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

by Christi Caldwell

  “I don’t,” he said with a frown. He’d not have her thinking he was one of those dandified fops who gave a fig for the scandal sheets. Except…

  “Then however did you discover about my trip to Gunter’s?”

  Harry tugged at his uncomfortably tight cravat. He really must speak to his valet about the knot. Odd, he’d not noticed just how damned tight the blasted fabric was—until now. Which presented the even odder possibility that Lady Anne Adamson was responsible for the tightened cravat. “I’m fairly certain you mentioned the ices at Gunter’s.”

  She shook her head, a mischievous grin on her lips. “No. No, I didn’t Harry. I never uttered a single word.” She took a step toward him. He retreated. “Do you know what I believe?”

  He backed up again. “What is that, sweet?” He shot a glance over his shoulder at the locked door, eager for escape. She continued her forward approach until his legs knocked against one of the Italian gold rope stools. He fell into the seat.

  She stared down at him victoriously. “I believe you’ve come to care for me,” she whispered with a mischievous glimmer in her eyes.

  His heart paused mid-beat. Anne’s voice came as if down a long, muffled corridor. Her bold words echoed around his mind. Could he have come to care for Lady Anne Adamson, the termagant who’d peered down her insolent nose at him since their first meeting a year ago? He, who’d sworn to never care for another woman, not when it was so bloody dangerous?

  “Harry?” She waved her hand in front of his face. “Are you listening to me?”

  His heart resumed its normal cadence and his hearing restored itself. He shook his head.

  “You needn’t look so horrified.” She cuffed him under the chin. “I was merely teasing.”

  Most ladies, from debutantes to dowagers, clamored for a place in his bed. Not once in all his thirty years had a single lady cuffed him under the chin as though he were a naughty child. He wrapped his arms loosely around her waist and pulled her between his legs.

  Her eyebrows dipped. “What are you doing?” Nor did young ladies speak to him in this waspish tone. She shoved against him, but he held firm.

  “I’m kissing you, sweet.”

  She edged back. “You most certainly are not.”

  “I’m not?”

  She shook her head quite emphatically and, as though she didn’t think him capable of understanding the significance of that shake, added, “You are not to kiss me. Not any more. There have been far too many kisses, Harry.”

  He grinned lazily up at her. “There is no such thing as too many kisses.” He leaned up to claim her lips. His mouth collided with her cheek.

  “Now, that isn’t true.” She inched a hand up between them and ticked off on her fingers. “There are the kisses of married women.” She shook her head. “Even a single one of those types of kisses would be too many.”

  He made it a point to avoid dalliances with married ladies—well, with the exception of the unhappy ones with miserable, philandering blighters for husbands. Those women were perfectly appropriate ones to partake in too many kisses with.

  Her eyes narrowed at his guilty silence. “Humph,” she muttered. “Then there are the kisses stolen from unwilling women.”

  He gently squeezed her trim waist. “I assure you, I’ve never encountered an unwilling woman,” Her expression darkened. “I’d never force my…” His words trailed off. A black haze descended across his vision.

  Anne winced. “You’ve hurt me.”

  “Forgive me, sweet,” he murmured. He lightened his grip but retained his hold on her person. “Has there been a gentleman who forced his kiss on you?” If there was, God help the bastard, Harry would separate his limbs from his person and tuck them into the blighter’s bedsheets with him.

  A rush of pink flooded her cheeks. “No,” she said quickly.

  By God, he’d kill the bastard. Kill him dead.

  “It matters not. We’re not discussing the gentlemen who’ve kissed me.”

  Which suggested the young lady had kissed more than one gentleman. Fury licked at his insides.

  “Rather…” she wrinkled her pert, little nose. “What were we discussing?”

  He really didn’t remember much beyond the fact that there had been another man who’d tasted and explored her plump, bow-shaped lips. He growled. One other man who’d done so against her will. “We were discussing the gentleman who stole your kiss.”

  She tapped his arm reproachfully. “We weren’t.”

  He pulled her closer. “We are now.”

  She sighed. “Very well. Lord Ackland.” Her lips pulled into a grimace. “Lady Lettingworth’s masquerade. He tasted horrid.” So, the bastard had dared put his tongue inside the warm, moist cavern of Anne’s mouth. “Like cardamom and brandy and…” She tapped a finger against her lower lip. “Well, you taste of brandy but it isn’t all that unpleasant when I’ve kissed you, then cardamom doesn’t quite blend the—”

  “I’ll kill him,” he muttered to himself. She winced and he realized he’d tightened his grip. Again.

  “You’ll do no such thing,” she chided. “And…” She swatted his chest. “Regardless, Harry. This was about the types of kisses that would be too many.” So, she remembered. She invariably remembered everything, it seemed. She was far cleverer than Society credited her with being. She resumed ticking off her list. “Then there are the kisses meant to distract a lady.”

