More Than a Duke (Heart of a Duke Book 2)

by Christi Caldwell

  “But you’re courting me,” she blurted.

  Since he’d agreed to aid Anne, he felt the first stirrings of unease. “It is a pretend courtship,” he said dryly.

  “I know that.” She colored. “I’m merely pointing out that if you’re to make the duke outrageously jealous then you’ll surely have to attend and—”

  “No.”

  “But—”

  “No,” he said this time more firm in his tone. Anne fell silent. He would not feel guilty. He’d already been far more generous with Lady Anne Adamson than the little termagant deserved.

  Footsteps shuffled in the hall. The young maid reappeared with a tray of tea and biscuits. Egad, tea and biscuits? Recitals? He tugged at his cravat. What was next? Attending an infernal event at Almack’s? Harry stood quickly and started for the door.

  Anne tilted her head at a funny angle. “Where are you going?” she called after him.

  “We’ve concluded your lesson for the day,” he said, not breaking his stride.

  “When will I—?”

  He sidestepped the maid and stormed from the room leaving Anne’s question unfinished.

  The last thing he could afford was to attend Lady Westmoreland’s recital. As it was, his “courtship” of Anne would be construed as an attempt on his part to find the next Countess of Stanhope. No, to attend recitals and other like events would send a message to Society that the Earl of Stanhope was in the market for a wife.

  Which he unequivocally was not.

  At least, not anytime soon.

  And most certainly not to a tart-mouthed young lady who approached rogues and demanded lessons on the art of seduction.

  Chapter 4

  Anne touched the edge of the sapphire blue satin ribbon twined through a deliberately placed curl. She peeked down at the fabric. It seemed rather silly. She knew Harry had insisted it be worn so, but she still didn’t quite understand how a strategically and improperly placed frippery would do anything but shock the matrons.

  Seated in the last row of the recital hall, she peeked about for her mother. Mother remained in conversation with the hostess, Lady Westmoreland. Anne considered her mother a long while. The tight, white lines of a mouth that no longer smiled, the hard set to her eyes. Mother had given her heart to a wastrel and scoundrel and all she’d received from Father was heartbreak. His betrayal had turned her into a bitter, hardened creature. Anne squared her jaw. The powerful and dignified Duke of Crawford, purported to value respectability and propriety, would never forsake his family and fortune for the pleasure of his lovers. Confidence in that truth had guided Anne in her scheme.

  Forcing her attention away from the saddened sight of her mother, Anne absently surveyed the assembling crowd; never more lonely than she was in this moment. She tapped her slippered feet on the marble foyer. Her twin had been wed nearly a year and here sat Anne, the one daughter Mother had so much hope for, unwed for a third Season, helplessly hoping for the hand of a proper duke.

  A slight stir went through the crowd and she craned her neck in attempt to see who’d attracted the small party’s notice. The Duke of Crawford entered. Impossibly tall and surprisingly broad, he was perfectly pleasing. He skimmed the hall and his serious blue-eyed stare moved through the crowd.

  She fingered the ribbon at her shoulder and continued to study him. Young ladies dropped deep curtsies and peeked at him from under their lashes, while their mamas pushed them closer to catch his eye. Anne chewed her lip. She expected she should feel a thrill of excitement at seeing the man she’d selected for her future bridegroom. She twined the blue ribbon about her finger. So why did the sight of him not stir the faintest frisson of warmth within?

  Just then, from across the hall, the duke froze mid-stride. His gaze caught hers a moment and then followed the sapphire ribbon lower to where it rested between her breasts. She widened her eyes. Well by Joan of Arc and all her army, Harry had been correct. The duke glanced up and looked at her.

  Anne mustered a small smile and then gave thanks for the commotion at the hall’s back entrance that snapped the duke’s attention elsewhere. Which really made little sense. She should be quite honored and fortunate the Duke of Crawford had briefly fixed his attention upon her. But she wasn’t. Instead, she’d foolishly been wondering why his stare hadn’t heated her skin the way it did with a certain rogue.

  Shocked whispers and loud murmurs rolled through the crowd. Again, she tilted her head in an attempt to catch sight of the latest source of interest. She damned her diminutive five-feet, nearly nothing frame. Why couldn’t she be one of those tall, graceful, willowy creatures? Then Harry would notice—

  Her thoughts came to a jarring halt.

  Harry? That is, then the Duke of Crawford would notice her. She’d meant…. Harry.

  She stood so quickly, her mother paused mid-conversation with Lady Westmoreland and looked at Anne. Whatever was Harry doing here? He’d been adamant that he’d not attend the Westmoreland recital.

  A familiar figure stepped into her line of vision and interrupted her thoughts. She let out an excited squeal and greeted Katherine and brother-in-law, Jasper, the Duke of Bainbridge. Her sister and husband did not come to Town. Instead, they spent most of their time with their young son in the cottage the duke had purchased for his beloved wife. Anne ached to throw her arms around her sister. “Katherine,” she said softly.

  “Anne,” Katherine said with a smile. She took Anne’s hands in her own.

