Harry’s face danced behind her eyes and she forced his visage back. She pressed the spine of the book against her eyes. There were too many follies to count in wishing for anything more from him, to whom every woman bore the moniker sweet. She frowned. The least the ever-charming earl could do was to adapt something cleverer such as…goddess of my heart, keeper of my love…anything but sweet.
No, to hope for anything more from one such as him would be tantamount to disaster. Determined to forget thoughts of Harry, she lowered the book closer to her face and squinted. She angled the page in attempt to bring the words into focus, damning her blasted vision. Hating the vanity of her mother and the haute ton that discouraged necessary pleasures…such as sight. A gentleman never weds a woman in spectacles, Anne, Mother had scolded on more scores than she could remember. Of course, Aldora had secured a happy, if less illustrious match, with a wealthy gentleman who loved her to distraction—spectacles and all. Mother pointedly ignored that reminder whenever Anne put it to her.
She stuck the leather volume out, arm’s length in front of her and deepened her squint in attempt to make sense of the words. A shadow fell across the early morning sun. She blinked as she registered Harry’s towering figure. He stood above her, a grin on his firm lips…and all her earlier resolve weakened at the ease of his smile. “Harry,” she greeted. “Whatever are you doing here?” She returned his smile from around the opened book.
He leaned over and plucked the tome from her fingers. “I came to see you.”
Her heart fluttered wildly, even as she knew the dangers of that fool sensation. “You did?”
He nodded.
“How did you know where to find me?”
He winked. “I’ve my ways, love.” He paused. “My footman bribed one of your maids.”
A startled laugh burst from her lips. “You’re incorrigible.” However, warmth spiraled through her belly and fanned out, heating her through. He’d cared enough, wanted to see her enough that he’d sent a footman to find her maid to discover her whereabouts.
Then she froze. The air suspended in her lungs as his words registered. All of his words. In the span of a moment she’d become more than just ‘sweet’… She’d become his ‘love’. And though a man such as Harry would never mean anything more by that endearment, warmth exploded into a fiery conflagration inside her heart, and spread out with a growing force through every corner of her being.
His next words snuffed out all hint of romantic musings faster than a strong night wind on a candle’s wick. “It is as I suspected before,” he murmured. “You cannot see.”
Anne made no attempt at ceremony. “I can see.” She made an unsuccessful grab at her book. “I just cannot see so very well when I’m reading,” she muttered.
“Tsk, tsk.” He held the book out of her reach. “Never tell me you are too proud for something as common as spectacles.” He crouched beside her.
Her heart twisted. In the time she’d come to know him and appreciate the many erroneous assumptions she’d drawn about Harry, he continued to see her just as all Society did—an empty-headed, vain, pleasantly pretty young lady as the scandal sheets had labeled her upon her Come Out three years ago. “Give me that.” Anne wrestled the book from his hands. He released it swiftly and she nearly toppled backward.
He tugged one of her strands of hair the way he might a bothersome sister and not the young lady he’d pledged to introduce to the art of the seduction. “Come, what’s this? You’ve gone all serious, Anne.”
“I’m not,” she blurted.
Harry cocked his head. “Yes, I do say you seem rather serious. Your lips are pulled down tight in the corners, here.” He brushed the backs of his knuckles along the corner of her mouth, and she leaned into his soft caress. “And you’ve got those same four lines at the center of your brow whenever you’re pondering something.”
Emotion clogged her throat. Harry knew her so well he could detect the subtle nuances of her body’s movements. “No. You misunderstood me.” No one ever looked close enough to truly see her. “I meant, I’m not too proud.” She glanced at the copy of The Mysteries of Udolpho in her hands. Then, how many times had she forsaken spectacles at Mother’s insistence, fearful she’d not make an advantageous match for the minute detail? “Or perhaps I am.” Shame filled her as she confronted her own vanity; did she truly wish to have a husband who’d not permit her the simple pleasures of reading? Did she want to wed a man who’d be so shallow as to begrudge her the necessity of spectacles?