She flinched at his deliberately placed barb. “Must you be so odious?” She blinked back foolish tears of hurt and glared at him.
Instead of properly chastised, Harry quirked another golden eyebrow. He leaned close so his brandy-scented breath fanned her lips. “Isn’t that what you want, sweet?” he said, almost tauntingly. “Title of duchess and by Crawford’s interest in that,” he jerked his chin at her satin ribbon, “golden ringlet—”
“Which is not silly,” she cut in.
“Which is silly. Well, then I’d wager all my coffers in the book at White’s that you’ll be carrying the duke’s heir by next Christmastide season,” he said, a biting edge to his prediction.
She gasped. Her fingers twitched with the urge to slap his smug, rude, arrogant, condescending face. Katherine looked over with a question in her eyes. Anne shook her head and her sister returned her attention to the performance.
A spark glinted in Harry’s hazel eyes.
With his roguish cynicism, Harry judged her interest in the duke and sought to taunt her for those efforts. She’d not allow him that satisfaction.
Anne relaxed her fingers. “Then your lessons on seduction should come in quite handy, my lord.” She sat back in her seat and promptly dismissed him.
~*~
At Anne’s rebuttal, fury thrummed through Harry’s veins, hot and volatile. By God, that he should school her in the ways in which to use her body and charms to catch another gentleman while he himself remained ignorant as to the color of the nipples atop those generous swells, or the pleasure of her touch, or the sound of her damned laughter, infuriated him.
He steeled his jaw. This sudden, inexplicable interest in Lady Anne was merely about sex. He’d never before noticed her lush form and now, well hell, now he did, and he wanted to know all of her. In the physical sense. Margaret’s deception had shown him there was nothing else to know of a woman outside of the pleasure to be had in her arms.
He might mock Anne’s efforts to land Crawford, but the reality was Harry had well-learned the way of their calculated world eight years ago. He’d given in to the emotion of love, given his fool’s heart to the sweetly innocent, beautiful Miss Margaret Dunn. He’d risked his very life, his reputation in a duel against Lord Rutland for the honor of the lady’s love. In the end, she’d chosen neither of them. She’d chosen wealth and status. And Harry? He had pledged to neither love nor feel again.
He didn’t care about the damned Lady Anne, tempting vixen with her sharp tongue. He pulled out his watchfob and consulted the time. He should leave. Hell, he should have left when Anne herself had made the suggestion a short while ago. A steady staccato pierced his thoughts. He dropped his gaze to the floor.
The tip of Anne’s slippers peeked out the front of the gown and beat a rhythm in time to the current song selection. All the hardened anger he’d carried since Crawford had come over and interrupted whatever this was between him and Anne, lifted. An odd shift occurred. There was something so whimsical, so endearing in Anne’s innocent gesture.
The lady enjoyed music.
Other than the fact that silver-flecks danced in her eyes when she was annoyed and that a little muscle ticked at the left corner of her lip when she frowned, Harry knew next to nothing about Lady Anne Adamson. But with her talk of contraltos and lyric sopranos, and her fixed interest in even the horrid performance of the Westmoreland girls, he found she cared about music.
He who made it a habit of not learning anything about a lady’s interests, outside of the bedchambers, that is, knew this of her. When one knew a lady’s likes and dislikes and what made her smile or laugh, and even frown, then one could no longer see merely a supple body to bed.
Christ. What was next? He’d begin sprouting sonnets about the sun-kissed golden hue of her silken ringlets?
He gave his head a hard shake and stood.
Anne looked up at him with a question in her wide-blue eyes.
He gave a curt bow and without a backward glance took his leave. The echo of his boot steps blended with the squawking squeal-like song of Lady Marissa Westmoreland. When at last he exited the palatial townhouse, he tugged at his cravat and sucked in a much-needed breath of air.
His driver hopped down from atop the black lacquer carriage and opened the door.
