More Than a Duke(47)
In her third Season, no longer a girl, Anne foolishly held onto hope for that last elusive dream—love.
She touched her fingers to the keys.
“The Duke of Crawford will make you a splendid match, Anne.”
Her fingers slipped and the dissonant chords echoed through the spacious parlor. “Mother,” she murmured.
Her mother sailed into the room. The firm set to her mouth, the fire in her blue eyes spoke of a determined point to her visit. She stopped at the edge of the ivory upholstered sofa and planted her arms akimbo. “Well?” She motioned to the seat beside her.
For one, infinitesimal moment, Anne thought of sticking her tongue out and banging an obscene ditty on the keyboard. “Well, what?”
“Don’t be insolent, Anne,” she snapped.
Reluctantly, Anne shoved to her feet. The delicate bench scraped the hardwood floor. She wandered over to the King Louis chair and sat, hands folded demurely upon her lap. Ever the dutiful daughter. The daughter Mother hung all her hopes upon, who in spite of that faith remained unwed.
After two Seasons and a bit of a third.
Mother carefully arranged her skirts. “You know, of your sisters and brother, only you really know the truth of your father.” She directed that statement down at her pleated satin skirts.
Yes, her siblings had somehow remained insulated from that truth of their vile father. “Mother?” she asked, cautiously. But for the handful of unkind matrons when Anne had made her Come Out, little was said of the philandering late earl. She’d smiled brightly through all the impolite whispers.
Her mother snapped her head up so quickly Anne imagined she hurt the muscles of her neck. “It is, of course, no secret your father didn’t love me.” Bitterness made for an ugly smile on the countess’ face.
Anne’s heart ached for the pain her mother had known—still knew. She reached for her hand.
“Bah, do not give me your pity, Anne,” she said with a wave.
Anne pulled her fingers back.
“If you don’t have a care, you’ll become me.”
She wrinkled her brow.
“I see the way you stare at Stanhope,” she hissed. “Stare at him when you can have Crawford.”
Anne stiffened. “How very mercurial you make it all seem.” She wondered if this was how Harry and her sisters saw her—cold and calculated, counting ribbons and dreaming of the title duchess.
Her mother bristled at Anne’s terse words. “Were you mercurial when you cried about your ribbons?”
She winced at her private shame being tossed in her face by her mother.
“Was it mercurial when they took your sisters books?” her mother continued relentless. “Or when Aldora chose to marry for—”
“Aldora married for love.” Even as Mother would have had Aldora wed the Marquess of St. James or some other lofty lord.
Mother colored. “Fortunate for you all, Lord Knightly was obscenely wealthy and generous with you.”
How neatly she excluded herself from that general ‘you’? Anne glanced away, knowing there was more to Mother’s displeasure. Knowing it stemmed from Harry.
“Do you love him?”
She blinked several times. “Do I—?”
She scoured Anne’s face. “Love him,” she repeated. “Do. You. Love. Him?”
Anne shook her head. “No.” She opened her mouth. Words wouldn’t come. She shook her head again. “Certainly not.” She was considered the fool of the family, but she’d never dare anything so mad as to fall in love with Harry, the 6th Earl of Stanhope who’d attempted to seduce her sister, and loved his Miss Margaret Dunn, and saw Anne as nothing more than a termagant. Or hellion. The moniker varied on a given day.
Mother studied her in silence as though seeking for truth in her answer. “He’ll not wed you,” she said at last, the matter-of-factness of those words more painful than if they’d been jeeringly flung.
Anne curled her nails into the skin of her knuckles. “I am not thinking he will, Mother,” she said between gritted teeth.
“Nor should you hold out hope he would,” she continued almost cruelly. “You’ll always merely be second to the sister he truly desired.”
She curled her fingers into tight balls, her nails leaving crescent marks upon her palms. Now, that was indeed cruel. Particularly in the truth to those handful of words. If she’d not begged and pleaded, Harry wouldn’t have bothered to even help her in the first place. He’d have sent her to the devil with a harsh kick to her derriere and not a single backward glance.