ribbons. One. Two. Three. Four. Five pink satin ribbons in total. Anne reached for a dear orange satin ribbon. She held up the sole scrap she’d retained from her girlhood, during a time when every last shred of her ribbons, gowns, and everything in between had been carted off by merciless creditors.
She turned the ribbon over in her hands. The light reflected off the shiny strip, giving the prized scrap an almost iridescent effect. If she were permitted to wear a gown other than the pale hues insisted upon by Mother, she’d have the finest French modiste design her a gown to match this very shade.
The butler, entered. “My lady, you have a caller.”
Startled by the unexpected intrusion, the ribbon slipped from her fingers and fluttered in a whispery dance to the floor.
The older servant who’d been with them since she was just a girl cleared his throat. “The Earl of Stanhope,” he introduced, admitting Harry.
She leapt to her feet as he stepped into the room like Michelangelo’s David come to life. Impossibly tall and sinfully handsome with his thick, unfashionably long golden hair, he cut quite the figure. Anne dipped a curtsy.
He grinned. Then he glanced at her pile of ribbons.
Heat blazed in her cheeks. The butler ducked from the room. “Er…Mary,” she called softly. “Would you see to refreshments?”
Her maid hurried from the room.
Harry beat his hand against his large, muscular thigh. He sketched a deep bow. “My lady,” he drawled.
Anne motioned for him to sit. She sank into the gold-brocade sofa. “My lord,” she murmured as he sat in the giltwood open armchair beside her. He stretched his long legs out in front of him and hooked them at the ankles. Anne angled her head. Hmm. She’d never before noticed anything about the Earl of Stanhope other than the fact that he infuriated her with his roguish grin. After all, rogues were unreliable, and unreliable gentlemen did unreliable things. She’d learned as much after her father’s betrayal. Since then, she’d developed a new appreciation for staid, respectable gentlemen. And wealthy gentlemen; that mattered, too.
Harry drummed his fingers on the arms of his chair. “Perhaps Crawford’s disinterest stems from a lack of conversation?” His amused baritone jerked her from her melancholy.
She kicked his ankle with the tip of her slipper. “Oh, do hush.”
He continued to study her through thick, hooded, golden lashes.
Anne sat, perched at the edge of her seat. She folded her hands in her lap and glanced down at the forgotten orange ribbon in her fingers. Her fingers curled reflexively about the satin strip that represented her past, and now her present day goals.
Harry leaned over and plucked the precious fabric from her grip. “You’ve quite the collection of ribbons, Anne.” He trailed his forefinger down the stretch of material and she studied that oddly sensual movement.
Her cheeks warmed. She said nothing, praying he’d move the topic to far safer grounds.
Alas, God appeared otherwise busy. “It seems like a rather exorbitant amount,” he said.
Anne bristled at the mocking edge to his words. She didn’t expect he’d understand. She reached for her fabric. He held it just out of her reach. She gritted her teeth. “Give me back my ribbon.” She made another unsuccessful grab for it. With an indignant huff, she settled back in her seat.
Harry shoved himself up and claimed the seat beside her.
“What are you…?” She swallowed hard.
He touched his fingers to her hair and claimed a single lock. With an expert precision a lady’s maid would have admired, he wove the ribbon through that lock, knotting it, and draping the tress over her shoulder. “There,” he said softly. “This is how you use a ribbon to attract a gentleman’s notice.” Something dark and indefinable glinted in his eyes.
She followed his gaze to the point where the fabric nestled between her breasts. “Oh.” She’d scandalize the matrons at Almack’s and every other polite member of Society if she arrived at any event with her ribbon displayed so. Anne frowned. “I’d not have a roguish gentleman.” She would not settle for a gentleman who’d be so easily, so improperly, swayed.
He ran his thumb over her lower lip. “Ah, yes, Crawford. The ever proper, unfailingly polite duke.”
Harry really needn’t make the Duke of Crawford’s properness sound so very awful. “The duke would not be lured by such shamelessness on a lady’s part.”
“Shamelessness?”
Anne gulped at the silken edge to his hushed tone but refused to be cowed. “Yes. Shamelessness. As in, without shame.”
He continued to toy with her lower lip. “If you knew how to bring the gentleman up to scratch then why did you enlist my support?”
She tried to focus on his question, she really did. But his teasing caress made it quite difficult to so much as remember her name, let alone process his question. His smirk indicated he knew as much.
Blast him. “A gentleman has different expectations of his prospective wife’s behavior,” she managed, proud of the steady deliverance of those words.
He continued stroking her lip in that way that sent little shivers from the point of his touch. “You’re wrong, sweetheart. A gentleman wants his wife kissable and seductive and all things inappropriate.”
Her body burned with the memory of his embrace, and she decided she would like her husband to be kissable. “D-does he?” And proper, as well. Certainly both would be quite splendid.
Gold flecks danced in the hazel depths of his eyes. “Oh, yes.”
