“And I never imagined it would be you.”
Anne blinked. “Never imagined what would be me?” she blurted, trying to recall her mother’s previously spoken words, wishing she’d been paying closer attention.
Her mother threw her hands up in exasperation. “I never imagined you would wed Bertrand.”
She scratched her brow. “Why would I wed Mr. Ekstrom?” She wouldn’t. Ever. Not unless she was in the habit of sacrificing her very own happiness, which she wasn’t. She quite enjoyed being happy.
“Because you are now on your third Season, Anne.” Her mother gave her head a pitying shake. “You are unwed.”
Anne moistened her lips, knowing when Mother sank her teeth into an idea she was worse than one of the queen’s terriers with a bone. “Hardly on the shelf,” she said, defensively.
“But certainly not married, either.” Mother claimed her hands. “This is not a threat. This is me speaking to you with direct honesty. A young lady must wed and have security; for herself, her family. And if you are unwed, well, we cannot afford to risk something happening to your brother and the most logical plan…” Her words trailed off.
The most logical plan was to forego Anne’s happiness for their family’s security. In trying to earn the duke’s favor, isn’t that what I’m doing? For somehow, Mother desired another ducal connection since the one to Katherine's duke was apparently not enough. Her mother squeezed her hands. Anne’s fingers twitched with the desire to yank free of her grip. “I’ll not wed Mr. Ekstrom,” she said quietly.
Mother inclined her head. “Do not be silly, my dear.” The corners of her lips turned down ever so slightly. “I’d rather you not wed, Bertrand.” She released her hold on Anne. “Unless you have no other option.” She gave Anne a long, pointed look, and then sailed from the room.
Anne folded her arms across her chest and attempted to rub warmth back into the chilled limbs. She’d known through the years that making advantageous matches for each of her daughters was the Countess of Wakefield’s ultimate goal. Anne mattered so little that she’d be wed off to her corpulent, oft-rude cousin? A man so very different than the gentleman who now taught Anne the art of seduction.
The thought of Harry slipped in and then memory after memory of the dashing earl poured over her. Her mother, sister, and Society on the whole would call her all kinds of fool for desiring him as she did. After all, she very well knew the kind of charmer Lord Harry Stanhope happened to be—the manner of gentleman who placed two crystal glasses of champagne in his host’s conservatory and almost partook in a scandalous assignation.
The muscles of her stomach tightened as her mother’s earlier allegations about Harry surfaced. The mysterious woman mentioned in the papers. She’d expected such roguish behaviors from Harry, the man who’d tried to seduce her twin.
Yet… She eyed the forgotten paper at her feet. She’d not thought the Harry who arrived to musicales and joined her for the evening would then do something as appalling as to visit... She wrinkled her nose. Whoever it was he’d sought out after he’d left her side. If he’d taken himself off to some soiree or another with some scandalous widow, she would, well, she would tell him exactly what she thought of him. Even if it was a pretend courtship. She should be a good deal more concerned with Mother’s threat of wedding her off to Bertrand Ekstrom, yet she could not muster the suitable outrage when compared with the hurt fury thrumming through her at the idea of Harry with…with…
Anne swiped the paper. She angled the page in a way that the stream of sunlight shone off the central part of the copy and scoured the page in search of his name—and hers, of course. She squinted hard. Lord HS, some word, some word, Lady AA. Another blurred word. Forbidden… “Forbidden, what?” she muttered under her breath.
Footsteps sounded outside in the hall. Blast and double blast. She’d had enough of her mother to last her the remainder of the Season and all the next combined. “I’m reading it, Mother,” she called. Or desperately trying to, anyway. “I see the reason for your outrage, of course.” Which she didn’t fully see, necessarily. She saw, however, just enough words to understand what had roused her mother’s displeasure. “He really shouldn’t—”
“The Earl of Stanhope, my lady.”
Chapter 7
Anne jerked her head up hard enough that she wrenched the muscles along the back of her neck. The paper slid from her fingers and took with it her stack of yellow ribbons whereupon they lay scattered like slashes over the other colors just as her thoughts. “Um, well thank you, Ollie.” For absolutely nothing. “That will be all.”