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

by Christi Caldwell

  Her heart twisted. In the time she’d come to know him and appreciate the many erroneous assumptions she’d drawn about Harry, he continued to see her just as all Society did—an empty-headed, vain, pleasantly pretty young lady as the scandal sheets had labeled her upon her Come Out three years ago. “Give me that.” Anne wrestled the book from his hands. He released it swiftly and she nearly toppled backward.

  He tugged one of her strands of hair the way he might a bothersome sister and not the young lady he’d pledged to introduce to the art of the seduction. “Come, what’s this? You’ve gone all serious, Anne.”

  “I’m not,” she blurted.

  Harry cocked his head. “Yes, I do say you seem rather serious. Your lips are pulled down tight in the corners, here.” He brushed the backs of his knuckles along the corner of her mouth, and she leaned into his soft caress. “And you’ve got those same four lines at the center of your brow whenever you’re pondering something.”

  Emotion clogged her throat. Harry knew her so well he could detect the subtle nuances of her body’s movements. “No. You misunderstood me.” No one ever looked close enough to truly see her. “I meant, I’m not too proud.” She glanced at the copy of The Mysteries of Udolpho in her hands. Then, how many times had she forsaken spectacles at Mother’s insistence, fearful she’d not make an advantageous match for the minute detail? “Or perhaps I am.” Shame filled her as she confronted her own vanity; did she truly wish to have a husband who’d not permit her the simple pleasures of reading? Did she want to wed a man who’d be so shallow as to begrudge her the necessity of spectacles?

  Before she’d not thought it mattered so much. Stability seemed more important than all else. Now, other less tangible dreams held a dangerous appeal that threatened the goals she’d carried these many years now. She braced for a rush of panic—that did not come. Harry studied her with intensity in his hazel eyes, saying nothing, his face set in an expressionless mask and just then she wanted to share the truth with him, when no one else knew it. Her gaze slid to a point beyond his shoulder. “Aldora wears spectacles.”

  Harry claimed the seat beside her on the grass. He stretched his long legs out in front of him as though reclining on a fine, upholstered sofa and not upon the dew-dampened morning grass. “And?”

  She lifted her shoulder in a shrug. “I’m just Anne.”

  “And you wouldn’t be with spectacles?” Had his question contained a recrimination, she wouldn’t have continued, but it didn’t.

  Heat flooded her cheeks and she spoke on a rush, needing him to understand. “I’m not seen as the intelligent one as Aldora or the sensible one like Katherine.

  He quirked a golden eyebrow.

  Her heart wrenched at the unwitting reminder of his attempted seduction of her twin. “But all my life, I’ve been the pleasantly pretty one, Harry.” She lifted her palms. “If I’m not pleasantly pretty, then what am I?” Her mother and the world had been quite clear—she was nothing without being a pleasantly pretty, English miss. Until Harry, she’d buried the truth even from herself—she wanted to be seen as more, appreciated for more.

  She curled her toes with the truth she’d at last shared; sure he’d chuckle at her in that charming, affable, roguish way of his and not knowing if she could stand the pain of that. He passed his eyes over her a long while. He came up on his knees over her and claimed her chin between his thumb and forefinger. Anne braced for an onslaught of his amusement.

  “Look at me,” he demanded in that commanding, harsh tone that had probably been the demise of too many young ladies’ good reputations. She looked up. “You will never be just anything.”

  Anne swallowed hard, as there amidst the copse with just the noisy kestrel overhead as her witness—Anne fell in love. She expected she should feel the race of panic in her breast. The impending sense of doom that would surely come in giving her heart to a man who no more wanted possession of the foolish organ than he wanted to attend Sunday sermon after a sinful night of debauchery. Later, she’d restore her mind and heart to rights. When the birds didn’t soar about the pink-and-orange tinted morning sky and Harry didn’t study her with his hot, heated stare, she’d recall her mother’s warnings and all the perils in loving such a man.

  For now, she knew she loved him. Logic could come later.

  “Close your eyes,” he instructed.

  Her lids fluttered closed and she tipped her head back to receive his kiss. The book tumbled from her fingers as she prepared to open herself up to the fierce invasion of his mouth. Wanting his kiss. Needing his kiss. And needing him. She needed him. Something cool and metallic touched her burning skin. Her eyes flew open.

  He thrust her opened book into her hands. “Here.”

  She stared at the concise, clear words. Words that didn’t blur together and require squinting in order to bring them into focus. She touched the wire-rimmed spectacles perched on her nose. “You gave me spectacles,” she whispered.

  He cupped her cheek. “And you’re still as beautiful as you’ve always been, Anne,” he said softly. Tears filled her eyes. He released her as if her skin had burned his palms. He nearly fell over himself in his attempt to put distance between them. “Egads, you’re crying.” He jumped up.

  She tipped up the spectacles and dashed away the hint of moisture. “I am not,” she said defensively.

  He snorted. “You are.”

  Anne set the book down hard beside her. “I merely had something in my eye.”

  A muscle jumped at the corner of his eye, as though detecting the clear lie to her words. “I detest a woman’s tears,” he muttered.

