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

by Christi Caldwell

  The servant glared at Harry as though he recognized a scoundrel in his midst. He cleared his throat, and gave his attention to Anne. “My lady, His Grace, the Duke of Crawford.”

  The duke swept in as if he was the King of England coming to call. He glanced around the room, and then he fixed a frown on Harry. The message clear. I’ve selected my duchess.

  “Crawford,” Harry drawled.

  Anne dropped a deep, deferential curtsy. A becoming pink blush stained her cheeks and her eyes darted about the room. Standing as close as they were, he heard her slight sigh as her maid appeared.

  “My lady, forgive me.” A young maid swept in. “I retrieved your book.” She held up a copy of Mrs. Deerlander’s Guide to Decorum.

  If the Duke of Crawford believed: one, that a passionate spirit like Lady Anne would spend even a moment reading even a word of that drivel, two, the maid’s ruse to explain away the lack of chaperone, and three, that Harry would interfere in the other man’s courtship, well, then he was as mad as a Bedlamite streaking the halls of that infamous hospital.

  Anne rushed forward. “Thank you, Mary,” she said quickly. She took the book in her hands, hands that mere moments ago had twisted and twined about his neck like a tenacious vine of ivy. She shifted under the duke’s scrutiny, the leather volume held almost protectively to her chest.

  Crawford walked over to her, placing himself between her and Harry. He claimed her hand and raising her fingers to his lips, brushed his mouth over the inside of her wrist.

  The pink hue of her cheeks blazed a bold red.

  Harry clenched his hands into tight balls at his side, filled with an inexplicable urge to separate the bastard’s fingers from his person. Over the duke’s shoulder, Anne met his gaze.

  The tall, commanding duke with ice in his eyes, followed the direction of her stare. He arched a ducal eyebrow at Harry.

  Harry tugged at the lapels of his coat. It was on the tip of his lips to order the other man to hell and claim a spot beside the scattered pile of ribbons. Except, something flashed in Anne’s eyes. An entreaty. A plea. Her meaning could not have been clearer than if she’d clambered onto the sofa and shouted the words. Go.

  He gave a quick bow. “Lady Anne, Crawford. I’ll leave you two to your visit.” He spun on his heel and beat a hasty retreat. Ultimately, Anne seemed to remember what he’d allowed himself to forget. Their every interaction, their every meeting was a ploy to garner Crawford’s notice and prompt an offer on the other man’s part.

  It would seem the lady’s plan had worked brilliantly. Harry would soon be well-rid of the tart-mouthed Lady Anne Adamson.

  Harry cursed under his breath, and took his leave. He should be elated with the rapidity of Crawford’s interest.

  So why was he so bloody miserable?

  ~*~

  Anne stared at Harry’s swift retreating back and resisted the urge to call out, ask him to stay. Despite of all her earlier, preconceived notions about the roguish Earl of Stanhope, he’d proven himself to be kind and decent. She stared down at her palm, the skin still stinging from the slap she’d dealt him. Regret tugged at her. God help her, she enjoyed being with Harry. Missed him, even now with the illustrious Duke of Crawford in her parlor.

  “My lady? I trust you are well?”

  She jumped, pressing her hand to her heart. “Er…uh, yes…most well,” she said on a rush. Her maid gave her a pointed look from across the room and from over the duke’s shoulder gestured to the sofa.

  Anne motioned to the seat. “Would you care to sit, Your Grace?”

  Mary nodded.

  The duke inclined his head. “I would,” he murmured, coolly polite.

  From across the room, Mary held up an imaginary glass and raised it to her lips.

  “Refreshments!” The single word utterance burst from her lips. The duke quirked an eyebrow. She fanned her hot cheeks, and then remembered herself. “That is,” she said, her tone even. “Would you care for refreshments, Your Grace?”

  “I imagine I have all I need in terms of sustenance for the day with your company, my lady.”