  “All kisses are intended to distract.” Distract a woman with the thrill of a hot touch. Distract a gentleman from the pain of a wounded heart. Yes, a distraction was a distraction. And just now, he wanted Anne’s kiss not merely for a scandalous diversion away from their host’s soiree but because he’d not leave this damned conservatory until he drove back the taste, scent, and feel of Ackland from her memory. Harry lowered his mouth to hers to prove his very point.

  She gave him her other cheek. “That is my point exactly, Harry. Kisses shouldn’t be used as a distraction.”

  “They shouldn’t?” He quite disagreed.

  “No,” she said emphatically.

  He dragged a hand over his eyes. “Anne?”

  “Yes?”

  “If you consider yourself so well-versed on the art of seduction, then why did you seek out my assistance?”

  She promptly closed her mouth. A frown played on her lips. He pressed his hands against her hips and drew her close. She dropped her head and his kiss fell somewhere in the middle of her brow. He sighed. “What is it?” She had the stubbornness to drive a vicar to drink during Sunday sermon.

  Anne gave him a searching look. “Kisses shouldn’t be used to weaken someone. They should be used to convey a gentleman’s unwavering love for an equally unwavering woman.”

  Ah, his beautiful Anne. The hopeless romantic, who squinted her way through the pages of The Times, still believed in that foolish sentiment called love.

  She touched her fingers to his cheek. “You don’t believe in love,” she said softly. Her words, both matter-of-fact and sad all at once.

  Giving up on the hope of a kiss from her tempting, red lips he sank back into his host’s work stool. He pulled her onto his lap. “I don’t, Anne. Not in a world where ladies would trade their very happiness for the hand of the most advantageous match.” Or where a title came before a name, a heart, and all else. “Do you imagine to earn Crawford’s heart?” He couldn’t bite down the mocking edge to that question.

  Anne shifted in his arms and frowned up at him. “I believe the duke could love me,” she said softly.

  And, if he still believed in the sentiment of love, then he’d venture a woman such as her could certainly earn the heart of Crawford and any other gentleman she’d set her marital sights upon. He stroked the pad of his thumb along her full, lower lip. “What of you, Anne? Do you fancy yourself in love with Crawford?”

  He didn’t realize the vise that had squeezed off his airflow until she said, “Of course not.” The pressure about his heart lessened and he c
ould breathe yet again. “But that doesn’t mean I won’t come to love him,” she added.

  He set her from his lap with such alacrity she stumbled backward. “Then I imagine, you shouldn’t be stealing away with unrepentant rogues in the middle of your hostess’ ball.” He took her by the shoulders and gently propelled her to the door.

  Anne frowned over her shoulder and dug in her heels, until he was forced to stop or continue dragging her along. “But you promised—”

  “A lesson. And I’ve given it. Show him your clever, witty self. Do not bury your intelligence for his favor because such a man would never be worth having.” He placed a hard kiss on her lips. “Now, go.” Emotion blazed to life in Anne’s soft, blue eyes. She arched her neck back as if hungering for his kiss, and before he did something like make love to her mouth, then lift her skirts and make love to every last silken inch of her, Harry affected a half-grin. He patted her on the cheek. “Go, sweet.”

  Anne gave her head a shake and then wordlessly ran down the length of the conservatory, unlatched the door, and fled.

  Harry stood there long after she’d left. It appeared he wasn’t the total dishonorable scoundrel he’d taken himself for these past years. He scrubbed his hands over his face.

  Damn it.

  Chapter 12

  Anne depressed a single key of her pianoforte. She studied her fingertip upon the ivory key and remembered back to a different instrument. Remembered the moment it had been packaged up and carried off by servants and sent wherever it was lost belongings went to cover a man’s debts.

  There had been a time when she’d lay abed well into the early morning hours, staring at the canopy overhead, worrying. Worrying about her poor mother’s breaking heart. Worrying about her twin sister losing the one joy she had in life—her volumes of poetry. Worrying about the loss of Benedict’s games and toys and more—his innocence. Worrying about Aldora having to forsake a dream of love all to make a match to save.

  Security had been a beacon. A talisman of hope she clung to. She had longed for the day she’d make her Come Out. Only, she’d entertained the most foolish of girlish musings that included security, a handsome gentleman, and love.

  But first and foremost had always come security.

  Now, the Duke of Crawford, with his increasing interest, represented the pinnacle of that great beacon. As the Duchess of Crawford, she’d never worry about material comforts, or more importantly, the comforts of her future children. There had always been the expectation, both real and self-imposed, amongst her family that Anne would make an advantageous match.

  In her third Season, no longer a girl, Anne foolishly held onto hope for that last elusive dream—love.

  She touched her fingers to the keys.

  “The Duke of Crawford will make you a splendid match, Anne.”

  Her fingers slipped and the dissonant chords echoed through the spacious parlor. “Mother,” she murmured.

  Her mother sailed into the room. The firm set to her mouth, the fire in her blue eyes spoke of a determined point to her visit. She stopped at the edge of the ivory upholstered sofa and planted her arms akimbo. “Well?” She motioned to the seat beside her.

  For one, infinitesimal moment, Anne thought of sticking her tongue out and banging an obscene ditty on the keyboard. “Well, what?”