  She glared up at him, detesting his placing her into a category with all women. “Well, that is fine, my lord, because I don’t make it a habit of crying.” The last tear she’d shed had been when she’d made her Come Out and discovered the truth of her whore-mongering, wastrel father. After that, she’d decided no gentleman was deserving of a single salty memento. “And furthermore, if I had been crying, which I certainly was not,” she added pointedly when he opened his mouth to speak, “tears of happiness are entirely acceptable.”

  He eyed her a long while. “No forms of tears are acceptable. Ever,” he spoke with a resolute firmness. “They’re merely a ploy used by women to wheedle their way into a gentleman’s heart.”

  She folded her arms across her chest. Oh, the lout. Of course, she’d have the bad sense to go and fall in love with a gentleman who possessed an ill-opinion of women and happened to be missing a heart. “I don’t use tears.”

  He dropped to his haunches beside her. “A lady is better advised to use her mouth to entice a man than those crystal drops.”

  His words had the same affect as a powerful slap. They reminded her of Harry’s fleeting presence in her life. She might love him, but she remained nothing more than a bothersome miss whom he’d generously offered to help, and merely because of her connection to Katherine, not out of any regard or concern for Anne, herself. The knife twisted in her heart. The muscles in her throat moved up and down with the force of her swallow. “Is this just another lesson, then, Harry?” For the first time since she’d enlisted his support, she realized Harry, the Earl of Stanhope was, in fact. the one in desperate need of a lesson.

  ~*~

  Tension snapped Harry’s body erect unnerved by the sudden realization—he’d not thought of the damned lessons on seduction once. Not when he’d had his footman find out from Anne’s maid when he could find the young lady alone. Nor when he’d visited Bond Street in search of a delicate pair of spectacles that would perfectly suit her heart-shaped face. And not when he’d come upon her in this tucked away copse, like Eve in her garden of sin.

  Except now, she’d mentioned the damned lessons and an ugly vision wrapped its tentacle-like grip about his vile musings— Crawford taking Anne’s lush lips under his. Anne moaning as her blasted duke slipped his tongue inside and made love to her mouth the way Harry ached to worship her body.

  Anne cam
e up on her knees. “Should I touch a finger to the corner of my lips?” The tip of her index finger tantalizingly, invitingly stroked the edge of her mouth. She inched closer to him. “Or should I trail my tongue over my lips, invitingly.” The pink tip darted out and circled her lips, lingering on the plump flesh of her slightly fuller lower lip.

  His heart thudded. “Where have you learned such a trick?” He’d kill the blighter who’d shown her such things. The role belonged to him alone.

  She tipped her head. “Because it is wrong, Harry?”

  Because it was right. Too right. And yet, wrong all at the same time. Desire flared inside him.

  Her hand fluttered about her breast. She captured a loose, golden strand between her fingers and rubbed it along the modest décolletage of her gown. His breath left him. He’d had the pleasure of bedding some of the most inventive creatures on the Continent. Women of skill. Women who’d found pleasure in giving him pleasure. In this moment, he couldn’t recall a single one of their faces, their actions, or even their names. He saw only Anne. He caught her to him. “Are you seducing me, Anne?” he whispered harshly against her temple.

  “Is it working?” she asked on a sultry whisper.

  “It is, love.” He didn’t recognize the garbled quality of his voice.

  She tilted her head back, eyes closed, searching for his kiss. Harry lowered his head. Their mouths a breath apart, heat rolling off her body in waves. He claimed her lips in a gentle meeting. Anne leaned into him and Harry deepened the kiss, knocking her glasses askew. She moaned. The heady erotic sound shattered the quiet and penetrated the spell she’d cast upon him. He drew back, chest heaving with the force of his desire. He wanted to freeze this moment with her. Make Anne his in every way; in a world away from the reality of broken promises and the pain of betrayal. Away from the fear of losing— again.

  Her eyes flew open. “Why did you…?” Red blossomed on her cheeks.

  He’d not lay claim to her body in this tucked away haven, just a stone’s throw from a possible passerby. He might be a bastard but there was still honor in him.

  He adjusted her spectacles and then pressed a kiss to her forehead. “I’ll not disrespect you more than I have here, Anne.”

  “You didn’t disrespect me,” she blurted.

  Except he had. Each time he met her without a chaperone, he risked ruining her with his attention. He fought back a groan. If the ton could see the change she’d wrought upon him, they’d be laughing all the way to the betting books at White’s to guess the date of his and Anne’s impeding nuptials. Harry blinked several times. Marriage? He stumbled back.

  Anne scratched at her brow. “Harry?”

  Harry attempted to still the panicked beat of his heart, fearing this momentary lapse in sanity. Fearing it was, in fact, more. Only, it couldn’t be. He’d not be so imprudent as to fall in love. He affected a lazy grin. “Come, Anne, even I’ll not steal your virtue in Hyde Park.” She’d chosen her duke long ago. And he’d chosen the safety of an uninjured heart.

  She pursed her lips. “But—”

  Harry tweaked her nose, killing the words that would follow. “I’ll not chance someone stumbling by.” This could never be anything more. Not with her. Nor any woman. “Then you’d be stuck with this old rogue for a husband instead of your duke.” Yet, why then did a sharp pain twist inside him with the knowing that some other man would lay claim to her?

