More Than a Duke(100)

He set his jaw at a stony angle. “I’ll not merely be the man who soothes the ache betwixt your legs.” He wanted more of her than that. Not without marriage. And she’d been abundantly clear of her marital aspirations.



She flinched as if struck.



Harry shoved back guilt. She’d been the one to cut him from her life. He’d not be made to feel guilty for rejecting her. Not when he made the greatest sacrifice in preserving her virtue for another. Ah God, this would kill him.



He stood, carefully tucking his shirt back into his breeches and rearranging his cloak. Wordlessly, he held a hand out to her.



She eyed it for a moment, and then her glance slid off to a point beyond his shoulder. “I’ll stay here.”



Rutland’s actions nearly a week ago blared as a loud reminder of the perils of leaving her. “I won’t leave you without a chaperone.”



A hard, ugly smile wreathed her face, a smile so patently not Anne, it chilled him. “I’m not your responsibility.”



No. She was not. She’d been quite clear in who…or rather, what she desired. Crawford’s bloody title. He lowered his hand. “Goodbye, Anne.”



“G-goodbye.” The moon’s glow shone down upon her heart-shaped face; the crystal tears filling her eyes, nearly undid him. “Harry?”



He froze when she called out to him. Please tell me you want me. Tell me I matter more than Crawford and his damned dukedom.



“I’m not marrying the… that is...” She cleared her throat. “I am to be wed.” His heart turned to stone inside his chest and with every stammered word, she chiseled away at each piece until it crumbled into a pile of rubble in her pliant hands. “I’m marrying…” The crucial end to those words faded into silence. “I just thought…” She looked away. “Goodbye, Harry.” He strained to hear that final pronouncement.



He exited the gardens and stopped, setting himself as a sentry until she took her leave. A display of fireworks lit the sky in burnt orange and crimson red hues. He wrenched off his mask and tossed it aside where it fluttered about in a night breeze and then landed in a heap.



Harry raked his hands through his hair. Oh God. She was to be married. To the duke. His stomach roiled. She would wed another. Bed another. Give another children.



I want you, Harry.



He pressed his eyes closed. She wanted him, even as she’d take another man as her husband. She wanted the pleasure of his embrace and nothing more.



The sight of her, broken and shattered penetrated the horror of her revelation. He began to pace, grinding the gravel under his booted feet.



We’ll always have ribbons and spectacles.



The crowd’s merriment in the distance came as if down a long empty corridor. He fished around the front of his cloak and withdrew a familiar orange scrap of fabric.

He turned the cherished item over in his hands, passing it back and forth between his fingers.



With the exception of one burnt orange scrap…



“Ah, there you are, friend.”



The memento given him by Anne fell from his fingers. Harry bent to retrieve the scrap of Anne’s past. “What the hell do you want, Edgerton?” His voice came out as a nasty growl, but he was in a foul mood and wanted to be free of this damned place…and his confounded thoughts about Anne.



“I was concerned about your sudden disappearance.”



“Have you fashioned yourself as my nursemaid now?”



Apparently undeterred by Harry’s snappishness that evening, Edgerton spread his hands in front of him. “I’d merely imagined with the word that has begun to circulate, you might benefit from some drink and company.”



“With the word—?” Harry’s heart thudded to a slow, staggering halt. Anne and Crawford. He dragged a hand across his face. “What the hell are you on about?” Invariably, he knew, as surely as he knew the letters of his name that Edgerton in some way referred to Anne.



He quirked an eyebrow. “According to the whispers of gossip, it would seem your Lady Anne is to be wed.”



Harry crushed the orange ribbon in his hand. Ah, hell. He’d known it was coming and yet Edgerton may as well have taken a claymore and cleaved him in two.



“That is hardly the interesting bit,” his friend continued, not comprehending Harry’s very thin grasp on control.



“…a mere Mrs.…”



He loved her.



“Hardly in line with the grasping…”



He could not live without her.



“…a beauty, but no grand beauty…”