More Than a Duke(37)
“What in hell is the matter with you, Stanhope?” Edgerton groused.
“Nothing,” he bit out.
The majordomo pulled the door open and they took their leave. His friend scratched his brow. “Is this about Crawford and your Lady Anne?”
He peered around the crowded street for sign of his carriage. “No.” Yes. “And she is not my Lady Anne.” He took a step toward the street as his driver wound through the clogged roadway. Filled with a restive energy he strode onward toward his conveyance. His driver hopped down and opened the carriage door. Harry climbed inside.
Edgerton followed suit. “She is clearly something to you, Stanhope,” he said with far more solemnity than Harry remembered of his friend.
He clenched his jaw hard enough that pain shot up to his temple. “She is not.”
Edgerton rested his ankle over his knee and tapped his foot. “I certainly hope you’d not be fool enough to toss away wasted emotion on a woman such as her.” He knew of the empty shell of a man Harry had become immediately after Margaret’s betrayal. They’d drank together until the liquor had dulled Harry’s pain. And the day she’d wed her lofty duke, a doddering old letch from some far-flung corner of England, Harry drank some more. Then when he was bleary-eyed with too much liquor and a broken heart, Edgerton got him home, and restored him to the carefree rogue he’d been before Margaret.
“I assure you, Edgerton, there is nothing more there. The young lady enlisted my support on a matter.” A matter he didn’t intend to discuss with even his friend. “And as a friend to Lady Katherine, I’ve agreed to help her.” His involvement with Anne had begun as a kind of unknowing favor to the young duchess who’d captured his attention last Season. Only, since that scandalous proposal Anne had put to him in Lord Essex’s conservatory, some great shift had occurred—a desire to help the young minx who’d once been nothing more than a bother.
His friend studied him. He appeared ready to say an additional piece on Harry’s succinct admission, but the carriage rocked to a halt in front of a pale yellow townhouse ablaze with candlelight, cutting into the other man’s words.
The driver pulled open the carriage door. Harry leapt out and started for the handful of steps leading into the luxurious Mayfair townhouse. His friend hastened to match his stride. They entered the palatial townhouse and made their way to the now empty receiving line. From his vantage at top of the ballroom, he scanned the dance floor and frowned.
“Are you per chance, looking for a particular young lady?” His friend asked with entirely too much humor. “Perhaps, a young lady who means absolutely nothing to you?”
“Stuff it,” Harry said as the host and hostess rushed forward to greet the two newly arrived gentlemen. He stalked off just as the couple reached him. Lady Huntly rocked back on her heels with an indignant huff. Edgerton, ever the charmer remained behind to speak to the couple with matching stark white hair and wizened cheeks.
Harry walked the perimeter of the ballroom. A servant stepped forward. The liveried footman bore a silver tray with bubbling French champagne. Harry rescued a glass and continued his search. Where in hell was she? He paused beside a Doric column and leaned against the white, towering structure, scanning the rows of couples performing the lively steps of a reel. He’d taken care to find out the precise details of the lady’s plans for the evening. Perhaps the information his servants had obtained from her servants had been erroneous.
The music came to a rousing conclusion, followed by a wave of applause and laughter from the crush of dancers upon the dance floor. He sipped his champagne as gentlemen escorted their respective partners back to their chaperones, methodically running his gaze through the crowd for the ringlet-wearing, cheeky, young miss.
“Lord Stanhope,” a sultry voice purred.
He froze as a figure sidled up to him. He glanced down disinterestedly as the Viscountess Kendrick brushed herself against him. The generous swells of her breasts crushed hard against his arm. She peered up at him through sooty black lashes.
Harry yawned. “Lady Kendrick.” Had he really once desired the over-blown, pinch-mouthed viscountess?
A catlike smile turned her thin lips up at the corners. Though, if she knew the exact direction of Harry’s thoughts, she’d be spitting and hissing like a wounded feline. “Are you bored, my lord?” She stroked a bold finger over the sleeve of his coat. “I can imagine all manner of delicious ways to drive away your tedium.”