More Than a Duke(32)
“You’re wrong,” he said, his voice husky. “I didn’t imagine that wouldn’t shape you.”
“Yes, everything we experience in life shapes, us, doesn’t it? It forges us into the people we are today.” Anne glanced at her useless ribbons and recalled Lady Ava Westmoreland’s fingers dancing upon her cherished pianoforte keys “And I,” she looked back at him. “I live with the constant reminders of that past. I have to see it, witness it, remember it at recitals where other women play my instrument, won for them by their f-father…” She paused to collect herself, hating the manner in which her voice broke, almost as much as she loathed the flash of pity in Harry’s eyes. “I would have traded that pianoforte and every last ribbon for a father devoted to his family.”
“I’m so s—”
Anne held her palms up, not wanting his pity, rather wanting him to understand. “I’ll not be destitute again. Not because I’m avaricious, as you’ve accused me, but because I knew the terror of lying awake and wondering what is to become of my family. So don’t you judge me, Harry. Don’t you—”
He folded her in his arms and kissed the remainder of the words from her lips.
Chapter 8
Harry kissed her. He’d only intended to silence her. Cowardly bastard that he was, he’d needed to bury her words that forced him to imagine Anne as a small girl with great, big blue eyes and golden ringlets lying in bed, staring up at the ceiling hiding a single scrap of orange satin, while her scapegrace of a father wagered away her ribbons. He wanted to cut the flow of words from her sweet lips, because he preferred to think of her as a cold, calculated miss in search of a lofty title, who fit neatly into a category alongside the Miss Margaret Dunns of the world.
With her admission, however, she’d forced him to recognize the fear that drove her marital aspirations. Most young ladies craved flowers and sonnets, but his Anne, she craved security.
And God help him, in that moment she made him wish he were the kind of man she deserved. A man who’d give up his clubs and drink and the strings of mistresses to make her his wife. But he could never be that man. He’d given away his heart and he’d not do so again. Not when there was nothing left of the useless organ.
So, he kissed her. Kissed her so his blasted heart didn’t ache in remembrance of the forlorn frown on her lips at Lady Westmoreland’s recital that now made sense. Kissed her until she twined her long fingers about his neck and moaned into his mouth. Kissed her until his body hardened against her belly. Kissed her until he knew from her gasping pants that desire replaced despair.
He slanted his lips over hers again and again as he longed to learn the taste of her. A hint of berry, a hint of lemon. She was a veritable dessert a man could feast on for the remainder of his days, and just then, he wanted to be that man.
“Harry.” His name, escaped her lips; a desperate entreaty that jerked him back to sanity.
He pulled back and she made a sound of protest. Harry pulled free the neat combs that held her hair in place. Her golden tresses tumbled around her shoulders and back like a waterfall of pure sun. His gut clenched as he imagined the satin strands fanning his pillow while he came over her and laid claim to her. He kissed her eyelids, her cheek. He trailed his lips lower to the elegant line of her neck where her pulse beat wildly. He nipped and sucked at the smooth flesh until her knees collapsed and he caught her against his chest.
Harry planted a hard kiss at the corner of her temple. “This is how you should wear your hair, Anne. Not in tight ringlets,” Though, those ringlets he’d once thought silly now seemed to suit her. “Beautiful and free, just as you are. They should caress your shoulders and breasts.” He brushed his hand over her modest décolletage.
She blinked and shoved him. He stumbled at the unexpectedness of the movement. Anne dragged her fingers through a mass of golden curls with frantic movements, restoring her hair to rights. “Is that what this was, Harry?” she asked, her words bleeding hurt. “Another lesson on the art of seduction?”
He stiffened. Despite her charged accusation, it hadn’t been. His kiss had begun as something far more, when he, Harry, the Earl of Stanhope never gave more. What had been an attempt to drive the sadness from her eyes and the damned ache in his heart had become…this.
And he’d not regret having taken her in his arms but he would never forgive himself if Anne came to believe there could ever be more between them. Not when she’d stated in no uncertain terms the respectable, flawless gentleman she desired.