  Anne passed a searching gaze over his face. “Is that what you’d have, Harry? Would you have me become his duchess?” Her question emerged haltingly.

  He fisted his hands tight at his side as the image of her in the marital ducal bed rolled through his mind. He imagined a world in which Anne belonged to Crawford while Harry waited on the sidelines for a place in the wedded lady’s bed. Only… Knowing Anne as he now did, he knew she’d never give herself to another. Not after she bound herself to a man. She’d honor Crawford, or whoever the nameless, faceless gentleman who took her to wife in name, body, and spirit.

  Harry dusted his hands over the front of his breeches. “No, Anne. You’d have you become his duchess.” He sketched a bow and ignoring the question in her eyes, turned on his heel and left.

  Wishing for the first time that he could be more than a shiftless bounder.

  Chapter 15

  Anne made it no farther than the foyer before her mother descended upon her like a hawk circling a poor field mouse. “Where were you, Anne Adamson?” Mother sailed down the sweeping staircase in a flurry of pale peach skirts.

  “I—”

  Mother wrapped a hand around Anne’s forearm and propelled her forward. “Your hair is mussed. Your skirts are wrinkled. And…” She jerked to a sudden halt and dragged Anne in front of her. Horror filled her eyes. “Are those spectacles?” she hissed. She plucked the precious gift from Anne’s nose.

  “No!” She grabbed for them. “They’re merely to help me re—”

  “By the queen and all her maids, if you say read, Anne, you’ll not see another ball this Season.”

  This would be rather fine with Anne who, after two full Seasons and part of a third, had grown to detest the silly, nonsensical events. Anne slipped her glasses back from her mother’s distracted hands and buried them into the side of her skirt.

  “Oh, why, why must you have gone out and returned looking like you’ve…” Mother dropped her voice to a hushed whisper. “Been doing inappropriate things in the grass.”

  She’d been so very close to doing all number of inappropriate things in the grass. Regret tightened in her belly. If Harry weren’t so very honorable…

  Her mother narrowed her gaze as though she’d gleaned her daughter’s thoughts.

  “I was reading, Mother,” Anne said quietly. She may as well have said she’d been tupping a servant.

  Mother’s eyes went round in her face. “Regardless, there is no time, to change your attire, to right your hair. He’s been waiting.” She took Anne’s hand and tugged her from the corridor.

  Anne cocked her head as they continued the brisk pace through the house. “He…?”

  Mother drew to a halt beside the drawing room. The Duke of Crawford stood at the empty hearth, hands clasped behind his back.

  Oh. That He. Noting her sudden appearance, his broad shoulders stiffened. The fabric of his fine, russet jacket tightened over his frame.

  Mother rushed past Anne. She sank into a deep, deferential curtsy. “Your Grace, thank you ever so much for your patience. My Anne has a strong constitution and enjoys a brisk walk in the morning…” The countess continued to prattle on and on.

  The duke shifted his hard gaze to Anne. His probing stare lingered a moment on the stained white hemline of her day dress. Anne tipped her chin as he returned his attention to her face. The ghost of a smile played about his lips, with unexpected amusement at her slight show of insolence. He bowed.

  From the doorway, Anne dipped a belated curtsy.

  Mother looked between them and Anne ventured the title-hungry countess even now planned the distinguished guest list and morning breakfast for some imagined wedding between Anne and the duke. She held her hands out. “Come forth, dear Anne. His Grace has come to visit you.” Her high-pitched whiny tone and wild gesticulations were better reserved for a recalcitrant dog than a cherished daughter.

  Anne winced. She threw a quick glance over her shoulder, eying a hasty retreat. When she returned her attention to the pair now studying her, she startled. And then started forward. She stopped, wordlessly before the duke.

  A beaming, white smile wreathed Mother’s ageless cheeks. “Splendid!” She made her eyes go wide again in her best attempt at shock and surprise. “My goodness, wherever is Mary? Pardon me a moment while I retrieve Anne’s maid.”

  Words of protest sprung to Anne’s lips, even as her faithless mother rushed from the room. Ah, so this is what it felt like to be turned over for a bag of silver. Anne shifted back and forth on her feet. For weeks she’d considered how to bring this very
man up to scratch. She’d risked her reputation and sought out the notorious Earl of Stanhope’s assistance on the matter of seduction. Except, now, with the duke before her, all the reasons, wishes, and rationale behind a match with this man, fled. She didn’t want a duke.

  Not this duke.

  Not any duke.

  She wanted far more than a duke.

  She wanted Harry. Her eyes slid closed. God in heaven what have I done?

  “I must admit, I don’t usually find myself the recipient of shocked horror.”

  Anne snapped her eyes open at the duke’s droll response. “Y-your Grace?” Her voice cracked.

  The duke looped his arms behind his back and rocked back and forth on the heels of his gleaming black shoes. “Eager fawning, wide-eyed stares but never shocked horror.” Such words could have been construed as bold, ducal arrogance. Then…he winked.