  Anne’s mouth pulled and she buried the grimace in her fingers. Egad, had she really desired a silly sonnet penned on her behalf? Harry’s face flashed into her mind. With his bold assertions and his unrepentant words, she found she preferred the honesty in his responses than in the duke’s overdone compliments. She sat in the King Louis XIV chair and rested the book on her lap, wishing for the uncomplicatedness of life before Harry when there was nothing more than the dream of security and stability to be had in the role of duchess.

  The duke sat at the edge of the sofa so that their knees brushed. “And what does a lovely young lady take enjoyment reading, Lady Anne?”

  Scandalous Gothic novels. Shameless tales of unrequited love and gentlemen vying for a lady’s hand. With someone ultimately always meeting an untimely, ugly demise. She glanced down at the book her maid had brought her and silently cursed the excuse orchestrated by Mary to explain her absence during Harry’s earlier visit. She handed the leather volume over to the duke.

  He examined the title. “I imagine a lady such as you wouldn’t need the help of anyone to maintain proper ladylike decorum.”

  One of Mother’s favorites: Mrs. Deerleander’s Guide to Decorum.

  Did she imagine the hint of rebuke buried in the duke’s words? “Oh, quite the opposite, Your Grace,” she said blandly, disabusing him of any notions he carried about her suitability as his future duchess. “It is likely why my mother is insisting I read it.”

  A half-grin pulled at his lips. If she were being perfectly honest with herself, she’d admit he was a rather handsome gentleman. Even more than pleasantly handsome. With thick chestnut hair, fashionably cropped, and a powerful blue-eyed stare that could bore into a person’s soul. When most of the other dukes were doddering old letches with monocles held to their eyes, His Grace possessed a tall, well-muscled form. His smile deepened, though it never quite reached his eyes. “You’re a delight, my lady.”

  His platitudes set her teeth on edge. Confectionary treats and ices from Gunter’s were a delight. People were not. “Oh, not at all. I’m the bane of my mother’s existence,” she said, with the lack of appreciation that had made many a wallflower into spinsters. Stop talking, immediately, Anne. You’ll drive him away.

  “Oh?”

  She angled her head, wagering he’d perfected that haughty ducal eyebrow-arching business as a small boy. “She claims I’m too spirited,” she went on. From across the room, Mary groaned.

  “Is there such a thing, my lady?”

  And in that moment, the proper, respectable duke who’d paled in the shadow of Harry, rose in her estimation. She leaned over and dropped her voice to a low whisper. “I imagine a duke would expect a lady to be perfectly proper and not at all spirited.” Her words seemed to carry over to the maid for Mary dropped her head into her hands and shook it forlornly back and forth.

  The duke either failed to notice or care about the beleaguered servant in the corner, for he said, “I imagine a demure, too-proper lady would make for a very dull duchess.”

  “Which is how most gentleman would prefer their wives,” she rejoined.

  He leaned down. “I assure you they do not, my lady.” His breath fanned her ear.

  “Oh.”

  He sat back in his chair, a challenge in his eyes, daring her to ask questions about what type of lady gentlemen in fact, preferred. Only, such an intimate topic was not one she’d care to discuss with the duke. Even if she would have him as her husband, she could not boldly engage in his repartee. Not in the way she did with the charming, affable, Earl of Stanhope.

  The duke drummed his fingers on the arms of the sofa, cutting into the awkward stretch of silence.

  She detested this newfound preference for charming, affable gentleman.

  Anne mustered a smile, and shifted the discussion to safer, more appropriate topics. “I imagine it would gall my mother if I
were to fail and initiate proper matters of discourse. May I?”

  He tipped his head. “Please, do.”

  She glanced to the window. “We’re enjoying splendid weather, Your Grace.”

  He lifted his head, his gaze fastened to her. “We are.”

  Anne tapped her feet distractedly upon the floor. “You’re to respond with some comment about the sun or the rain.”