She longed for a loyal, honorable gentleman who desired her and only her, but also a man who respected her mind. “I do not want a rogue.” Were those words spoken for Harry? Or herself?
He moved his gaze over her face. “Surely you see the imprudence of your plan,” he said softly.
The breath left her as it occurred to her… “Why, this was all an attempt to sway me in my goal.” He didn’t speak, confirming her suspicions. She rose in a flurry of skirts to stand over him. “I told you last evening I’d find another willing to help me.”
He leaned his head back. “Rutland?” he drawled.
She nodded once. “Yes, Rutland.”
Harry scoffed. “If you are outraged by my actions with your ribbon then you’d have the ladylike shocked out of you by Rutland’s tutelage.”
Anne bit the inside of her cheek. Something hard and dark in his eyes gave her pause. He might attempt to deter her, but in this, he spoke the truth. She held her palms up. “Will you help me or not, Harry?”
He opened his mouth.
“I need to know why a gentleman wants to marry a young lady.”
~*~
Ah, this was very different indeed. With her ladylike indignation and talk of marriage, she’d deviated rather a lot from lessons on seduction.
In fact, had she mentioned the words wedded, marriage, bride or any variation in between in Lord Essex’s conservatory, Harry would’ve had a good chuckle and advised her to avoid him, Rutland, and all the other useless rogues in Society. After all, if he’d known the precise answer to her question, he’d have managed to win Margaret’s hand all those years ago.
“A gentleman desires a woman’s body and not much beyond that,” he said with a bluntness that snapped her mouth closed.
That hadn’t always been the case. Once again, he shoved aside thoughts of Miss Margaret Dunn and buried her where thoughts of faithless creatures bent on nothing but title and wealth deserved to be buried. Unbidden, his gaze went to Anne. His lips pulled back in a sneer. They were all alike.
Color filled her cheeks. “What of love?”
A half-laugh, half-groan lodged in his throat. God help her.
“Why are you looking at me in that manner?” she spoke with candidness not common among ladies of the ton.
“In what manner?” he asked, his tone harsher than intended.
&nbs
p; “Like you detest me.”
His loathing was not reserved solely for her but rather all women who’d trap a man for his wealth and title alone. Only Katherine possessed an integrity not commonly found in women. He stood and his rapid movement forced her to retreat. “Do you know why, sweet?” he asked quietly.
“Don’t call me sweet,” she ordered automatically. In her haste to be away from him, she bumped into the Hepplewhite pier glass table. She winced, but continued moving backward. “And why?”
He forced her across the room until her back collided with the white-plastered walls. Harry braced his elbows alongside her head and framed her within the confines of his arms, ignoring the heat of her lithe figure. “Because you are no different than every other self-centered, title-grasping lady. You speak of love.” He shook his head. “Yet you’d ask a notorious scoundrel to school you in the art of seduction. You’d put your material pleasures above all else?” He chuckled. “And for what?” He lowered his brow to hers. “More ribbons.”
She jerked as though he’d struck her.
For one slight, infinitesimal moment guilt slammed into him. He felt like a bastard who’d bullied a small child into turning over their bag of peppermints.
She wet her lips in a way he’d come to learn, just in this past day, of Lady Anne’s nervousness. “You don’t know me, Harry.” Accusation blazed from the blues of her eyes. “You judge me as being, what did you say? Title-grasping and self-centered? But you don’t truly know anything about me.”
He scoffed. Really, what more was there to know? Only…his biting response died on his lips. Something indefinable, an uncharacteristic somber glint in her eyes gave him pause. Something that hinted there was more to Lady Anne than he or any of polite Society had ever suspected. Her chest rose and fell heavily with the force of her breath. He swallowed hard.
Anne hurried to collect her stack of ribbons, wholly unaware of the effect she had on him. “Here.” She thrust them toward him.
He eyed them as though she’d handed over a pile of snakes. “What is this?”
“They are my ribbons. Take them. They are yours.” She touched the piece he’d woven through her hair. “But this, this one is mine. This is the only one that matters.”
If he were a complete bastard he’d point out that the last thing he wanted or needed of her was her fripperies.
“Material possessions do not drive me. If that is what you think of me, then you’re greatly mistaken.” She jerked her chin toward the ribbons. “Accept them as a kind of payment for your efforts.”
He rubbed the ribbons between his fingers a moment. Soft. Silken. Like the feel of her lips beneath his. “Then what does drive you?” Wealth, power, a grand title—just like Margaret. “I’ll not take your ribbons.” Not when they seemed to mean a good deal to her, for reasons he did not know or understand and reasons he likely would never know or understand.
Anne soberly shook her head. “The only thing you need to know is how to help me.”
It was highly foolish to keep any of the lady’s things. He set her scraps of fabric down. The sooner he aided her efforts, the sooner he could end his connection to the infuriating Lady Anne Adamson with her too many ribbons. “You want my guidance, Anne? Then wear the damned ribbon when you see Crawford.” The stern, proper duke would forget propriety and spirit her off to Gretna Greene for the plump mounds of her cream white breasts alone.
