More Than a Duke(11)

“Oh, that is rich,” she said on a gasp, when her laughter had subsided. She dashed a hand across her tear-stained cheeks. “You may rest assured, I’ve no intention of falling in love with you, my…Harry,” she said with mock-solemnity. She patted his hand like he was a small child. “What else do you require?”



Harry tightened his jaw, irked by the lady’s effortless promise. “Nothing.” Something of a rogue for a good many years now, he didn’t like to believe his charm was failing him. Even if it was only with the bothersome Lady Anne Adamson.



She gave a pleased nod. “Very well. You may begin courting me tomorrow, then.” Anne spun on her heel and stared back toward the front of the gardens.



He stared unblinking at her swift-retreating back. He shoved himself off the bench. What in hell? He quickly and efficiently closed the distance between them then placed himself between her and the door, effectively blocking her exit.



“What?” Impatience threaded her one-word question.



“What did you say?”



“I asked, what.”



He scrubbed his hands over his face. “No. Before that.” He could practically see the wheels of her mind spinning.



“Oh, I merely said you may begin courting me tomorrow,” she said sunnily.



“There was no mention of courting you.” The last thing he required was Society believing he had honorable intentions for a proper, English lady—particularly this genteel, English lady. “Bloody hell,” he muttered to himself.



“You know you really shouldn’t curse, Harry. It’s not at all proper.”



“Nor is it proper to request a gentleman to school you in the art of seduction.”



She nodded. “Er, yes, I suppose you’re right.” She let out a beleaguered sigh. “But really, how else do you expect to begin instructing me? And,” she pressed. “I imagine the duke will become outrageously jealous when he sees you’re courting me.”



“You said he’s not even paid you any notice,” he said bluntly.



“That is rude of you to mention, but yes,” she said hurriedly before he could speak. “He hasn’t noticed me, but attention from you might make me…make me…”



He quirked an eyebrow.



“More desirable.” Another one of those becoming blushes stained her cheeks. “Do you see?”



The moonlight bathed the high planes of her cheekbones in a pale glow, giving her the look of a veritable Athena. He sucked in a breath. Bloody hell. He’d had too much of his host’s champagne. There was nothing else to account for this madness. But he did see something that until this very moment had escaped him. She really was quite lovely.



Anne touched a hand to her hair. “What is it?”



“I’ll pay you a visit tomorrow.” He thrust his finger toward the door. “Now, go.”



With a jaunty wave, she all but skipped toward the front of the gardens. “You’ll not regret this, my…Harry,” she whispered loudly.



He shook his head. I already do.





Chapter 3



Anne bit her lip and stared down at the array of ribbons strewn about the table. The thin and thick strips of cloth covered her copy of Lady Wilshow’s Midnight Danger, a Gothic novel she’d borrowed from her sister, Aldora.



She leaned forward and picked up a black-striped pink ribbon. She laid it atop a small pile of other similar-colored ribbons. One. Two. Three. Four. Five pink satin ribbons in total. Anne reached for a dear orange satin ribbon. She held up the sole scrap she’d retained from her girlhood, during a time when every last shred of her ribbons, gowns, and everything in between had been carted off by merciless creditors.



She turned the ribbon over in her hands. The light reflected off the shiny strip, giving the prized scrap an almost iridescent effect. If she were permitted to wear a gown other than the pale hues insisted upon by Mother, she’d have the finest French modiste design her a gown to match this very shade.



The butler, entered. “My lady, you have a caller.”



Startled by the unexpected intrusion, the ribbon slipped from her fingers and fluttered in a whispery dance to the floor.



The older servant who’d been with them since she was just a girl cleared his throat. “The Earl of Stanhope,” he introduced, admitting Harry.



She leapt to her feet as he stepped into the room like Michelangelo’s David come to life. Impossibly tall and sinfully handsome with his thick, unfashionably long golden hair, he cut quite the figure. Anne dipped a curtsy.



He grinned. Then he glanced at her pile of ribbons.