Anne tipped her head. Her smile slipped and something passed between them. Something charged and volatile. With a life force.
He sucked in a breath as the implications of his role truly registered. Or worse, the perils in teaching her to seduce another man when Harry himself would be left to wonder the color of her nipples, or the downy softness betwixt her thighs. And more…the sound of her laughter through the years. “You sang to Crawford, then?” he said quietly.
“I did.”
He tightened his grip upon her person. She winced and he lightened his hold. “And did he appreciate the quality of your voice?” Never did he want to hear an answer less.
Anne ran her gaze over his face. “I don’t want to talk about the duke, Harry.”
His heart lifted in the oddest fashion. He blamed his reaction on too much liquor and remembered he’d not touched more than a glass of champagne the whole of the evening. “What do you want?” Let the answer be me, and I will show you the true meaning of seduction.
“I want my second lesson for the evening.”
The chords of the waltz drew to a finish. Harry and Anne stopped amidst the politely clapping couples, gazes fixed on one another.
If he encouraged her bold proposition, he flirted with the parson’s trap, a snare he’d no intention of succumbing to. “Meet me in Lord Huntlys’ conservatory,” he said quietly. He bowed low at the waist and spun on his heel.
~*~
Anne’s heart thudded painfully as she stared at Harry’s powerful, now-retreating form.
Fingers touched her arm and she jumped. “What are you doing, sister?”
Anne’s cheeks blazed and she turned to greet her sister. “Katherine, what are you doing here?” she blurted. First the recital, now a ball. Katherine and her husband made it a point to avoid nearly all societal functions. Their sudden appearance had Mother’s hand over it more than the floral embroideries she’d stitched and displayed throughout their townhouse.
Katherine angled her head. A flash of hurt shone in her brown eyes. “You’re not happy to see me.” Dismay and shock blended together and underscored her words.
“No. No, that isn’t true at all,” she said hurriedly.
Too hurriedly.
She fisted the fabric of her skirts, knowing she was surely the world’s worst twin. For instead of the usual joy she found in Katherine’s company, she resented the reminder of her relationship with Harry. An unspoken communication passed between them. An apology. Forgiveness.
And then the determined warrior her sister had always proven herself to be, replaced the wounded figure who’d eyed Anne with accusation. Katherine guided her from the floor with all the precision of Lord Nelson leading his men at battle. “You have made some truly deplorable decisions through the years.”
Anne bristled. “I have not.”
“Hiding Father’s ledgers. All of them.”
She frowned. “It seemed like a good idea at the time.” As a girl, when she’d first heard whisperings of their father’s financial woes, Anne had believed if Father’s business documents were lost, then he’d not be able to continue wagering away their family’s wealth. Then, that had been the foolishness of a child’s naiveté.
Her sister’s mouth tightened and she continued to steer her through the crowd, onward past smiling couples.
“Where is your husband?” Anne ventured, wishing for her still terrifying brother-in-law’s presence if for no other reason than to be spared from her sister’s haranguing.
“Then there were the letters to that publisher.”
When their family’s circumstances had become truly dire, she’d penned her own Gothic novel and intended to seek publication as Mr. Robert Robertson. Alas, Mother had discovered her plans and tossed every last page of Mr. Robert Robertson’s work into the fiery hearth.
Katherine gently squeezed her arm and forced her to a halt beside a removed alcove. “Then there were your plans for us to attend the Frost Fair. Unchaperoned.”
And no one would have ever learned a hint of what had transpired upon the frozen Thames—if Katherine hadn’t gone and fallen through the one patch of soft ice. “Need I point out that you’d not have met your husband? A duke, whom you very much love, if it weren’t for my bad idea?”
Katherine pursed her lips in that disappointed way she’d done as a child when Anne had bested her at spillikins. “Very well. I’ll concede you were correct on that particular score. However,” she cast a discreet glance about, and then looked to Anne once more. “Dancing and flirting shamelessly with Lord Stanhope can never be considered a good idea.”
“Whyever not?” He’d proven himself to be kinder, more patient, more, everything than she’d ever before considered of the legendary rogue.
“I’ve seen the way he studies you, Anne,” she said bluntly.
Her heart sped up.
“And do wipe that pleased little smile from your face. No good can come of anything with Harry.”
Anne’s stomach tightened at her twin’s inadvertent use of his Christian name. Her gaze skittered away from her younger sister, who through the years seemed to believe she was the one a whole six minutes and seventeen seconds older.
A resigned sigh escaped her sister’s lips. “I do not want to see you hurt. I know him,” she said, her tone far gentler. Gone was the motherly, patronizing tone, replaced by this kindred spirit who’d shared nearly everything through the years with the exception of that first breath drawn as babes.
Prior to enlisting Harry’s aid, she’d taken him for a carefree, indolent, conscienceless rogue. Now she knew him to be a man who’d had his heart broken by a title-grasping young woman, foolish enough to let him go. “I’ll not be hurt, Kat. I’m not the empty-headed ninny you or Aldora or Mother or anyone else for that matter believes I am.” There could never be anything between her and a man like Harry, whose heart would forever belong to another.