  “The sunlight pales when compared with your beauty.”

  She wanted his words to wash over her with warmth and send fluttery little sensations spiraling through her being. She truly did. Alas, they stirred not even the faintest hint of awareness. She slid her gaze off to the opposite end of the room.

  What am I?

  A clever, inquisitive miss, with lots of questions…

  “Do you play, my lady?”

  She froze mid-tap. “Do I play what?”

  He waved a hand in the direction of her beloved pianoforte, a gift given her by Aldora and Michael, the obscenely wealthy second son of a marquess, who’d saved them all from certain ruin.

  “I do,” she murmured.

  “Would you do me the honor of playing for me, my lady?”

  Anne paused. Part of her longed to resist the ducal command contained within that question. If her mother ever discovered such a slight, she’d have Anne wed to horrible Mr. Ekstrom by special license that next morning.

  With a curt nod, she came to her feet, wandered over to the instrument and ran her fingertips along the ivory keyboard. She slid into her seat and stared blankly down at the keys. What song did a young lady sing when attempting to ensnare a duke?

  You’ll sing in a husky, sultry, contralto…

  She opened her mouth and proceeded to sing him Dibdin’s A Matrimonial Thought in her pure contralto. As the duke’s eyes widened with appreciation, she wished she sang in a sultry, husky contralto for an altogether different gentleman.

  Chapter 9

  Harry stared into his partially filled tumbler of brandy. He rolled the amber brew around in his glass and ignored the casual greetings tossed at him from gentlemen at White’s.

  My father was a wastrel, Harry. A drunkard. A profligate gambler, a womanizer…

  He set his glass down with a hard thunk and shoved it aside. The image he’d earned in Society as an unrepentant rogue was one he’d welcomed, or even appreciated. The ton recognized in him a gentleman who’d not become embroiled in emotional entanglements. Ladies vied for a place in his bed, knowing because of that reputation there was little hope of attaining his heart; a heart he’d carefully protected after Margaret’s betrayal.

  Margaret had opened his eyes to the truth—women were parsimonious, indulgent creatures and he’d neatly placed Anne into the category of grasping young ladies.

  Until now.

  After bating Anne about her collection of satin ribbons, he’d learned there was, in fact, a good deal more to the young lady than beauty with a mercurial desire for material possessions. In just a handful of days, she had shattered all the notions he’d carried of her as an empty-headed, self-indulgent, title-grasping miss.

  Instead, he saw a woman who’d braved great trials in her young life and had been shaped by them. She was a lady who’d be the arbiter of her own fate, and in a world where women were considered mere property of their husbands, Anne would find security where she could.

  She’d selected her duke, enlisted Harry’s aid to attain that duke, and in that, would steal what freedom she could as a woman in a world dominated by men who’d wager the happiness of their wives and daughters on a game of chance.

  Since leaving her, he found he rather hated himself for the hard-won reputation that placed him into the class of cads like her father. The world of black and white he’d lived in after Margaret’s betrayal, and before he’d truly come to know Anne, ceased to exist, ushering in a less certain shade between.

  “Tsk, tsk. First courting proper, English misses, and now visiting White’s instead of Forbidden Pleasures. The lady has quite the hold over you, doesn’t she?”

  Harry glanced up. His friend, Lord Edgerton grinned down at him. He sighed. “Edgerton. Don’t you have a sister to escort around?”

  “Two of them to be exact,” his friend muttered. “At Lord and Lady Huntly’s soiree.” He hooked his foot under the chair opposite Harry and tugged it out then settled into the seat, just as a servant rushed forward with a glass. Without asking, he picked up the bottle and sloshed several fingerfuls into his glass.

  “Perhaps you should get yourself there,” Harry drawled. All he knew was that he preferred his solitary musings to his friend’s company this evening.

  Edgerton grinned. He raised his glass in salute. “Then, one of the benefits of being the spare is being absolved from most responsibilities.”