Harry strode over as fast as his bachelor legs could carry him and leapt inside. “To my clubs,” he said curtly.
The driver closed the door behind him and then the carriage shifted as he scrambled onto his perch.
Harry pulled back the black curtain and peered at the white stucco townhouse bathed in candlelight, unable to account for this desire to return to the too small, prim Klismos chair beside Lady Anne. The carriage sprung forward and he let the velvet fabric flutter back into place. He drummed his fingertips on the tops of his thighs, suddenly reminded of a different tapping. Specifically, two delicate slippered feet beating away a staccato rhythm upon the Italian marble floor.
He dragged a hand across his eyes. Slippered feet did not earn his notice. Bare naked toes used for wicked deeds, however, did.
As his carriage approached the front of Forbidden Pleasures, one of the most disreputable of the hells in London, Harry exited the coach resolved to put the innocent Anne from his thoughts once and for all. He strode up the three stone steps. The majordomo pulled the door open and Harry swept inside.
Raucous laughter and a cloud of thick cheroot smoke hung over the crimson-red establishment. Harry eyed the room a moment and then moved deeper into the club.
He strode over to an empty table and sat, absently viewing the debauchery before him. A liveried servant rushed over with a bottle of brandy. Harry accepted a glass and waved the man off. He splashed several fingerfuls into the tumbler and then filled it to the brim, determined to get well and fully soused. He took a sip and when that did little to diminish Anne’s disapproving eyes from his mind, he downed the entire contents.
“Well, well, Stanhope,” a voice drawled. “I thought you’d never arrive.”
He glanced up.
Lord Alex Edgerton grinned down at him. He and Edgerton went back to early days at Eton and Oxford. Theirs was the manner of friendship in which they would risk their life for the other. Harry should know. When he’d fought that foolish duel, Edgerton had been his second. Known for carousing, gaming, and over-indulging in spirits and ladies, the two were remarkably similar and good friends for it. “May I?”
Harry motioned to the chair opposite him.
Edgerton, the second son to the Marquess of Waverly tugged out a seat. A servant rushed to set down a bottle of brandy and an empty glass for the other man. The liveried footman reached for the bottle, but Edgerton waved him off. He poured himself a glass and shoved the bottle toward Harry. His friend quirked an eyebrow. “Lady Anne Adamson?” he drawled without preamble.
Harry grabbed the bottle and poured himself a third glass. He’d not come here to discuss Lady Anne but rather to bury thoughts of her in the arms of some nameless beauty with sweet lips and a clever tongue.
“Well?”
“I didn’t think there was a question there,” Harry said over the rim of his glass.
“Oh, there most certainly is a question. First Lady Katherine, now the lady’s sister.” Edgerton chuckled. “I am, of course, imagining all manner of delicious ways to entertain twin sisters.”
Harry’s fingers tightened almost reflexively about the glass, so hard he threatened to shatter the thick, crystal tumbler. “Don’t be crude, Edgerton.” He eased his grip. After all, would he not have had similar, outrageous thoughts if they’d involved anyone other than Anne?
“Crude?” Edgerton guffawed. “Never tell me you’ve gone all priggish on me.” Harry lifted one finger in a vulgar gesture. His friend laughed. “No, I suspect one wouldn’t fear you’d go all proper.” He set his elbows on the table in front of him and leaned close. “Rumor has it you were at Lady Westmoreland’s musicale.”
Rumor traveled fas
ter than a purebred stallion on an empty Roman road. He took another sip. With Edgerton’s unwavering loyalty there was little Harry kept from him, and yet something froze all discussion of Anne on his lips. Sharing his pledge to help her felt like a betrayal of sorts.
“Tsk, tsk,” Edgerton mocked. “Attending dull, societal recitals to see an innocent miss with ringlets and ruffled white skirts?”
What is wrong with my ringlets?
