Humph. “Oh.” She wrinkled her nose. That wasn’t at all gallant.
His golden lashes swooped downward as he peered at her through a narrow-eyed gaze. “Now, say whatever it is you’ve come to say so I might be rid of you.” He folded his arms across his chest.
Why, with his clear desire to be free of her, she may as well have been the gorgon Medusa with her head of serpents. She bristled, all foolish desire replaced by annoyance. How dare he? How dare he kiss her and remain wholly unaffected by that soul-searing moment? She shook her head once. No, that was not quite right.
“Lady Anne,” he said again, this time with even more annoyance.
How dare he kiss her, period. No further outrage needed. How dare he kiss her? Rather, that is what she’d meant. “I need help.”
He scoffed. “Yes. So you’ve said. Four times now.”
“Oh.” Had she? She really didn’t remember…
He gave her a pointed look and she jumped. “As I was saying, before I was interrupted.” She gave him a pointed frown. “I require a bit of help.”
“Five times,” he muttered under his breath. He really was quite infuriating.
“I am—”
He drummed his fingertips upon his coat sleeves. “If you say you’re in need of help, I’m leaving without a backward glance, Lady Anne,” he said drolly. He rocked on his heels and she suspected his words were no mere idle threat.
Anne smoothed her palms over her skirt and drew in a steadying breath. With the time and care she’d put into her plan, she had imagined this conversation would go a good deal more smoothly than this botched attempt on her part.
The earl cursed and spun on his heel.
“Wait!”
He continued walking toward the glass door back into the marquess’ conservatory.
Her foot snagged a particularly nasty root in the ground and she cursed. She pitched forward. Lord Stanhope swung back around and closed the distance between them in three long strides, catching her before she hit the ground. The breath left her on a swift exhale. “Oh.” The touch of his hand burned through the modest fabric of her satin gown. “Thank you,” she said breathlessly.
He grunted and set her on her feet. Humph. Who knew the Earl of Stanhope did something as barbaric as grunt? He resumed his hasty exit, wholly unaffected. Well!
“Stop,” she cried softly into the quiet. Her voice echoed off the brick walls.
His broad shoulders tightened under the folds of his black evening coat. He changed direction yet again and advanced on her. Fire snapped in his eyes.
Anne stumbled backward. A friend of Katherine, Anne knew little of the Earl of Stanhope beyond the roguish reputation he’d earned amongst the ton. She couldn’t be altogether certain he’d not hurt her. She swallowed hard and continued to retreat. And her slipper caught that blasted root again.
This time she landed with a solid thump on her buttocks. “Ouch.” She touched a hand to her bruised derriere and then remembered herself.
He froze above her with a glower on the chiseled planes of his face. “Are you trying to compromise your reputation, my lady?”
“No.” Not per se.
He stretched out a hand. “Because I’ll not be caught in a compromising position and forced into a wedded state with one such as you.”
She ignored his offering and shoved herself to her feet. “With one such as me?”
“An impertinent, empty-headed young lady without a serious thought in—”
She jabbed a finger into his chest. He winced and she delighted in that slight twinge of discomfort from him. The cad. “I’ve had quite enough of your insults. I don’t like you any more than you like me, my lord.” She’d long tired of Society, her family, everyone’s rather low opinion of her. But she required his assistance and when one required help, it behooved them to set aside their pride.
“You have two minutes, my lady,” he bit out.
Her mind raced. How did a lady ask such a question as the one she’d put to him. There was no polite way to make a request as the one she intended to make—
“Your first minute is up, my lady,” he said, his voice heavy with annoyance.
Anne took a steadying breath and opted for direct honesty. “I’d like you to teach me how to seduce a man.”
Chapter 2
Henry Falston, the 6th Earl of Stanhope, known to polite Society and impolite society as Harry, had never considered his hearing faulty, and expected at thirty-years of age he had a good many years before his ears began to fail him. He stared at Lady Anne Adamson, the tart-mouthed miss he’d gone to great lengths to avoid this past year, certain he’d heard her incorrectly.