  Harry wouldn’t know much of it. As the only son of the late Earl of Stanhope, he’d never had a sibling and both of his parents had died when he’d been in his early days at university. His responsibilities through the years had been to the title and his own self-comforts. And for a very small while—Margaret. He expected the familiar rush of hurt bitterness—a bitterness that did not come.

  “I imagined with your courtship of a certain creature with golden-ringlets, you’d be at the lady’s side.”

  He eyed his barely touched brandy, filled with a longing to drink until he was bloody soused so he wouldn’t have to think about the agreement he’d entered into with Anne. Considering Crawford’s early afternoon visit, Anne was one near-offer of marriage away from ending Harry’s role in the whole blasted scheme. He gripped the edge of the table so hard his knuckles turned white. “I intend to put in an appearance at Lady Huntly’s later this evening,” he said at last. After all, he’d pledged his support.

  Edgerton took a sip of his brandy. “I’d venture you’d be better served going to Huntly’s sooner rather than later, chap.” His friend dangled that damned bit, attempting intrigue.

  Harry swallowed down a curse. “What are you on about?”

  Edgerton waved over to the betting book at White’s. “Wagers have been placed that the young lady will find herself the next Duchess of Crawford. And you, my good friend, are already at a great disadvantage with a mere earldom.”

  Harry growled. He’d not let his friend bait him.

  “Rumors have it, Crawford is quite taken with the young lady.” His lips turned up in a wry smile. “Though I must say I don’t see the fascination with a proper English miss with those silly ringlets—”

  Taken with the young lady. “They are not silly,” he mumbled under his breath. And why shouldn't the spirited beauty charm Crawford?

  “Crawford was seen with the young lady at Gunter’s yesterday afternoon.”

  After Harry had taken his leave of her. His body went taut.

  Edgerton chuckled, seeming unbothered by carrying on a conversation with himself. He settled his elbows on the table and waggled his brow. “The gossip sheets report the duke didn’t remove his gaze from the lady’s—”

  Harry surged to his feet. He started for the door. As he wound his way through the club, past throngs of dandies and crowded tables, he dimly registered his friend hastening to match his step.

  “What in hell is the matter with you, Stanhope?” Edgerton groused.

  “Nothing,” he bit out.

  The majordomo pulled the door open and they took their leave. His friend scratched his brow. “Is this about Crawford and your Lady Anne?”

  He peered around the crowded street for sign of his carriage. “No.” Yes. “And she is not my Lady Anne.” He took a step toward the street as his driver wound through the clogged roadway. Filled with a restive energy he strode onward toward his conveyance. His driver hopped down and opened the carriage door. Harry climbed inside.

  Edgerton followed suit. “She is clearly something to you, Stanhope,” he said with far more solemnity than Harry remembered of his friend.

  He clenched his jaw hard enough that pain sh
ot up to his temple. “She is not.”

  Edgerton rested his ankle over his knee and tapped his foot. “I certainly hope you’d not be fool enough to toss away wasted emotion on a woman such as her.” He knew of the empty shell of a man Harry had become immediately after Margaret’s betrayal. They’d drank together until the liquor had dulled Harry’s pain. And the day she’d wed her lofty duke, a doddering old letch from some far-flung corner of England, Harry drank some more. Then when he was bleary-eyed with too much liquor and a broken heart, Edgerton got him home, and restored him to the carefree rogue he’d been before Margaret.

  “I assure you, Edgerton, there is nothing more there. The young lady enlisted my support on a matter.” A matter he didn’t intend to discuss with even his friend. “And as a friend to Lady Katherine, I’ve agreed to help her.” His involvement with Anne had begun as a kind of unknowing favor to the young duchess who’d captured his attention last Season. Only, since that scandalous proposal Anne had put to him in Lord Essex’s conservatory, some great shift had occurred—a desire to help the young minx who’d once been nothing more than a bother.