More Than a Duke(33)

He forced a grin to his lips. “Isn’t that what you sought me out for, sweet?” She recoiled at his deliberately cruel and mocking tone. “For a lesson on how to seduce Crawford?” he asked, all the while knowing his words would only drive her away from him and into the duke’s arms. His gut clenched at the mere thought of the other man. In thinking his name, in being Crawford and not a mere title, he became somehow more real and Harry detested him for it. The proper, staid Duke of Crawford was what Anne deserved and not a man such as Harry, too much like her shameful father.



She searched his face. “Why are you doing this?” She stuffed her curls back behind her ears in an attempt to put her hair to rights.



He cursed and spun her around.



“What…?”



Harry quickly tucked her golden ringlets into the delicate butterfly combs at the base of her head. He shifted her around and studied his work. She no longer appeared as though she’d been one kiss away from a thorough bout of lovemaking on the parlor sofa. What a travesty.



Anne turned back; a pinched set to her mouth. “You’re very proficient with a lady’s hair.”



Again, her words bore the faintest traces of jealousy, that dangerously dark emotion that had no place between them.



He arched an eyebrow. “You sound disappointed, sweet—”



“Stop calling me sweet,” she bit out.



“Most women appreciate my—”



She slapped him. Hard.



Harry flexed his jaw. Christ, the woman was far stronger than most gents he’d faced in Gentleman Jackson’s ring. He rubbed the wounded flesh.



“You don’t have to be crude,” she said, backing away from him. He took a step toward her. She held a hand up. “D-do not, H-harry.”



“Do you think I’d hurt you?” he snapped. The idea she should fear him burned like acid thrown upon an open wound.



She wrinkled her brow. “Of course not.” She gave a toss of her ringlets. “I’m cross with you.”



“Cross?”



She nodded. “Cross.” The tension eased from her taut frame. “You needn’t worry I’ve come to care for you,” she said with a remarkable insight. She caught a loose tress and gave it a distracted tug. “I would never be so naïve as to believe a kiss from you would mean anything more.”



Harry jerked erect. Her, words intended to reassure, instead ran through him with a savage intensity. He remained silent.



She leaned over and patted his hand. “I’ve enlisted your support to garner the duke’s affection. I understood your rule, Harry.” He started, having forgotten he’d put any rules to her madcap scheme. “I’m not to fall in love with you.” Had he said that? Anne continued, unaware of his inner strife. “So you needn’t be crude or ungentlemanly or condescending,” she added that last under her breath.



He bit back a smile. “You’d have me teach you the art of seduction in a way that is gentlemanly and polite, then?”



She nodded again. “Precisely.”



He opened his mouth to point out that he was the last person to instruct her on anything proper or polite.



A knock sounded at the door. They looked as one to the doorway to where the butler stood with a familiar, increasingly loathsome, ducal figure. Harry fisted his hands at his side.



The servant glared at Harry as though he recognized a scoundrel in his midst. He cleared his throat, and gave his attention to Anne. “My lady, His Grace, the Duke of Crawford.”



The duke swept in as if he was the King of England coming to call. He glanced around the room, and then he fixed a frown on Harry. The message clear. I’ve selected my duchess.



“Crawford,” Harry drawled.



Anne dropped a deep, deferential curtsy. A becoming pink blush stained her cheeks and her eyes darted about the room. Standing as close as they were, he heard her slight sigh as her maid appeared.



“My lady, forgive me.” A young maid swept in. “I retrieved your book.” She held up a copy of Mrs. Deerlander’s Guide to Decorum.



If the Duke of Crawford believed: one, that a passionate spirit like Lady Anne would spend even a moment reading even a word of that drivel, two, the maid’s ruse to explain away the lack of chaperone, and three, that Harry would interfere in the other man’s courtship, well, then he was as mad as a Bedlamite streaking the halls of that infamous hospital.



Anne rushed forward. “Thank you, Mary,” she said quickly. She took the book in her hands, hands that mere moments ago had twisted and twined about his neck like a tenacious vine of ivy. She shifted under the duke’s scrutiny, the leather volume held almost protectively to her chest.