“Whyever not?” He’d proven himself to be kinder, more patient, more, everything than she’d ever before considered of the legendary rogue.
“I’ve seen the way he studies you, Anne,” she said bluntly.
Her heart sped up.
“And do wipe that pleased little smile from your face. No good can come of anything with Harry.”
Anne’s stomach tightened at her twin’s inadvertent use of his Christian name. Her gaze skittered away from her younger sister, who through the years seemed to believe she was the one a whole six minutes and seventeen seconds older.
A resigned sigh escaped her sister’s lips. “I do not want to see you hurt. I know him,” she said, her tone far gentler. Gone was the motherly, patronizing tone, replaced by this kindred spirit who’d shared nearly everything through the years with the exception of that first breath drawn as babes.
Prior to enlisting Harry’s aid, she’d taken him for a carefree, indolent, conscienceless rogue. Now she knew him to be a man who’d had his heart broken by a title-grasping young woman, foolish enough to let him go. “I’ll not be hurt, Kat. I’m not the empty-headed ninny you or Aldora or Mother or anyone else for that matter believes I am.” There could never be anything between her and a man like Harry, whose heart would forever belong to another.
Her sister winced. “Surely you know I think you beautiful and kind and intelligent and…”
Anne laughed. “Oh, do hush. I know what I’m doing.” A familiar figure pulled into focus across the ballroom floor. Even with the space between them, she detected the flash of gold in his hazel eyes. He inclined his head as if knowing just what, or rather, who, she and Katherine now spoke of. She winked at him. Harry’s sharp, bark of laughter carried through the ballroom, the low rumble moved through her and she smiled. There was something so very empowering in making a sophisticated gentleman like Harry—
“Are you listening to me, Anne?” her sister chided.
Anne took her twin’s hands and gave them a squeeze. “I love you. I know you mean well. But I’d ask you to trust me.”
As she took her leave, in search of Lord Huntly’s’ conservatory, her sister’s groan followed her. “I have heard that too many times before Anne Arlette Adamson.”
Chapter 11
Anne imagined Mother England had faced lesser challenges than she had this evening trying to be rid of her quite obviously overprotective family members so she might meet Harry. After their set, Mother and Katherine had maintained a resolute presence at her side, until Anne began to feel like one of the heroines in her Gothic novels constantly trying to escape the vile clutches of an evil guardian.
After tearing her own hem, she’d at last managed to sneak off to see to her gown. Instead, she now made her way down the corridor of Lord Huntlys’ home. Heart pounding, blood racing, she braced for inevitable discovery. She came to the end of the hall and paused to peek around the corner.
She didn’t know how Harry carried on this way. This clandestine business was enough to streak a young lady’s hair with grey. She tapped her foot and considered which corridor to turn next. If she were Lord Huntly, where would she have a conservatory? It couldn’t be at the left portion of the palatial townhouse as it—
Quiet whispers sounded down the corridor behind her.
Decision made. She sprinted down the right corridor and walked onward toward the back of Lord Huntlys’ home. Anne shook her head. She intended to ask Harry just what in thunderation the appeal was of all this furtive sneaking. She’d far prefer a proper picnic in Hyde Park in some tucked away copse in Kensington Gardens. Anne had a rather unromantic tendency to sneeze whenever a bloom was near. Which was rather unfortunate. Pale, pink peonies really were quite beautiful. Even with the cluster of ants that tended to make the unfurled bloom their home.
She drew to a halt. A thrilling sense of victory filled her as she stared at the clear, double doors leading to a final room. The conservatory.
Anne stole a quick glance around, and then tiptoed forward. The soft tread of her satin slippers was somehow thunderous in the empty space. She reached for the handle and paused. There would be two crystal champagne flutes. Just as there had been for his viscountess in her dampened gown.
Her feet twitched as a sudden urge to flee coursed through her. She stared at her fingers upon the brass handle as though they belonged to another. She didn’t want to be Harry’s scandalous lady in the conservatory, sipping on fine, French champagne. She didn’t want that, because that is what every single lady to come after Miss Margaret Dunn had been to the hopelessly handsome Earl of Stanhope.