More Than a Duke(34)
Crawford walked over to her, placing himself between her and Harry. He claimed her hand and raising her fingers to his lips, brushed his mouth over the inside of her wrist.
The pink hue of her cheeks blazed a bold red.
Harry clenched his hands into tight balls at his side, filled with an inexplicable urge to separate the bastard’s fingers from his person. Over the duke’s shoulder, Anne met his gaze.
The tall, commanding duke with ice in his eyes, followed the direction of her stare. He arched a ducal eyebrow at Harry.
Harry tugged at the lapels of his coat. It was on the tip of his lips to order the other man to hell and claim a spot beside the scattered pile of ribbons. Except, something flashed in Anne’s eyes. An entreaty. A plea. Her meaning could not have been clearer than if she’d clambered onto the sofa and shouted the words. Go.
He gave a quick bow. “Lady Anne, Crawford. I’ll leave you two to your visit.” He spun on his heel and beat a hasty retreat. Ultimately, Anne seemed to remember what he’d allowed himself to forget. Their every interaction, their every meeting was a ploy to garner Crawford’s notice and prompt an offer on the other man’s part.
It would seem the lady’s plan had worked brilliantly. Harry would soon be well-rid of the tart-mouthed Lady Anne Adamson.
Harry cursed under his breath, and took his leave. He should be elated with the rapidity of Crawford’s interest.
So why was he so bloody miserable?
~*~
Anne stared at Harry’s swift retreating back and resisted the urge to call out, ask him to stay. Despite of all her earlier, preconceived notions about the roguish Earl of Stanhope, he’d proven himself to be kind and decent. She stared down at her palm, the skin still stinging from the slap she’d dealt him. Regret tugged at her. God help her, she enjoyed being with Harry. Missed him, even now with the illustrious Duke of Crawford in her parlor.
“My lady? I trust you are well?”
She jumped, pressing her hand to her heart. “Er…uh, yes…most well,” she said on a rush. Her maid gave her a pointed look from across the room and from over the duke’s shoulder gestured to the sofa.
Anne motioned to the seat. “Would you care to sit, Your Grace?”
Mary nodded.
The duke inclined his head. “I would,” he murmured, coolly polite.
From across the room, Mary held up an imaginary glass and raised it to her lips.
“Refreshments!” The single word utterance burst from her lips. The duke quirked an eyebrow. She fanned her hot cheeks, and then remembered herself. “That is,” she said, her tone even. “Would you care for refreshments, Your Grace?”
“I imagine I have all I need in terms of sustenance for the day with your company, my lady.”
Anne’s mouth pulled and she buried the grimace in her fingers. Egad, had she really desired a silly sonnet penned on her behalf? Harry’s face flashed into her mind. With his bold assertions and his unrepentant words, she found she preferred the honesty in his responses than in the duke’s overdone compliments. She sat in the King Louis XIV chair and rested the book on her lap, wishing for the uncomplicatedness of life before Harry when there was nothing more than the dream of security and stability to be had in the role of duchess.
The duke sat at the edge of the sofa so that their knees brushed. “And what does a lovely young lady take enjoyment reading, Lady Anne?”
Scandalous Gothic novels. Shameless tales of unrequited love and gentlemen vying for a lady’s hand. With someone ultimately always meeting an untimely, ugly demise. She glanced down at the book her maid had brought her and silently cursed the excuse orchestrated by Mary to explain her absence during Harry’s earlier visit. She handed the leather volume over to the duke.
He examined the title. “I imagine a lady such as you wouldn’t need the help of anyone to maintain proper ladylike decorum.”
One of Mother’s favorites: Mrs. Deerleander’s Guide to Decorum.
Did she imagine the hint of rebuke buried in the duke’s words? “Oh, quite the opposite, Your Grace,” she said blandly, disabusing him of any notions he carried about her suitability as his future duchess. “It is likely why my mother is insisting I read it.”
A half-grin pulled at his lips. If she were being perfectly honest with herself, she’d admit he was a rather handsome gentleman. Even more than pleasantly handsome. With thick chestnut hair, fashionably cropped, and a powerful blue-eyed stare that could bore into a person’s soul. When most of the other dukes were doddering old letches with monocles held to their eyes, His Grace possessed a tall, well-muscled form. His smile deepened, though it never quite reached his eyes. “You’re a delight, my lady.”