More Than a Duke(54)
“Do you?” Edgerton asked. “Do you?” he pressed.
Harry looked away. As wrong as Edgerton’s unfavorable opinion of Anne happened to be, in this regard, the other man was right. He really didn’t know what he was doing; first agreeing to help Anne in her quest for the heart of a duke. And now, in this, buying gifts for a lady who wanted nothing more than the security, stability, and title she could find in Crawford.
“I saw you betrayed once by a grasping, avaricious, fickle creature. Lady Margaret was undeserving of you and so is this one, Stanhope.”
Harry inclined his head. “I thank you for your concern.” Edgerton had been a good friend to him these years. The best. “But it is unwarranted.” He glanced over at the ormolu clock atop his fireplace mantle. “Now, if you’ll excuse me. I’ve business to see to.”
Edgerton eyed him skeptically. “Oh?” There were a million shades of doubt within that single, syllable utterance.
Harry shoved himself off his desk. “I’m meeting Lord Westmoreland on a matter of importance.” He sketched a quick bow and abandoned his friend to his own devices.
As he took his leave, Edgerton’s dangerous charges dogged his every thought.
Chapter 14
A whispery soft spring breeze tugged at Anne’s hair and freed a single ringlet. She brushed the strand from her eyes, her attention fixed on the same page she’d been attempting to read from The Mysteries of Udolpho. With a sigh, she conceded the futility of her efforts. Her inability to focus had little to do with the blurred words of the scandalous volume given her by Aldora, and everything to do with a too-charming Earl of Stanhope.
Anne tossed the book onto the ground and threw herself back upon the blanket. She flung her arms out beside her and stared up at the robin’s egg blue-sky overhead and the smattering of orange and pink sun-kissed clouds from the early dawn.
For the briefest smidgeon of time, as Harry had held her fingers in his and tended her burned digits, she’d imagined he intended to kiss her again. She’d been so certain of it; she’d have wagered every last ribbon of her possession, which said a good deal, considering she’d sooner send all gamblers to the devil than join their ranks. The absence of that kiss only served to reiterate the importance of not wagering—funds, markers, or hearts. None of it.
Anne plucked at the thick blades of grass in the tucked away copse. She raised a strand to her lips and blew the long, green wisp. It fluttered and danced, and ultimately landed upon the earth. She grabbed the forgotten volume and held it over head, determined to set Harry from her thoughts, determined to call forth the images of an entirely suitable, pleasantly handsome duke who smiled at the right moments and never, ever did anything as scandalous as try to kiss her.
Kisses intended mostly to silence her that did not reek of cardamom and brandy as Lord Ackland, but rather the hint of cinnamon and mint like a holiday treat. She groaned and knocked the book against her forehead. “Do. Not. Be. A. Fool, Anne Arlette Adamson.” Not for one such as Harry, whose heart belonged to an unworthy lady who bore some lofty title and little else…
She shoved herself up onto her knees. Her heart dropped to her stomach. Just as you, yourself will, a niggling voice taunted. She remembered the harsher charges Harry had leveled at her and guilt hammered her breast.
Only, on the heels of that was her mother’s recent warning about Harry. The rub of it was, Anne had spent years determined to not be the bitter, heartbroken woman her mother had evolved into over the years. She’d resolved to wed a perfectly respectable, staid, pleasantly handsome, unfailingly polite nobleman.
She flung herself back upon the lush blanket of grass and fanned the pages of her book. The gentle breeze wafted across her face. Harry, or anyone, could certainly construe her desire for a powerful, and powerfully wealthy, duke’s hand as mercurial. Only after the string of mistresses held by Father, his betrayal of Mother and their family’s security, Anne’s girlish notions of love had been forever shattered—replaced instead with a calm practicality and a hope for love…nothing more than that—hope.
Then Aldora found Lord Michael Knightly who loved her eldest sister to distraction. Then Katherine had fallen madly in love with Jasper. And Anne had begun to believe perhaps, just perhaps, she too could know love, as well as the heart of a duke prophesied by a gypsy woman to the young ladies who wore the gold charm.
Anne touched the talisman about her neck. It really needn’t be a duke. Why, he might be a marquess, a viscount, or even…an earl. Wistfulness swept through her. She’d barter her every last ribbon and all hope of the title duchess for the man who wanted nothing more than to hold her heart, which flew in the face of her resolve to never be reduced to her mother’s sorry state. Sometime between Lord Essex’s conservatory and this very moment, her firm resolve to find security and stability as a formidable, wealthy duchess had slipped.