Crawford. Surely the duke’s sudden interest accounted for this heightened tension. He curled his fingers into tight fists. In attempt to shake her free of this cool shell she’d affected, he whispered, “It would seem you’re a sultry contralto, Anne.”
Her cheeks blazed the red of a ripened berry and he suddenly had a taste for sweet fruit. “Er…” she plucked at the fabric of her skirts. “Uh…yes.” Her blush deepened. “That is, I possess a contralto. Without the sultriness,” she said on a rush.
He leaned forward in the sofa and lowered his voice. “With the sultriness.” And now he loathed even more the idea of her singing for that bastard Crawford. The other man had the privilege of sitting as a solo audience to her performance, had likely conjured wicked thoughts of Anne, all wicked things Harry himself longed to do to her. “Sing for me,” he commanded hoarsely.
She tilted her head. “My lord?”
And furthermore, what was this, ‘my lord’ nonsense? “Sing for me.” This time, he gentled his voice, used his most seductive tone that had found many ultimately well-pleasured ladies a place in his bed.
Anne wrinkled her nose. “I abhor that tone, Harry.”
Ah, of course she did. Odd how this spirited beauty had sought him out, asking him to school her in the art of seduction, yet she spurned each one of those lessons as they were turned upon her. The tension in her bow-shaped lips, the frown at the corners of her riveting blue eyes bespoke annoyance. He rose and walked around the small marble-top table between them and dropped to a knee beside her.
“What are—?”
Harry took her smaller hands in his. He tugged off her white kidskin gloves and set them aside. “Will you sing for me, Anne?” He raised her naked wrist to his mouth and placed his lips along the inside, where her pulse beat hard and steady. “Please,” he added.
“Oh,” she said on a soft sigh. “A-are you m-making light of me?”
“No.” He’d never again be able to manage such a feat. Not knowing her as he now did.
Anne glanced at his hand upon her wrist and with reluctance, he released her. She ran a suspicious gaze over his face. “And you’ll not tease me for—?”
He marked an X over his heart. “On my word.”
She continued to study him with an intent seriousness in her blue eyes and then stood. “I’ll play, Harry.” From the place she occupied at the far end of the room, Anne’s maid coughed. Anne’s eyes went wide. “Er, that is, I’ll play, my lord.” She waggled her golden eyebrows at him as she settled into her seat. “Though I imagine you’ll merely be bored with Dibdin.”
From his spot kneeling, he grinned at her. “I assure you, I’ll not.”
Her fingers danced upon the keyboard with an expertness the master Dibdin himself would have applauded, the jaunty, uplifting melody of the former resident composer of Covent Garden’s The Lass that Loves a Sailor. Her contralto filled the parlor; the beauty of the husky, emotion-laden tone could rival the most lauded opera singers upon the Continent. Yet, he’d instructed to use her voice as a tool of seduction. Now hearing her, witnessing the depth of her instrument, he recognized the travesty in merely seeing such beauty reserved for the bedroom.
His lips pulled in a grimace. Egad, next he’d be spouting sonnets of the lady’s fair skin. What mad spell had she cast upon him?
She sang, unaware that she’d captivated him with her intelligence, beauty, and now song. “But the standing toast that pleased most…” Anne tipped her head jauntily back and forth to the quick, staccato rhythm, as she continued; all the while she smiled through her singing.
At her infectious enthusiasm, he grinned. A grin that had nothing to do with seduction or passion or lust, but rather a smile that came from the joy of just being with her.
“The ship that goes…” Her playing increased to a frenzied rhythm. “And the lass that loves a sailor.” She ended on a dramatic flourish. Her cheeks a healthy pink, an, unfettered smile upon her lips, he was struck motionless wishing he was, in fact, a poet so then he could commit the memory of Anne Adamson to a page, forever immortalizing the spirited beauty. She dipped her head as their gazes locked.
A charged moment froze the room. The tick-tock of the ormolu clock marked the passage of time. A servant entered with the tray of tea and pastries, and set the world to spinning once more.
Harry stood, and clapped. “Brava, my lady.”
Anne hopped up from her bench on a laugh, breathless. “Oh, do hush,” she said, brushing off his compliment like a drop of rain upon her skin.