More Than a Duke(4)

With good reason, of course. But still, disaster nonetheless.



“Hullo, my lord,” the woman called into the quiet. A smile played on her too-full lips. “Are you teasing me, Lord Stanhope? I’m eager to see you. Will you not come and see how eager I am?”



Anne glanced up the more than a foot distance between her and the earl to gauge the gentleman’s, er…eagerness. He appeared wholly unmoved by the woman’s none-too-subtle attempt at seduction. His narrow-eyed gaze remained fixed on Anne. Annoyance glinted within the hazel-green irises of his eyes.



“Lord Stanhope?” the woman called again.



Oh, really. She tapped a foot and wished the bothersome baggage would be on her way already. As charming as the Earl of Stanhope seemed to most ladies, she was quite confident that no gentleman could manage to lure her away from polite Society—for any reason.



Lord Stanhope reached down between them and through the ivory fabric of her satin skirts, wrapped his hard hand about the upper portion of her leg, effectively stilling her moments.



Anne’s breath froze and she looked at him.



Be still, he mouthed.



Her throat convulsed. Odd, they were just fingers on just a hand, so very uninteresting, something possessed by everyone. And yet, her skin thrummed with awareness of his touch. She swallowed again. There was nothing uninteresting about his fingers upon her person.



“Stop tapping your foot,” he whispered against her temple. His words had the same affect of a bucket of water being tossed over her foolish head.



“She’s not going to hear my foot,” she shot back. “It is more likely she’ll hear your constant haranguing.”



He closed his eyes and his lips moved as if he were uttering a silent prayer. Which was peculiar, because she’d not ever taken him as the religious sort.



“Lord Stanhope?” the woman called again, impatience coating her words.



Anne sighed. She’d had this all planned out. She’d speak to the earl. Enlist his help and be gone before his trysting partner had arrived. That had been the plan. Then again, a lifetime of scrapes that had gone awry should have prepared her for how this evening would likely turn out. “Oh, for goodness sake, will she not go already?” she muttered. “Whyever is she so insistent on seeing y—”



The earl cursed under his breath. “For the love of all that is holy.” And then, he kissed her. Hard.



Anne stiffened and leaned back a moment, eyes opened, studying his impossibly long golden lashes. She trembled under the heated intensity of his kiss, a kiss that drove back all logic. He slanted his lips over hers again and again and she moaned, but he only swallowed the desperate sound. He slipped his tongue between her lips and boldly explored the contours of her mouth.



The tension she carried inside slid down her body and seeped from the soles of her passion-weakened feet as she went limp. He caught her to him and cupped her buttocks in his hands, anchoring her body to his.



Then he stopped.



She blinked up, dazed, waiting for the world to right itself.



Goodness….



She tugged her hand free and fanned herself.



Goodness…



So this is what young ladies threw away their reputations for. It would appear it had nothing at all to do with the wicked smiles. Or even the forbidden champagne. She’d venture the champagne was merely a little extra sin for a lady’s troubles.



Anne stole a glance up at Lord Stanhope and her eyebrows knitted into a single line. The bounder had his gaze trained on the conservatory windows, looking…looking…wholly unaffected. Impossibly composed. And horribly disinterested. He released her so quickly, she stumbled backward, catching herself before she made a cake of herself and fell at his feet.



She frowned as he turned abruptly and walked away. “That really wasn’t well-done of you, my lord.”



He swung back around and took a step toward her. “Do you know what was not well-done, my lady?”



“Uh, well…” She retreated and then remembered herself, angling her chin up. After all, there could very well be any other number of offenses she might hold him responsible for. She ticked off on her fingers. “There was the hand over my mouth.” She shook her head. “Not at all well-done of you. Then there was the kiss.” Her cheeks burned with embarrassment. “Certainly not well-done of you.” Definitely pleasurable, however. “Or you setting me aside so—”



By the saints, he mouthed, appearing more and more religious. “I referred to your actions, my lady. It wasn’t well-done of you to drive away my company for the evening, Lady Adamson.”