A growl rumbled up his chest at those last two mocking words. There was nothing wrong with her blasted ringlets. They suited her well. Too well. Whatever the hell that meant. They just did. He really wished Edgerton would close his blasted mouth. “Go to hell,” Harry muttered. He took another sip and set the partially drunk brandy down with a thunk.
His friend drummed his fingertips on the mahogany table. “Or is it merely that you have seen a hidden diamond ready to be plucked by an eager lord?” He chuckled. “It hardly matters if a lady is as empty-headed as Lady Anne when you have her underneath you.”
Harry’s legs jerked reflexively, knocking the table. The abrupt movement rattled the glass and sent brandy spilling onto the smooth wood surface. A servant rushed forward to clean the mess. He supplied Harry with a new glass.
Lord Alex stretched his legs out in front of him. “Ahh, you must have been soused before you attended Westmoreland’s.”
He didn’t bother to correct his friend’s inaccurate assumption that he was tap-hackled. Though he’d consumed several glasses, Harry was still dead sober. Certainly sober enough to feel the chill of rage run through him at the other gentleman’s disparaging of Anne. Instead, he said nothing. He reached for the bottle and sloshed several fingerfuls, thought better of it and filled the glass to the rim.
“I’m not in the mood for company,” he said curtly. He passed a glance around at the tableau of sin unfolding before him. Young, scantily clad women on the laps of some of the leading members of Society. Nubile females bent over the tables while others slapped at their well-rounded buttocks. He frowned. Once enticed by such depravity, Harry now battled a sense of tedium.
His friend followed his stare, “Ahh, so that is why you’ve come this evening.”
Harry reached for his glass.
“That is a good deal more reassuring than imagining you’ve become a stodgy chap at recital halls courting the vain Lady Anne.”
He knocked over his second tumbler.
Edgerton cursed and jumped back in his seat as liquid spilled onto his breeches. “Bloody hell, Stanhope. I never imagined I’d say this, but you’ve indulged in enough spirits for the evening.” He yanked his chin in the direction of a blonde angel eying Harry through sultry, interested eyes. “Time to lose yourself in a lush beauty.” He motioned the woman over. “You’re in a foul mood, which I gather has much to do with that recital you attended,” he said as the tall, Spartan-like vision sidled up to Harry.
He stiffened. His foul mood, as his friend referred to it, had more to do with the gleam of interest he’d detected in the bloody perfect Duke of Crawford’s eyes earlier that evening. The bastard had eyed Anne as if she was a berry dipped in champagne and he wanted to lick every last drop from her delectable frame.
He dimly registered an expert set of hands moving from his shoulders, over his chest. He blinked at the golden-haired angel. With her skin flawlessly white and her body curved in all the places he liked his women curved, he should be eager for her attention.
She layered herself against him. “Hello, my lord,” she whispered into his ear.
Only her voice lacked the cultured tones of a certain refined young lady. “Hello,” he said at last. Her blonde hair lacked the vibrant gleam of a scorching summer sun.
She smiled, taking that simple greeting as an invitation and trailed her fingers between the deep crevice of her breasts.
He jumped up.
Edgerton looked up at him with a quizzical expression. “Are you all right, Stanhope?”
No! “Fine…just too much drink,” he lied.
The young beauty shifted her attentions to Edgerton, climbing onto his lap.
Harry raised his hand in salute and hurried from Forbidden Pleasures. What madness had Lady Anne Adamson wrought upon him? In a handful of days he’d gone from a carefree rogue who lived for his own pleasures and the pleasure he could give any woman, to this snarling, snapping, furious beast enraged at the thought of Crawford and Anne together.
He made his way out the black double doors of the establishment and paused at the threshold, absently staring out the darkened, seedy streets of London’s underbelly. The sooner Anne could bring her duke up to scratch, the sooner he could be rid of her and return to his uncomplicated, blithe lifestyle.
And by the look in Crawford’s eyes at the Westmoreland recital, it really would only be a matter of days.
Harry growled, abhorring the idea for reasons he didn’t understand.
