More Than a Duke(44)
~*~
After Margaret’s betrayal, Harry had perfected the art of seduction. Yet, suddenly the idea of imparting a single lesson more for Anne to employ all to snare Crawford burned like fire in his gut. Lady Anne Adamson was worth more than all the dukes in the English kingdom. She deserved more than a portentous bore who’d keep separate chambers for propriety’s sake.
He cupped her cheek, cradling the silken smoothness of her creamy-white skin. “You want advice. You want guidance.” She nodded. If any Society matron knew she came to him for any form of assistance, the lady’s reputation would be shredded beyond repair. All sensible members of the ton knew Lord Stanhope to be beyond redemption.
He moved his hand to the graceful line of her neck. “Allow him,” Crawford or the nameless bastard who’d inevitably take her to wife. “To know just how clever and spirited and quick-witted you are. Allow him to appreciate you for more than your golden tresses.” Which should be memorialized in poem. “Or your lush body.” Which he’d barter his soul to explore. “You deserve a man who’d have you for who you really are.” A woman who’d completely and utterly captivated him, when he’d sworn to never be so enthralled.
“For who I am?” she whispered. And because but the span of a finger separated their persons, he detected the manner in which her throat bobbed up and down.
He set her back. “A woman of intelligence, Anne,” he said bluntly. “Do not be one of those simpering debutantes prattling on about the weather.” Red color suffused her cheeks. He burst out laughing. “You’ve spoken to Crawford on the topic of weather already, have you?”
She tossed her blonde tresses. “I may have.” His laughter doubled. “It is an entirely suitable matter of discourse between a lady and a gentleman.”
He snorted. “An entirely dull matter of discourse.” He sighed. “I see, I must guide you on topics of discussion, then, as well? I imagine you also sang to him in a sweet, lyrical soprano some of Dibdin’s work and he showered you with praise on your trip to Gunter’s.”
“First, I’ll have you know I quite enjoy Dibdin’s work. He’s a grand storyteller. Secondly, a lady cannot simply alter the quality of her singing voice. I’ve told you as much,” she scolded, sounding remarkably out of patience with him.
Which still didn’t answer what in hell her singing voice sounded like.
He straightened his back. He’d yet to hear her sing. Crawford had. Now, Crawford knew whether she possessed a lyrical soprano or a contralto; while Harry remained wholly ignorant, left to wonder, left to imagine—
Anne jabbed a finger at his chest. He winced. “Furthermore…” She angled her head, her words trailing off.
Feigning nonchalance, he quirked an eyebrow at her. “What is it?”
“How did you know the duke escorted me for ices at Gunter’s?”
His mind froze. How, indeed? “The papers,” he said entirely too quickly.
She wagged her jabbing finger under his nose in a disapproving manner. “I didn’t take you as one of those to read the gossip columns.”
“I don’t,” he said with a frown. He’d not have her thinking he was one of those dandified fops who gave a fig for the scandal sheets. Except…
“Then however did you discover about my trip to Gunter’s?”
Harry tugged at his uncomfortably tight cravat. He really must speak to his valet about the knot. Odd, he’d not noticed just how damned tight the blasted fabric was—until now. Which presented the even odder possibility that Lady Anne Adamson was responsible for the tightened cravat. “I’m fairly certain you mentioned the ices at Gunter’s.”
She shook her head, a mischievous grin on her lips. “No. No, I didn’t Harry. I never uttered a single word.” She took a step toward him. He retreated. “Do you know what I believe?”
He backed up again. “What is that, sweet?” He shot a glance over his shoulder at the locked door, eager for escape. She continued her forward approach until his legs knocked against one of the Italian gold rope stools. He fell into the seat.
She stared down at him victoriously. “I believe you’ve come to care for me,” she whispered with a mischievous glimmer in her eyes.
His heart paused mid-beat. Anne’s voice came as if down a long, muffled corridor. Her bold words echoed around his mind. Could he have come to care for Lady Anne Adamson, the termagant who’d peered down her insolent nose at him since their first meeting a year ago? He, who’d sworn to never care for another woman, not when it was so bloody dangerous?