Forcing her attention away from the saddened sight of her mother, Anne absently surveyed the assembling crowd; never more lonely than she was in this moment. She tapped her slippered feet on the marble foyer. Her twin had been wed nearly a year and here sat Anne, the one daughter Mother had so much hope for, unwed for a third Season, helplessly hoping for the hand of a proper duke.
A slight stir went through the crowd and she craned her neck in attempt to see who’d attracted the small party’s notice. The Duke of Crawford entered. Impossibly tall and surprisingly broad, he was perfectly pleasing. He skimmed the hall and his serious blue-eyed stare moved through the crowd.
She fingered the ribbon at her shoulder and continued to study him. Young ladies dropped deep curtsies and peeked at him from under their lashes, while their mamas pushed them closer to catch his eye. Anne chewed her lip. She expected she should feel a thrill of excitement at seeing the man she’d selected for her future bridegroom. She twined the blue ribbon about her finger. So why did the sight of him not stir the faintest frisson of warmth within?
Just then, from across the hall, the duke froze mid-stride. His gaze caught hers a moment and then followed the sapphire ribbon lower to where it rested between her breasts. She widened her eyes. Well by Joan of Arc and all her army, Harry had been correct. The duke glanced up and looked at her.
Anne mustered a small smile and then gave thanks for the commotion at the hall’s back entrance that snapped the duke’s attention elsewhere. Which really made little sense. She should be quite honored and fortunate the Duke of Crawford had briefly fixed his attention upon her. But she wasn’t. Instead, she’d foolishly been wondering why his stare hadn’t heated her skin the way it did with a certain rogue.
Shocked whispers and loud murmurs rolled through the crowd. Again, she tilted her head in an attempt to catch sight of the latest source of interest. She damned her diminutive five-feet, nearly nothing frame. Why couldn’t she be one of those tall, graceful, willowy creatures? Then Harry would notice—
Her thoughts came to a jarring halt.
Harry? That is, then the Duke of Crawford would notice her. She’d meant…. Harry.
She stood so quickly, her mother paused mid-conversation with Lady Westmoreland and looked at Anne. Whatever was Harry doing here? He’d been adamant that he’d not attend the Westmoreland recital.
A familiar figure stepped into her line of vision and interrupted her thoughts. She let out an excited squeal and greeted Katherine and brother-in-law, Jasper, the Duke of Bainbridge. Her sister and husband did not come to Town. Instead, they spent most of their time with their young son in the cottage the duke had purchased for his beloved wife. Anne ached to throw her arms around her sister. “Katherine,” she said softly.
“Anne,” Katherine said with a smile. She took Anne’s hands in her own.
Since before they’d even drawn breath, they’d shared a special bond and Anne’s life had been so very lonely after Katherine had wed. They exchanged a look no one else present could possibly understand. A look that asked questions and conveyed emotions all at once.
She squeezed Katherine’s fingers and gave the duke her attention. “Hello, Jasper.”
He inclined his head. “Hello, Anne,” he greeted, still laconic as he’d been since she’d first made his acquaintance. Yet, gone was the harsh, hard-hearted gentleman who’d whisked her sister away immediately following their wedding. In his place was this kinder, gentler, though still gruff man.
She eyed them wistfully. Love tended to do that. Or so all the Gothic novels she squinted her way through, seemed to indicate.
Unbidden, she sought out Harry in the crowd. He moved with a long-legged elegance that earned sighs—from young ladies and old ladies alike. He offered the occasional roguish grin to certain women. Anne frowned and wondered at those particular smiles. Had those ladies once dampened their satin skirts and met him for champagne in certain conservatories? A dark, ugly niggling clutched at her. Hard and cruel and ugly. And something she didn’t wholly understand or care to evaluate in the moment. But she detested the memory of Lady Kendricks and all the other simpering beauties who’d surely held a spot in his bed.
All the dislike she’d carried for the roguish Lord Stanhope surged through her and she welcomed the familiar sentiment to the burning red emotion that felt a good deal like jealousy.
Her sister’s gasp pulled her back to the moment. She swung around and followed Katherine’s stare.
A frown marred Katherine’s lips. “I recognize that look in your eyes Anne Adamson and if Mother were smart she’d recognize it too.” She shot a pointed look at her husband. “I told you she required my assistance.”