Chapter 6
“The gall of that man!”
Anne glanced up from her stacks of ribbons on the rose-inlaid table before her. Mother stood in the doorway, brandishing a paper like it was a weapon of old and she the knight defending his keep. Fury snapped in her melodramatic mother’s eyes. She bit back a sigh. “Mother,” she greeted. With both her sisters gone and married and her brother away at school, Anne found she far preferred her solitary company and collection of ribbons to her mother’s hysterics.
Her mother sailed into the room. “The gall of him,” she seethed. Just in case, Anne assumed, she’d failed to hear the same utterance mere moments ago. Mother paced. “Gentleman,” she scoffed. “Why, how loosely that term is applied. To bounders and scoundrels and rogues.”
A momentary twinge of pity struck her. She imagined the pain of Father’s betrayal would forever turn a woman bitter as it had Mother. This is what marriage to a scapegrace would do, and a fate Anne now actively sought to avoid.
Her mother launched into a tirade that involved mention of dastards and their dastardly deeds. Anne shifted her attention back to her meticulous stacks of ribbons. She picked up an ivory satin strip and laid it carefully atop the others. Six. Six white ribbons. She rested her chin in her hand. Which seemed rather silly, as Harry had pointed out. All this white and ivory business. She glanced down at her ruffled skirts, also of ivory. After all, a lady who’d seen two Seasons should certainly have the luxury of… She picked up the aqua-blue ribbon, a luxuriant color that might make a gentleman think of ocean waters and—
“Have you heard a single word I’ve uttered, Anne?” Mother cried.
She dropped the ribbon. “Uh, yes.” She waved a hand. “The whole dastardly behavior business.” Which seemed rather close to whatever Mother had been carrying on about, for the older woman gave a pleased nod. Anne reached for another blue-green ribbon.
“And to do so after he’d spent the evening expressing a clear interest in you.”
She froze, her hand poised over the pile. “What?” she blurted.
Mother let out an exasperated sigh. “Do try to keep up.” She waved the paper in front of Anne’s eyes, which did her little good. Unless squinting and angling the page just so, it was nigh impossible for her to make out a single word. “That bounder.”
Her heart hammered. “What bounder?” She really wished she’d been paying closer attention.
Mother tossed her hands up. “The Earl of Stanhope. First, he sought your sister’s favor.” She snorted. “As though your sister would ever be so foolhardy as to toss away her affections on such a cad.” Her pointed look, a damning statement more powerful than words, spoke volumes of her opinion on Anne’s discernment.
She frowned. She’d never been considered the intelligent one of the family. Her family, polite Society, they all failed to realize Anne was a woman who saw much, heard more, and had actual thoughts inside her head beyond the fabric of her gown or the tons gossip. “Mother, what is it?” she asked, impatiently.
Mother tossed the paper onto the table. The faint breeze
stirred the pile of white and ivory ribbons. Several strips of satin sailed onto the floor. Ribbon piles forgotten, Anne picked up the copy of The Times. Her mother leaned over her shoulder and jabbed her finger somewhere in the middle of the page. “There. Read that.”
Anne held it up. She tried. She truly did. She squinted hard. If she blinked in rapid succession and the light was just right, she could make sense of the blurred words.
A certain Lord HS was…
Her eyes flew wide and the page blurred out of focus. She wanted to stomp her foot. Blast! Lord HS was what? Smitten? Enamored? Captivated?
“Oh, do give me that.” Mother snatched it from her fingers. “’Lord HS abruptly fled a certain Lady AA’s side.’” She glanced up from the page. “That is you,” she said as if Anne were a simpleton.
“Undoubtedly.” A pressure tightened about her heart. It shouldn’t matter what Harry did after he’d left her company, and yet…it did. Unwilling to let her mother see the effect her words were having upon her, she yawned into her hand. “He’s a rogue, Mother. Why should we care about his goings on?”
More Than a Duke (Heart of a Duke Book 2) Page 7
