And the moment she pressed the handle, entered the room, sipped the champagne and partook in his kisses, she would be nothing more than the viscountess. She pulled her hand back and touched the ribbon woven through a loose strand draped over her shoulder.
The satin fabric served as an aide-memoire of the perils of gentlemen who sipped too much brandy and collected mistresses like she amassed ribbons. In a handful of days, Harry had charmed away nearly every unfavorable opinion she held of the roguish gentleman. Ultimately, however, he would always be the seductive scoundrel meeting his ladyloves in the midst of his host’s soiree. Some poor, unfortunate miss would wear the same pasted smile Anne’s mother had affected through the years.
“Are you having second thoughts, Anne?” a husky voice sounded against her ear.
She shrieked, the damning sound swallowed by a familiar, large hand.
Harry pressed the handle and gently propelled her forward. He took his hand away and closed the door quietly shut then turned the lock.
Anne took a step backward. “H-harry.” She detested the tremble underscoring her greeting that sent one of his golden-blond eyebrows upward.
He leaned against the door and folded his arms across the broad, expanse of his chest. “Have you reconsidered the wiseness of your plan in enlisting my help, sweet?”
She had. More times than she could count on her toes and fingers combined. The moon’s light slashed through the clear ceiling and cast a white glow about the room.
Harry shoved away from the door and wandered closer. “Or is it that you no longer need my help? That you’ve already garnered an offer from Crawford?”
He tugged at her orange ribbon. She swatted his fingers. “Don’t be silly.”
“About the necessity of my help or Crawford’s offer?”
“Both,” she said with a weak smile. The papers had remarked upon the duke’s seeming interest. However, ices at Gunter’s and an afternoon visit hardly equated an offer of marriage.
She wandered deeper into the room, trailing her fingertips over the Calamander wood table only to pause beside a single potted rosebush. The sweet, fragrance of the pinkish-red bud hung in the air like a heady reminder of the past. She brushed her knuckles over the satiny softness of the bloom. Before she’d lost her ribbons, Katherine her books, and Benedict his toy soldiers, there had been Mother’s gardener. One of the first expenses to go.
The quiet tread of his steps filled the otherwise silent conservatory.
She glanced up. “Where is the champagne, Harry?”
He furrowed his brow. “The champagne?”
Anne gestured about the room. “Isn’t that part of your rules for seduction, my lord?” Regret tinged her words. She’d become any other woman to Harry. “Two crystal flutes filled with bubbling champagne?” Then, had she ever really been anything different?
A cloud passed over the moon and sinister shadows descended over the room. A dark look glinted in his hazel eyes, but then moonlight lit his face and she realized she must have imagined anything more serious from the affable, rogue. “Ah, but you’ve requested lessons in seduction. Two champagne glasses would indicate my intentions of seducing you. Which I don’t intend to do. Seduce you, that is.”
Humiliated shame blazed up her neck and burned her cheeks. She yanked her gaze away, knowing she should feel a small measure of relief she didn’t have to muddle through dangerous sentiments for a rogue like Harry. So, why did the relief not come? “Er, perhaps we can be on with this seduction business then,” she said with a wave of her hand. She strove for nonchalance. His amused grin indicated her grand failure.
She gasped as he snaked his arm around her. “Wh-what are you…” Her words died on a breathy whisper as he touched the pad of his thumb to her lips.
“I’ll teach you anything and everything you desire to know about seduction within reason,” he amended, correctly interpreting the inappropriate question that sprang to her lips. He gently squeezed her waist, as if familiarizing himself with the curved contours of her body. Which was really a silly thought, when he’d been abundantly clear for more than a year now he desired her no more than he might desire Lady Jersey’s prize pug.
“Oh,” she said lamely. “Then what…?” He pulled her into the vee of his legs. Her body burned at the point of contact. She couldn’t string together a single syllable or a bout of sustained airflow to form a suitable word. Words, Anne Arlette Adamson. Words. She cleared her throat and tried again. “Then what is my lesson for the day, Harry? What sage words on the art of seduction do you have?”