Her sister winced. “Surely you know I think you beautiful and kind and intelligent and…”
Anne laughed. “Oh, do hush. I know what I’m doing.” A familiar figure pulled into focus across the ballroom floor. Even with the space between them, she detected the flash of gold in his hazel eyes. He inclined his head as if knowing just what, or rather, who, she and Katherine now spoke of. She winked at him. Harry’s sharp, bark of laughter carried through the ballroom, the low rumble moved through her and she smiled. There was something so very empowering in making a sophisticated gentleman like Harry—
“Are you listening to me, Anne?” her sister chided.
Anne took her twin’s hands and gave them a squeeze. “I love you. I know you mean well. But I’d ask you to trust me.”
As she took her leave, in search of Lord Huntly’s’ conservatory, her sister’s groan followed her. “I have heard that too many times before Anne Arlette Adamson.”
Chapter 11
Anne imagined Mother England had faced lesser challenges than she had this evening trying to be rid of her quite obviously overprotective family members so she might meet Harry. After their set, Mother and Katherine had maintained a resolute presence at her side, until Anne began to feel like one of the heroines in her Gothic novels constantly trying to escape the vile clutches of an evil guardian.
After tearing her own hem, she’d at last managed to sneak off to see to her gown. Instead, she now made her way down the corridor of Lord Huntlys’ home. Heart pounding, blood racing, she braced for inevitable discovery. She came to the end of the hall and paused to peek around the corner.
She didn’t know how Harry carried on this way. This clandestine business was enough to streak a young lady’s hair with grey. She tapped her foot and considered which corridor to turn next. If she were Lord Huntly, where would she have a conservatory? It couldn’t be at the left portion of the palatial townhouse as it—
Quiet whispers sounded down the corridor behind her.
Decision made. She sprinted down the right corridor and walked onward toward
the back of Lord Huntlys’ home. Anne shook her head. She intended to ask Harry just what in thunderation the appeal was of all this furtive sneaking. She’d far prefer a proper picnic in Hyde Park in some tucked away copse in Kensington Gardens. Anne had a rather unromantic tendency to sneeze whenever a bloom was near. Which was rather unfortunate. Pale, pink peonies really were quite beautiful. Even with the cluster of ants that tended to make the unfurled bloom their home.
She drew to a halt. A thrilling sense of victory filled her as she stared at the clear, double doors leading to a final room. The conservatory.
Anne stole a quick glance around, and then tiptoed forward. The soft tread of her satin slippers was somehow thunderous in the empty space. She reached for the handle and paused. There would be two crystal champagne flutes. Just as there had been for his viscountess in her dampened gown.
Her feet twitched as a sudden urge to flee coursed through her. She stared at her fingers upon the brass handle as though they belonged to another. She didn’t want to be Harry’s scandalous lady in the conservatory, sipping on fine, French champagne. She didn’t want that, because that is what every single lady to come after Miss Margaret Dunn had been to the hopelessly handsome Earl of Stanhope.
And the moment she pressed the handle, entered the room, sipped the champagne and partook in his kisses, she would be nothing more than the viscountess. She pulled her hand back and touched the ribbon woven through a loose strand draped over her shoulder.
The satin fabric served as an aide-memoire of the perils of gentlemen who sipped too much brandy and collected mistresses like she amassed ribbons. In a handful of days, Harry had charmed away nearly every unfavorable opinion she held of the roguish gentleman. Ultimately, however, he would always be the seductive scoundrel meeting his ladyloves in the midst of his host’s soiree. Some poor, unfortunate miss would wear the same pasted smile Anne’s mother had affected through the years.
“Are you having second thoughts, Anne?” a husky voice sounded against her ear.
She shrieked, the damning sound swallowed by a familiar, large hand.
Harry pressed the handle and gently propelled her forward. He took his hand away and closed the door quietly shut then turned the lock.
Anne took a step backward. “H-harry.” She detested the tremble underscoring her greeting that sent one of his golden-blond eyebrows upward.
He leaned against the door and folded his arms across the broad, expanse of his chest. “Have you reconsidered the wiseness of your plan in enlisting my help, sweet?”
She had. More times than she could count on her toes and fingers combined. The moon’s light slashed through the clear ceiling and cast a white glow about the room.
Harry shoved away from the door and wandered closer. “Or is it that you no longer need my help? That you’ve already garnered an offer from Crawford?”
He tugged at her orange ribbon. She swatted his fingers. “Don’t be silly.”
“About the necessity of my help or Crawford’s offer?”
“Both,” she said with a weak smile. The papers had remarked upon the duke’s seeming interest. However, ices at Gunter’s and an afternoon visit hardly equated an offer of marriage.
