More Than a Duke(39)
And it hadn’t been her maid, Mary.
In fact, if they’d not already been extremely late to Lady Huntly’s’ soiree, Anne suspected her mother would have ordered her above stairs and stood over Mary until each strand of hair was restored to a proper ringlet.
She fingered one of the flowing locks. This is how you should wear your hair, Anne. Not in tight ringlets, but beautiful and free, just as you are. They should caress your shoulders and breasts…
Her mouth screwed up. Yet, for all his opinion of her silly ringlets, he’d not made a mention of her hair. Not that she cared about Harry’s opinion of her ringlets or lack thereof. After all, her intention was to secure the Duke of Crawford’s hand. She merely wanted to know whether she’d affected the appropriate look.
Liar.
Harry leaned ever closer and whispered into her ear. “What has so captivated you, sweet, that—?”
“Do not call me sweet. Especially not here.”
All traces of his relaxed humor fled. “You won’t even deign to look at me?”
She clasped her hands primly in front of her and stole a peek at him from the corner of her eye. “I’m merely trying to better study…” He quirked a golden eyebrow. “The dancers,” she finished lamely. The set concluded.
Lord Forde, a pleasantly handsome, young viscount rumored to be in the market for a wife came forward to claim his set. A waltz.
“Forde?” Harry drawled, the single word a lazy whisper close to her ear.
“Lord Forde is an entirely congenial, honorable,” his eyes narrowed at her deliberate emphasis, “gentleman who would make a—”
The tall, lean gentleman in a sapphire coat drew to a stop before them.
“Get the hell out, Forde,” Harry snapped, not so much as sparing a look for the viscount.
The other gentleman opened and closed his mouth like a fish plucked from a pond. He tugged at his lapels and spun on his heel. “Well,” he mumbled.
Anne closed her eyes. “You cannot go cursing in the middle of the ballroom and running off my dance partners.”
“The hell I can’t,” he muttered.
The orchestra struck up the beginning chords of a waltz. Harry held out his arm.
She stared at the corded muscles that tightened the black fabric of his coat and blinked rapidly. “What are you doing?”
“Claiming your next set. You don’t have a partner.”
Anne pointed her gaze to the ceiling. “Because you ran him off, my lord.” Goodness, the unmitigated gall of him. He’d avoided her for several days, brazenly seduced the viscountess in the midst of Lady Huntly’s’ ball, ran off Lord Forde, a perfectly respectable partner, and now demanded her waltz.
“Anne?”
“Yes?”
“Take my arm,” he commanded through gritted teeth.
“Charming,” she muttered and placed her fingertips along his coat sleeve.
“What was that?” he asked as they reached the dance floor. He guided her hand to his shoulder and placed his long, powerful fingers at her waist.
Her skin burned at his touch upon her person. Her mouth went dry. “I merely was wondering that you’d ever be considered charming. Boorish. Rude. Pompous.”
His gleaming white teeth flashed in a smile. The orchestra plucked the beginning strands of the waltz and Harry guided her through the ballroom in long, sweeping circles.
She directed her gaze to the folds of his cravat, determined to not let him bait her. Something which he seemed remarkably proficient in doing in the year they’d known one another. He applied a gentle pressure to her waist, forcing her stare upward.
“You seem more surly than usual, Anne.”
“I’m not pleased with you, Harry,” she said between gritted teeth.
“I gathered as much,” he said dryly.
Suddenly, his high-handedness and worse, his singular lack of interest or notice boiled like a fresh brewed pot of tea. “You did not come ‘round.” She curled her toes into the soles of her slipper at the revealing admission. And promptly stumbled.
Harry easily caught her. He righted her in his arms. “It’s been a day.” A gentle admonition underscored his response.
Pain slapped at her heart. Fool. Fool. Fool. Why should I care about his singular lack of notice when he should be so indifferent toward me? But blast and double blast…she did care. And she hated that she cared. She dipped her gaze to his cravat. “There are my lessons,” she said. “You pledged to help me—”
He nudged her chin up. “And I am—”