  Since before they’d even drawn breath, they’d shared a special bond and Anne’s life had been so very lonely after Katherine had wed. They exchanged a look no one else present could possibly understand. A look that asked questions and conveyed emotions all at once.

  She squeezed Katherine’s fingers and gave the duke her attention. “Hello, Jasper.”

  He inclined his head. “Hello, Anne,” he greeted, still laconic as he’d been since she’d first made his acquaintance. Yet, gone was the harsh, hard-hearted gentleman who’d whisked her sister away immediately following their wedding. In his place was this kinder, gentler, though still gruff man.

  She eyed them wistfully. Love tended to do that. Or so all the Gothic novels she squinted her way through, seemed to indicate.

  Unbidden, she sought out Harry in the crowd. He moved with a long-legged elegance that earned sighs—from young ladies and old ladies alike. He offered the occasional roguish grin to certain women. Anne frowned and wondered at those particular smiles. Had those ladies once dampened their satin skirts and met him for champagne in certain conservatories? A dark, ugly niggling clutched at her. Hard and cruel and ugly. And something she didn’t wholly understand or care to evaluate in the moment. But she detested the memory of Lady Kendricks and all the other simpering beauties who’d surely held a spot in his bed.

  All the dislike she’d carried for the roguish Lord Stanhope surged through her and she welcomed the familiar sentiment to the burning red emotion that felt a good deal like jealousy.

  Her sister’s gasp pulled her back to the moment. She swung around and followed Katherine’s stare.

  A frown marred Katherine’s lips. “I recognize that look in your eyes Anne Adamson and if Mother were smart she’d recognize it too.” She shot a pointed look at her husband. “I told you she required my assistance.”

  Since she’d been a girl, her sisters and mother had gone to extraordinary efforts to keep Anne from pain, treating her no different than her young brother Benedict. As much as she appreciated and loved them for their devotion, she’d forever resented that everyone saw her as nothing more than an empty-headed silly child.

  Just as Harry did. The idea of that dug at her. She peeked around her brother-in-law’s shoulder.

  “Do not encourage him,” Katherine said warningly.

  She gave a flounce of her curls. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

  Her sister snorted. “Mother informed me he’s paid you a morning visit. She fears Harry will ruin your re
putation with a single look,” her sister spoke in hushed tones.

  Guilt settled like a stone in her belly. “Don’t be silly.” What would her mother and sister say if they knew Anne had all but asked the earl to ruin her? Only with instruction, of course, and no physical acts of intimacy. What of his kisses, Anne? a jeering voice needled. “Do you truly have such a low opinion of Lord Stanhope?” she shot back.

  Katherine and Jasper wore matching frowns. “Yes,” they answered in unison.

  Humph. Well, then. “Rest assured, the earl doesn’t have any interest in me.” No, he’d been very clear on that score. Not that she desired his interest. After all, she’d set her marital cap upon the Duke of Crawford—a vastly safer, more respectable match than Harry. She looked to Harry once more. Her heart fell somewhere in the vicinity of her soles.

  His gaze remained fixed on Katherine’s back. The expression in his eyes inscrutable. The pain of his interest unbearable. She didn’t know why after more than a year of them needling one another, she should care that he desired her more serious, more interesting twin sister. Harry stopped beside them. “Bainbridge,” he drawled lazily.

  “Stanhope.” The duke stiffened. It was clear to all that Jasper had little fondness for the rogue. After all, what sane gentleman would care to keep company with the scoundrel who’d tried to seduce his wife? Nonetheless, the duke sketched a deep bow.

  “Lord Harry,” Katherine said with a more waspish tone than Anne ever remembered her sister using.

  Harry murmured a quick greeting and then shifted his focus to Anne.

  Heat unfurled in her belly. He had a way of making a lady feel like she was the only woman in a room, which was all rather silly because Anne well knew how very many ladies present in this particular room had been the recipient of that intense scrutiny.

  Katherine’s lips tightened.

  “May I?” he motioned to the empty seat beside Anne’s chair.

  “Yes.”

  “It is occupied.” Katherine glared. “Er…that is to say, it was occupied.”

  Anne reclaimed her chair.

  Katherine made to take the seat alongside Anne, but Harry only sat in the vacant seat, a delicate Egyptian-style Klismos chair at the end of the row—the direct opposite side of Anne. He sat so close his oak-hard thigh brushed her ivory satin skirts. Warmth radiated at the point of contact. Her skin tingled with an awareness of his long, powerful leg. She swallowed hard.

  The duke stood above them, a black scowl on his face and then with something akin to reluctance, sat beside Katherine.

  Her sister leaned around her husband and if glares could kill, then Harry would be a smote pile of tinder upon Lady Westmoreland’s recital hall floor. “What a lovely surprise seeing you here. This is not your normal evening enjoyment.”

  Anne gasped at her sister’s boldly impolite charge.

  Ever the consummate rogue, a lazy grin formed on his hard, sculpted lips. “I wouldn’t dare miss the recital. Lady Anne and I have discovered a shared love of music.” He laid his hand alongside the back of Anne’s chair. “Isn’t that right, Lady Anne?”

