Katherine all but yanked their mother into the vacant seat beside the duke.
“She appears thrilled,” Harry drawled into her ear.
Anne nudged him with her knee. “Do hush,” she whispered. What mother would be thrilled at the most notorious rogue in England’s attention being fixed on her daughter? Of course, the same mother would never suspect the same daughter had enlisted the rogue’s attention in garnering the notice of a duke.
Lady Westmoreland’s daughters trotted down the long center aisle, onward to the front of the hall like a gaggle of geese meandering through Hyde Park. The eldest of the Lady Westmoreland daughters claimed the pianoforte bench while her sisters took their position at the front of the dimly lit hall.
The crowd politely fell silent. A discordant key resonated through the hall. As the young woman launched into song, the audience seemed to flinch in unison.
“You owe me, Anne,” Harry murmured against her ear.
“Hmm?” She arched her neck and strained to see the front of the room. She cursed her diminutive frame and the faraway seating Mother had insisted upon. Last row sees all, she’d insisted. Except the blasted instruments being played by the young ladies. What make of pianoforte did the lady play? She squinted into the distance; it appeared to be a Broadwood—
“Never tell me you’re enthralled by this show,” Harry continued in that devilishly silken whisper that tickled the shell of her ear.
She continued to study the rosewood-and-brass instrument. Then froze. Harry’s teasing voice came as if down a long corridor. The vivid blue of the jasperware cameo adorning the magnificent piece and the faint AA etched into the pianoforte so very familiar. Too familiar. The air left her on a swift exhale. She curled her fingers along the edge of her seat.
Anne drew in a shuddery breath. She’d not really spared a thought as to where all her worldly possessions were taken. Thinking of someone playing with Benedict’s soldiers or wearing her ribbons or reading Katherine’s books had been too painful. But the extent of her father’s betrayal was so much greater in this, in knowing he’d cared so very little he’d wagered away the one possession she’d loved more than all others…and that now, some other man’s daughters stroked the same keys Anne herself had, once upon a lifetime ago, dug at her.
Harry glanced down at her and his body went taut. He moved an intense gaze over her face; all earlier teasing replaced with concern. “What is it?” His soft-spoken whisper thrummed through her.
Anne managed to shake her head and looked up at him, really seeing him perhaps for the first time. Her breath caught. She’d always taken Harry as an indolent rogue, and yet this man, a stranger mere days ago, was so aware of her body’s nuances he could detect her upset, challenging every notion she’d carried of him—before this moment. Harry, who delved enough to see hurt when everyone else remained unaware making her feel something she’d only dared to dream of within the pages of her books—cherished. Warmth spiraled through her; it drove back the pain of her father’s treachery. She managed a smile. “I’m all right,” she mouthed. Because she was. The pianoforte, a token from a lifetime ago, was really just a material object, transient and fleeting. Here one day. Gone the next in a game of faro.
Harry brushed his fingertips over the exposed skin of her shoulders. “I detest your frown, Anne.”
She frowned. What a horrid thing to say.
His lips pulled at the corners. “Not this displeased little frown. The other, forlorn one from a moment ago.”
Her mother leaned across the seat and glared at them.
Harry promptly removed his arm from behind the back of Anne’s chair and she mourned the loss of that closeness. The countess returned her attention to the performance. He returned his hand to its earlier position, and briefly brushed his knuckles along her exposed shoulders.
Anne shivered at the spiraling heat that coursed through her. She glanced around to see if anyone had noticed his deliberate touch. All the guests in front remained with their gazes trained forward. She could ill-afford the scandal of Harry intimately touching her in public, yet she craved his expert caress.
His grin widened, as though he knew the very effect he was having on her. “Now that I have your attention, sweet.” His whisper fanned her ear.
“Behave,” she scolded. She leaned forward in her chair determined to put aside thoughts of Harry’s touch, or his heated gaze, or well, anything and everything him. She leaned sideways in attempt to gather a better view of her beloved pianoforte around Lord Cumberland’s, well his er, cumbersome frame.