She swatted at him. Had she really just thought a mere moment ago, she’d dare love anything about the outrageous scoundrel? She spun away from him.
“You didn’t read the story,” he said as though with the surprise of one who’d just discovered the New World.
“I did,” she said, defensively. “Or I intended to,” she groused.
“Here.” He slapped the wrinkled paper into her hands. “Read your gossip, my lady, and then ask your questions.”
Her mouth went dry as she studied the page, and then she shook her head. “No, I don’t believe I shall.” She pushed back at his hands.
“I insist,” he said, pressing.
On a sigh, Anne took the paper and made a show of smoothing it out. She carried it over to the window for better illumination and read. Or attempted to. She squinted at the blasted, blurred words.
A sharp bark of laughter burst from his chest. “By God.”
She glowered. “What is it?” Did he expect her to be a woman who cared about the blasted comings and goings set out in the gossip rags? When in truth, her real concern was the mention of a certain Earl of S.
“You can’t see the damned words, can you?”
She bristled with indignation and gave a flounce of her golden ringlets. “I can see them. Some of them,” she amended. “And you really shouldn’t curse in front of a lady.” Though that was likely one of the lesser charges she could level at the dashing earl.
His long, powerful legs ate up the distance between them as he strode over. “You need spectacles,” he said.
“I don’t.” With him finding it a matter of such hilarity, she wouldn’t dare admit that truth to him, not when he’d already had such a laugh at her expense.
“You do,” he spoke with a finality that suggested he considered the debate ended.
“I don’t.” She held the copy of The Times protectively in front of her. “This isn’t about what I can see or not see, Harry. This is about your behavior last evening with…”
He arched another quizzical eyebrow. “With?” he prodded.
“Oh, hush, you very well know I didn’t read—”
“Because you couldn’t see it.”
“—the entire article,” she finished. She tossed aside the paper and once more settled her hands on her hips. “Did you leave me and go see one of your fancy pieces?” His lips twitched. She narrowed her eyes. “This is not a matter of amusement.”
“Yes, I do believe you are jealous, sweet.”
She widened her eyes and opened her mouth. She closed it. She tried again. Words failed her. “I am not jealous,” she managed after a long, uncomfortable stretch of silence. In spite of everyone’s low opinion, she had enough good sense to avoid any emotional entanglements with Harry. He snorted. “I’m not,” she insisted. Anne began to pace. “As Mother said, it reflects all rather poorly on me.” She slashed the air with her hand. “Society will speak about how I’m unable to hold your affections—”
He grinned. “My affections?”
She nodded and continued pacing. “They’ll wonder at what flaw I possess, failing to realize the truth.” She paused mid-stride and met his gaze squarely. He really did have splendid eyes. The flecks of gold put her in mind of the fabled pot at the end of a rainbow.
“And what is the truth, Anne?” he asked, jerking her back to the moment.
She pursed her lips. “That my inability to hold your affections is through a detriment of your own character, my lord. You are unable to love anyone. Not just me,” she hurried to clarify when his eyes narrowed.
Harry wandered close. She retreated. He continued until the backs of her knees thumped against the King Louis XIV chair and she tumbled into the seat. She craned her neck to look at him and swallowed, resenting his height. It hardly seemed fair she should be a mere smidge in his commanding shadow. “You’re wrong. I tried love once before. I’ll not give myself over to weak sentiments.”
His admission sucked the breath from her lungs. Harry, the Earl of Stanhope, unrepentant rogue, scoundrel, bane of every innocent young lady’s existence had been in love? Why did envy knife her heart? “Oh,” she whispered. Because really, what else was there to say to the staggering realization—Harry had buried truths of his own.
He placed his hands on the gold arms of her chair and leaned close. His breath fanned her cheek, a delicious blend of mint and lemon. “Won’t you ask questions, sweet? Don’t you want to know the story of Miss Margaret Dunn?”