The earl shrugged out of his coat. He flipped it over his shoulder in one smooth, graceful motion. The effortless gesture jerked her from her musings.
Anne swallowed hard. Yes, he was entirely more handsome than any one man had a right to be. She supposed she really should announce herself. Especially considering his…er…arrangements for the evening.
“You do know, sweet, if you’re content to stand and watch me remove my garments, I’d be glad to provide you such a show. I would, however, vastly prefer you allow me to slip the gown from your frame and…”
She pressed herself tight against the tree. Her arm knocked the branch of the hibiscus and wafted the cloying, floral scent about the air. “Achoo!” Blast and bloody blast.
The earl’s grin widened as he yanked a stark white kerchief from his jacket and wandered closer. He extended the cloth. “Here, sweet—”
Anne stepped out from behind the tree. The earl froze, the stark white linen dangled between them. His hazel eyes widened. She plucked the kerchief from his fingers and blew her nose noisily. “Thank you,” she said around the fabric.
“Bloody hell, Lady Anne,” he hissed. “What in hell are you doing here?” He shrugged into his jacket with the speed surely borne of a man who’d clearly had to make too many hasty flights from disapproving husbands.
She frowned. “You really needn’t sound so…so…” Disappointed. “Angry, my lord.”
He took her gently by the forearm. “What are you thinking?”
She tugged her arm free. “I require a favor—”
“No.” He proceeded to pull her toward the front of the conservatory.
She frowned up at him. “You didn’t allow me to ask—”
“No.” He shook his head. “Mad,” he muttered to himself. “You’re completely and utterly mad. And maddening.”
“I am not mad,” she bit out. She really wished she was as clever as her eldest sister, Aldora. Aldora would have a far more clever rebuttal than ‘I am not mad’ for the scoundrel.
His mouth tightened. And she swore he muttered something along the lines of her being the less intelligent of her sisters.
Anne dug her heels in until he either had to drag her or stop. She glowered up at him, this rogue who’d tried to earn a spot in Katherine’s bed. Alas, Katherine loved her husband, the Duke of Bainbridge, with such desperation the earl hadn’t had a hope or prayer.
He folded his arms across his chest. “What do you want then, hellion?”
She gritted her teeth, detesting his familiarity that painted her as the bothersome sister. Still, she required something of him and as Mother used to say, one can catch more bees with honey than…she wrinkled her nose. That didn’t quite make sense. Why would anyone want to catch a bee? Unless—.
The earl took her, this time by the wrist, and began tugging her to the door.
“I need help,” she said and pulled back.
To no avail. He held firm. The man was as powerful as an ox. “No.”
Most gentlemen would have inquired if for no other reason than it was the polite, gentlemanly thing to do.
Anne at last managed to wrest free of his grip. “Please, hear me out, my lord.”
He took a step toward her. “By God, I’ll carry you from the room this time.” The determined glint in his eyes leant credence to his threat.
She danced backward. “Oh, I imagine that would be a good deal worse.” He narrowed his eyes. “Your carrying me,” she clarified. “Imagine the scandal if—”
Lord Stanhope cursed and advanced. “You risk ruin in being here, my lady,” he said, his voice a satiny whisper that sent warmth spiraling through her body.
She shook her head. People might believe her an empty-headed ninnyhammer, but she was not so foolish to be swayed by a crooked grin and a mellifluous whisper. She took another step away from him. Her back thumped against their host’s table. It rattled and one of the champagne flutes tipped over. She gasped as the pale liquid spilled across the wood table and threatened her skirts.
Lord Stanhope yanked her away from the dripping champagne and tugged her close. “Tsk, tsk, my lady.” He lowered his lips to her ear. “However would you explain returning to the ballroom with your skirts drenched in champagne?”
Anne glanced up. And wished she hadn’t. Really wished she hadn’t.
The earl’s impossibly long, thick golden lashes were enough to tempt a saint, and after more than twenty years of troublesome scrapes, Anne had earned a reputation amidst her family as anything but a saint.