  She managed a jerky nod. “Er…yes.” Her sister snapped her eyebrows together menacingly and Anne sat up straight in her chair affecting a whole I’m-singularly-unmoved-by-Harry’s-attempt-at-charming-me. “Yes, that is quite true,” she added. “Lord Stanhope has a deep appreciation for…” Three pairs of eyes looked to her. “Music,” she finished lamely. She had a love of all things music. Well, mayhap not the ladies Westmoreland’s singing. Still, she couldn’t quite say with any real degree of confidence whether Harry loved music.

  Her twin’s brown eyes became narrow slits that fairly shouted liar at the affable earl.

  An awkward pall of silence descended as the guests hurried to claim their seats. Anne registered the exact moment Mother returned and realized just who sat alongside her daughter. Her thin eyebrows shot to her forehead and she sputtered like a trout tossed ashore.

  Katherine all but yanked their mother into the vacant seat beside the duke.

  “She appears thrilled,” Harry drawled into her ear.

  Anne nudged him with her knee. “Do hush,” she whispered. What mother would be thrilled at the most notorious rogue in England’s attention being fixed on her daughter? Of course, the same mother would never suspect the same daughter had enlisted the rogue’s attention in garnering the notice of a duke.

  Lady Westmoreland’s daughters trotted down the long center aisle, onward to the front of the hall like a gaggle of geese meandering through Hyde Park. The eldest of the Lady Westmoreland daughters claimed the pianoforte bench while her sisters took their position at the front of the dimly lit hall.

  The crowd politely fell silent. A discordant key resonated through the hall. As the young woman launched into song, the audience seemed to flinch in unison.

  “You owe me, Anne,” Harry murmured against her ear.

  “Hmm?” She arched her neck and strained to see the front of the room. She cursed her diminutive frame and the faraway seating Mother had insisted upon. Last row sees all, she’d insisted. Except the blasted instruments being played by the young ladies. What make of pianoforte did the lady play? She squinted into the distance; it appeared to be a Broadwood—

  “Never tell me you’re enthralled by this show,” Harry continued in that devilishly silken whisper that tickled the shell of her ear.

  She continued to study the rosewood-and-brass instrument. Then froze. Harry’s teasing voice came as if down a long corridor. The vivid blue of the jasperware cameo adorning the magnificent piece and the faint AA etched into the pianoforte so very familiar. Too familiar. The air left her on a swift exhale. She curled her fingers along the edge of her seat.

  Anne drew in a shuddery breath. She’d not really spared a thought as to where all her worldly possessions were taken. Thinking of someone playing with Benedict’s soldiers or wearing her ribbons or reading Katherine’s books had been too painful. But the extent of her father’s betrayal was so much greater in this, in knowing he’d cared so very little he’d wagered away the one possession she’d loved more than all others…and that now, some other man’s daughters stroked the same keys Anne herself had, once upon a lifetime ago, dug at her.

  Harry glanced down at her and his body went taut. He moved an intense gaze over her face; all earlier teasing replaced with concern. “What is it?” His soft-spoken whisper thrummed through her.

  Anne managed to shake her head and looked up at him, really seeing him perhaps for the first time. Her breath caught. She’d always taken Harry as an indolent rogue, and yet this man, a stranger mere days ago, was so aware of her body’s nuances he could detect her upset, challenging every notion she’d carried of him—before this moment. Harry, who delved enough to see hurt when everyone else remained unaware making her feel something she’d only dared to dream of within the pages of her books—cherished. Warmth spiraled through her; it drove back the pain of her father’s treachery. She managed a smile. “I’m all right,” she mouthed. Because she was. The pianoforte, a token from a lifetime ago, was really just a material object, transient and fleeting. Here one day. Gone the next in a game of faro.

  Harry brushed his fingertips over the exposed skin of her shoulders. “I detest your frown, Anne.”

  She frowned. What a horrid thing to say.

  His lips pulled at the corners. “Not this displeased little frown. The other, forlorn one from a moment ago.”

  Her mother leaned across the seat and glared at them.

  Harry promptly removed his arm from behind the back of Anne’s chair and she mourned the loss of that closeness. The countess returned her attention to the performance. He returned his hand to its earlier position, and briefly brushed his knuckles along her exposed shoulders.

  Anne shivered at the spiraling heat that coursed through her. She glanced around to see if anyone had noticed his deliberate touch. All the guests in front remained with their gazes trained forward.
She could ill-afford the scandal of Harry intimately touching her in public, yet she craved his expert caress.

  His grin widened, as though he knew the very effect he was having on her. “Now that I have your attention, sweet.” His whisper fanned her ear.

  “Behave,” she scolded. She leaned forward in her chair determined to put aside thoughts of Harry’s touch, or his heated gaze, or well, anything and everything him. She leaned sideways in attempt to gather a better view of her beloved pianoforte around Lord Cumberland’s, well his er, cumbersome frame.

  “Anne,” Harry whispered.

  Warmth unfurled in her belly at the hot intensity of his bold stare.

  “It is time for your next lesson, sweet.”