Anne touched her fingertips to the satin ribbon, eliciting all manner of sinful thoughts he should never have about this hellion. With long, graceful fingers, she stroked the flesh of her décolletage. “This is silly.” She looked pointedly at the ribbon. “It’s not even properly placed.”
He choked. “Trust me, it is properly placed,” he said, his voice garbled. The young lady didn’t realize that if she were to use her clever hands exactly as she was now in the presence of the duke, she’d find herself a proper duchess faster than she could say marital bed.
She eyed him skeptically. Little did the lady know she was mistrustful for all the wrong reasons. Anne reclaimed her seat and folded her hands on her lap. “What else is there, my lord?”
“Harry,” he insisted his tone harsh, but damn it, for some inexplicable reason he craved the sound of his name on her lips.
“Harry,” she murmured.
He glanced over his shoulder. He should leave. He should forget his offer to assist her. Then, he’d been a rogue for longer than he remembered. He took the seat beside her. So close their legs brushed. He shot a sideways glance to determine if the lady was suitably shaken by his body’s nearness.
Anne wet her lips.
He brushed his fingers along the nape of her neck and she angled her head, leaning into his touch. “I think the rule of ribbons is enough for the day,” he murmured.
Anne blinked but did not pull away from his caress. “I’ve just the remainder of the Season to earn the duke’s notice.”
Annoyance filled him at her ability to speak so effortlessly about Crawford with Harry’s hand upon her person. “I’ll set the rules of our arrangement.” She opened her mouth to protest. “You are free to reject the rules, but if you do, then you’ll have to enlist Rutland’s support.”
She cocked her head, a baffled look in her eyes. “Rutland?” Her eyes went wide. “Er…yes, uh, Rutland.”
He narrowed his gaze. Why, the lady had never intended to seek out Rutland, or probably any other gentleman for that matter. Anne could out wager the most experienced of card players at the seediest gaming hells. He made to rise.
She scrambled forward in her seat. “Don’t.” She sighed. “Very, well, I’ll agree to whatever terms you set.” She swatted his hand. “Though I don’t understand why you’re not eager to impart all your lessons immediately and be done with me. You no more want to be in my company than I yours,” she muttered more to herself.
Indeed, she was correct. Why didn’t he merely provide his roguish suggestions and be on his merry way? He’d never wanted to know a thing about Lady Anne. Hell, he’d never even wanted to be in the same room with the spitfire. What manner of question to ask the lady? “Why a duke?” he asked suddenly.
She wrinkled her brow at the unexpected shift in conversation. “Every young lady desires a duke,” she said at last. Still, she’d hesitated and he’d detected the slight heartbeat pause.
“That isn’t much of an answer,” he made to rise again.
Anne touched her fingers to his hand, stilling his movement.
He stiffened at the innocent, yet enticing pull of her fingers upon his person.
“I…I…” She slid her gaze away from his. “It is not merely for his title.” Harry strained to hear those faintly spoken words.
He scoffed. “It is always about the title, my lady.”
She gave a toss of her golden ringlets. “In this instance, it is not.” She flattened her lips, indicating she had nothing further to say about her selection of Crawford for her future bridegroom. “Did you know,” she said, her voice whispery soft. “My sister Aldora and her friends once met a gypsy. The woman provided them a pendant and promised whoever wore the necklace would win the heart of a duke.”
Ah, so the lady didn’t just want Crawford’s hand and name. She wanted his heart. His lip curled back in an involuntary sneer. “I imagine the wearing of the pendant is an essential part to your plan.” It was never about love. Ultimately wealth and power drove all.
She chewed her lower lip, ignoring the sarcastic twist to his words. “You’re right.” She leaned over and picked up a gold pendant on top of the forgotten book on the table before her. Anne studied the inexpensive looking bauble. The chain danced and twisted in her fingers. “Katherine did find the heart of a duke by wearing it.”
He expected a pang of envy at mention of Katherine. She’d been the first woman to rebuff his advances and instead repaid his heavy dose of charm with an impressive facer. Somehow, they’d still found friendship. All the while he’d believed she’d tire o
f the husband who’d not deserved her. In the end, the duke and duchess had found love and she and Harry had never become anything more. He took the locket from Anne’s fingers then unhooked the simple clasp at the back. “I imagine if you’re to land Crawford we should begin by keeping this on,” he said.
“Are you making light of me?” She turned her head in a clear attempt to gauge his reaction.
He grinned. “Just a bit,” he said.
“Tonight, when I see you at Lady Westmoreland’s recital you may evaluate my use of the ribbon.”
He blinked. When he saw her at…? He laughed. “I’ve no intention of attending Lady Westmoreland’s recital for her daughters.” And his lack of interest in attending had little to do with the rather deplorable reputation her daughters had earned as wretched singers and everything to do with it being a respectable venue he’d not be seen at.
More Than a Duke (Heart of a Duke Book 2) Page 4