She wandered deeper into the room, trailing her fingertips over the Calamander wood table only to pause beside a single potted rosebush. The sweet, fragrance of the pinkish-red bud hung in the air like a heady reminder of the past. She brushed her knuckles over the satiny softness of the bloom. Before she’d lost her ribbons, Katherine her books, and Benedict his toy soldiers, there had been Mother’s gardener. One of the first expenses to go.
The quiet tread of his steps filled the otherwise silent conservatory.
She glanced up. “Where is the champagne, Harry?”
He furrowed his brow. “The champagne?”
Anne gestured about the room. “Isn’t that part of your rules for seduction, my lord?” Regret tinged her words. She’d become any other woman to Harry. “Two crystal flutes filled with bubbling champagne?” Then, had she ever really been anything different?
A cloud passed over the moon and sinister shadows descended over the room. A dark look glinted in his hazel eyes, but then moonlight lit his face and she realized she must have imagined anything more serious from the affable, rogue. “Ah, but you’ve requested lessons in seduction. Two champagne glasses would indicate my intentions of seducing you. Which I don’t intend to do. Seduce you, that is.”
Humiliated shame blazed up her neck and burned her cheeks. She yanked her gaze away, knowing she should feel a small measure of relief she didn’t have to muddle through dangerous sentiments for a rogue like Harry. So, why did the relief not come? “Er, perhaps we can be on with this seduction business then,” she said with a wave of her hand. She strove for nonchalance. His amused grin indicated her grand failure.
She gasped as he snaked his arm around her. “Wh-what are you…” Her words died on a breathy whisper as he touched the pad of his thumb to her lips.
“I’ll teach you anything and everything you desire to know about seduction within reason,” he amended, correctly interpreting the inappropriate question that sprang to her lips. He gently squeezed her waist, as if familiarizing himself with the curved contours of her body. Which was really a silly thought, when he’d been abundantly clear for more than a year now he desired her no more than he might desire Lady Jersey’s prize pug.
“Oh,” she said lamely. “Then what…?” He pulled her into the vee of his legs. Her body burned at the point of contact. She couldn’t string together a single syllable or a bout of sustained airflow to form a suitable word. Words, Anne Arlette Adamson. Words. She cleared her throat and tried again. “Then what is my lesson for the day, Harry? What sage words on the art of seduction do you have?”
~*~
After Margaret’s betrayal, Harry had perfected the art of seduction. Yet, suddenly the idea of imparting a single lesson more for Anne to employ all to snare Crawford burned like fire in his gut. Lady Anne Adamson was worth more than all the dukes in the English kingdom. She deserved more than a portentous bore who’d keep separate chambers for propriety’s sake.
He cupped her cheek, cradling the silken smoothness of her creamy-white skin. “You want advice. You want guidance.” She nodded. If any Society matron knew she came to him for any form of assistance, the lady’s reputation would be shredded beyond repair. All sensible members of the ton knew Lord Stanhope to be beyond redemption.
He moved his hand to the graceful line of her neck. “Allow him,” Crawford or the nameless bastard who’d inevitably take her to wife. “To know just how clever and spirited and quick-witted you are. Allow him to appreciate you for more than your golden tresses.” Which should be memorialized in poem. “Or your lush body.” Which he’d barter his soul to explore. “You deserve a man who’d have you for who you really are.” A woman who’d completely and utterly captivated him, when he’d sworn to never be so enthralled.
“For who I am?” she whispered. And because but the span of a finger separated their persons, he detected the manner in which her throat bobbed up and down.
He set her back. “A woman of intelligence, Anne,” he said bluntly. “Do not be one of those simpering debutantes prattling on about the weather.” Red color suffused her cheeks. He burst out laughing. “You’ve spoken to Crawford on the topic of weather already, have you?”
She tossed her blonde tresses. “I may have.” His laughter doubled. “It is an entirely suitable matter of discourse between a lady and a gentleman.”
He snorted. “An entirely dull matter of discourse.” He sighed. “I see, I must guide you on topics of discussion, then, as well? I imagine you also sang to him in a sweet, lyrical soprano some of Dibdin’s work and he showered you with praise on your trip to Gunter’s.”
“First, I’ll have you know I quite enjoy Dibdin’s work. He’s a grand storyteller. Secondly, a lady cannot simply alter the quality of her singing voice. I’ve told you as m
uch,” she scolded, sounding remarkably out of patience with him.
Which still didn’t answer what in hell her singing voice sounded like.
He straightened his back. He’d yet to hear her sing. Crawford had. Now, Crawford knew whether she possessed a lyrical soprano or a contralto; while Harry remained wholly ignorant, left to wonder, left to imagine—
Anne jabbed a finger at his chest. He winced. “Furthermore…” She angled her head, her words trailing off.
Feigning nonchalance, he quirked an eyebrow at her. “What is it?”
“How did you know the duke escorted me for ices at Gunter’s?”
His mind froze. How, indeed? “The papers,” he said entirely too quickly.
She wagged her jabbing finger under his nose in a disapproving manner. “I didn’t take you as one of those to read the gossip columns.”
More Than a Duke (Heart of a Duke Book 2) Page 12