  “Don’t be insolent, Anne,” she snapped.

  Reluctantly, Anne shoved to her feet. The delicate bench scraped the hardwood floor. She wandered over to the King Louis chair and sat, hands folded demurely upon her lap. Ever the dutiful daughter. The daughter Mother hung all her hopes upon, who in spite of that faith remained unwed.

  After two Seasons and a bit of a third.

  Mother carefully arranged her skirts. “You know, of your sisters and brother, only you really know the truth of your father.” She directed that statement down at her pleated satin skirts.

  Yes, her siblings had somehow remained insulated from that truth of their vile father. “Mother?” she asked, cautiously. But for the handful of unkind matrons when Anne had made her Come Out, little was said of the philandering late earl. She’d smiled brightly through all the impolite whispers.

  Her mother snapped her head up so quickly Anne imagined she hurt the muscles of her neck. “It is, of course, no secret your father didn’t love me.” Bitterness made for an ugly smile on the countess’ face.

  Anne’s heart ached for the pain her mother had known—still knew. She reached for her hand.

  “Bah, do not give me your pity, Anne,” she said with a wave.

  Anne pulled her fingers back.

  “If you don’t have a care, you’ll become me.”

  She wrinkled her brow.

  “I see the way you stare at Stanhope,” she hissed. “Stare at him when you can have Crawford.”

  Anne stiffened. “How very mercurial you make it all seem.” She wondered if this was how Harry and her sisters saw her—cold and calculated, counting ribbons and dreaming of the title duchess.

  Her mother bristled at Anne’s terse words. “Were you mercurial when you cried about your ribbons?”

  She winced at her private shame being tossed in her face by her mother.

  “Was it mercurial when they took your sisters books?” her mother continued relentless. “Or when Aldora chose to marry for—”

  “Aldora married for love.” Even as Mother would have had Aldora wed the Marquess of St. James or some other lofty lord.

  Mother colored. “Fortunate for you all, Lord Knightly was obscenely wealthy and generous with you.”

  How neatly she excluded herself from that general ‘you’? Anne glanced away, knowing there was more to Mother’s displeasure. Knowing it stemmed from Harry.

  “Do you love him?”

  She blinked several times. “Do I—?”

  She scoured Anne’s face. “Love him,” she repeated. “Do. You. Love. Him?”

  Anne shook her head. “No.” She opened her mouth. Words wouldn’t come. She shook her head again. “Certainly not.” She was considered the fool of the family, but she’d never dare anything so mad as to fall in love with Harry, the 6th Earl of Stanhope who’d attempted to seduce her sister, and loved his Miss Margaret Dunn, and saw Anne as nothing more than a termagant. Or hellion. The moniker varied on a given day.

  Mother studied her in silence as though seeking for truth in her answer. “He’ll not wed you,” she said at last, the matter-of-factness of those words more painful than if they’d been jeeringly flung.

  Anne curled her nails into the skin of her knuckles. “I am not thinking he will, Mother,” she said between gritted teeth.

  “Nor should you hold out hope he would,” she continued almost cruelly. “You’ll always merely be second to the sister he truly desired.”

  She curled her fingers into tight balls, her nails leaving crescent marks upon her palms. Now, that was indeed cruel. Particularly in the truth to those handful of words. If she’d not begged and pleaded, Harry wouldn’t have bothered to even help her in the first place. He’d have sent her to the devil with a harsh kick to her derriere and not a single backward glance.

  “I always desired more for you than Mr. Ekstrom.”

  Anne attempted to follow the abrupt shift in conversation.

  Mother slashed the air with her hand. “Katherine, well, as you know. I expected a marriage between her and Bertrand. Benedict, why he’s just a child and anything can happen to a child. Then where would we be?”

  “Mother,” Anne said on a gasp.

  Red fanned Mother’s cheeks as she appeared properly shamed at the coldness of her words. “I did not mean to sound avaricious. I love all my children,” she said defensively. “But I worry for all of us. All of us,” she repeated as though Anne hadn’t heard her clear enough the first time.

  “Neither Jasper nor Michael would allow us to become destitute.”

  “And what of the connection to the Wakefield line?”

  Well, Anne could imagine a good man
y greater travesties than the loss of connection to her dastardly father. She held those words back, knowing they’d only cause her mother further pain.

  “I would not see you do something reckless with your reputation and lose the duke’s favor. If there is no Crawford, or some other lofty title, there is the assurance of Mr. Ekstrom.”

  What was she on about? She didn’t want to think about horrid Mr. Ekstrom the man Mother had tried to have Katherine…Her heart sank slowly into her belly.

  “I see you follow my thoughts, Anne.”

  Anne jumped up. She glared at her mother’s immaculately arranged curls. “Is that what you’d do? Threaten me with marriage to Mr. Ekstrom?” Somewhere in her mother’s loathsome scheming and vile threat she’d lost sight of the fact that Harry’s presence in her life came from nothing more than her goals to ensnare the Duke of Crawford’s attention. “I’ll not wed him.”