More Than a Duke(40)

“Each day.”



He shook his head ruefully. “Did I truly say every day?”



Anne nodded solemnly. “Oh, yes. I’m certain of it.” Though in actuality, she couldn’t remember whether they’d settled on a specific number of visits or lessons. She pinched his shoulder. “You owe me a lesson.” She dropped her voice to a hushed whisper. “On seduction, Harry.”





Chapter 10



You owe me a lesson on seduction, Harry…



Harry swallowed a groan as her huskily whispered words conjured all manner of delicious images that involved Anne Adamson spread out in all her naked glory in his bed, atop satin sheets, with her golden hair a silken waterfall about them. He strove for the indifferent, affable grin he’d affected through the years.



Anne frowned. “Why are you grimacing?”



Apparently, he failed in his attempt.



She pinched his arm again. “You didn’t grimace with your viscountess,” she said, voice as tart as if she’d sucked on a slice of lemon peel.



“My—?”



“You know,” she said on a furious whisper. “The lovely widow you’re too busy carrying on with to honor your obligations to me. The one with the dampened gown. And your glasses of champagne.”



So, Anne had noticed his exchange with the young widow? His lips twitched. “I—er, gathered which particular…uh viscountess you spoke of.” The same woman he’d left furious at the edge of the ballroom, all to seek out Anne. He’d never been filled with this desperate hungering for the viscountess. “And how was your visit with Crawford?” he asked, turning the questions back on her.



She blinked. “Crawford?”



He angled her body closer to his and dipped his head down. “As in the Duke of Crawford, your future bridegroom.”



“Oh, do hush.” She pinched him again. “You’ll be overhead by someone if you’re not careful.” A beatific smile wreathed her cheeks. “You were correct.”



He quirked an eyebrow. “I’m correct on any number of scores. Which matter do you refer to?”



Anne laughed. “Oh, you’re insufferable. I referred to your lesson on song.”



She may as well have drawn back her leg and kicked him square in the gut. She’d sung to the duke. Her bow-shaped, red lips had parted in song for the damned, pompous prig, Crawford. An image wrapped its tentacle-like hold about his mind. Anne’s lovely mouth open as she sang to a captive audience in the Duke of Crawford. The other man’s eyes trained on her mouth and lower… Harry wanted to hunt him down and shred him with his bare hands for knowing whether Anne possessed a light, airy lyrical tone when singing or the sultry, husky timbre that men waged wars over, when Harry himself did not.



He fixed his gaze on the top of her lush, golden-blonde curls, only to recall every blasted word he’d uttered about her luxuriant tresses being arranged exactly as they hung about her shoulders and this moment. And hating he’d ever dared such a seductive coiffure that now earned the attention of every living, breathing man in the room—from footmen to gentlemen.



“Is something wrong with my hair?” Anne continued. She touched the side of her head searching for wayward strands. “I’d thought, that is, you’d indicated…” her words trailed off on a sigh. “I thought you might like it.” She gave him a small smile. “No more of my silly ringlets.”



Had she been any other woman, he’d have believed her grasping for pretty compliments. With her matter-of-factness about everything from marriage and security to those neat little rows of ribbons she stacked, she continued to defy every idea he’d carried of her.



“There is nothing silly about you,” he said quietly.



Anne snorted. “Now, you’ve gone all serious on me. Is this part of your next lesson?”



For the closeness between them these past four days, she still believed his every thought, his every action driven by the damned scheme to bring her duke up to scratch. He’d embraced the image of rogue, worn the societal label with a deal of pride, for it sent a clear message to all— Harry, the Earl of Stanhope did not possess a heart that could be broken. He’d embraced the image.



Until now.



She waggled an eyebrow, unaware of his inner strife.



“Smile with your eyes,” he said, when it became clear she saw in him nothing more than a means to a duke. “And your lips as one. A sultry, sweet smile, Anne. A smile that convinces a man he’s the only one in the room. And eyes that beg to know all the forbidden things a lady has no right knowing.”