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More Than a Duke(12)

By:Christi Caldwell




Heat blazed in her cheeks. The butler ducked from the room. “Er…Mary,” she called softly. “Would you see to refreshments?”



Her maid hurried from the room.



Harry beat his hand against his large, muscular thigh. He sketched a deep bow. “My lady,” he drawled.



Anne motioned for him to sit. She sank into the gold-brocade sofa. “My lord,” she murmured as he sat in the giltwood open armchair beside her. He stretched his long legs out in front of him and hooked them at the ankles. Anne angled her head. Hmm. She’d never before noticed anything about the Earl of Stanhope other than the fact that he infuriated her with his roguish grin. After all, rogues were unreliable, and unreliable gentlemen did unreliable things. She’d learned as much after her father’s betrayal. Since then, she’d developed a new appreciation for staid, respectable gentlemen. And wealthy gentlemen; that mattered, too.



Harry drummed his fingers on the arms of his chair. “Perhaps Crawford’s disinterest stems from a lack of conversation?” His amused baritone jerked her from her melancholy.



She kicked his ankle with the tip of her slipper. “Oh, do hush.”



He continued to study her through thick, hooded, golden lashes.



Anne sat, perched at the edge of her seat. She folded her hands in her lap and glanced down at the forgotten orange ribbon in her fingers. Her fingers curled reflexively about the satin strip that represented her past, and now her present day goals.



Harry leaned over and plucked the precious fabric from her grip. “You’ve quite the collection of ribbons, Anne.” He trailed his forefinger down the stretch of material and she studied that oddly sensual movement.



Her cheeks warmed. She said nothing, praying he’d move the topic to far safer grounds.



Alas, God appeared otherwise busy. “It seems like a rather exorbitant amount,” he said.



Anne bristled at the mocking edge to his words. She didn’t expect he’d understand. She reached for her fabric. He held it just out of her reach. She gritted her teeth. “Give me back my ribbon.” She made another unsuccessful grab for it. With an indignant huff, she settled back in her seat.



Harry shoved himself up and claimed the seat beside her.



“What are you…?” She swallowed hard.



He touched his fingers to her hair and claimed a single lock. With an expert precision a lady’s maid would have admired, he wove the ribbon through that lock, knotting it, and draping the tress over her shoulder. “There,” he said softly. “This is how you use a ribbon to attract a gentleman’s notice.” Something dark and indefinable glinted in his eyes.



She followed his gaze to the point where the fabric nestled between her breasts. “Oh.” She’d scandalize the matrons at Almack’s and every other polite member of Society if she arrived at any event with her ribbon displayed so. Anne frowned. “I’d not have a roguish gentleman.” She would not settle for a gentleman who’d be so easily, so improperly, swayed.



He ran his thumb over her lower lip. “Ah, yes, Crawford. The ever proper, unfailingly polite duke.”



Harry really needn’t make the Duke of Crawford’s properness sound so very awful. “The duke would not be lured by such shamelessness on a lady’s part.”



“Shamelessness?”



Anne gulped at the silken edge to his hushed tone but refused to be cowed. “Yes. Shamelessness. As in, without shame.”



He continued to toy with her lower lip. “If you knew how to bring the gentleman up to scratch then why did you enlist my support?”



She tried to focus on his question, she really did. But his teasing caress made it quite difficult to so much as remember her name, let alone process his question. His smirk indicated he knew as much.



Blast him. “A gentleman has different expectations of his prospective wife’s behavior,” she managed, proud of the steady deliverance of those words.



He continued stroking her lip in that way that sent little shivers from the point of his touch. “You’re wrong, sweetheart. A gentleman wants his wife kissable and seductive and all things inappropriate.”



Her body burned with the memory of his embrace, and she decided she would like her husband to be kissable. “D-does he?” And proper, as well. Certainly both would be quite splendid.



Gold flecks danced in the hazel depths of his eyes. “Oh, yes.”



She longed for a loyal, honorable gentleman who desired her and only her, but also a man who respected her mind. “I do not want a rogue.” Were those words spoken for Harry? Or herself?