More Than a Duke(56)

Before she’d not thought it mattered so much. Stability seemed more important than all else. Now, other less tangible dreams held a dangerous appeal that threatened the goals she’d carried these many years now. She braced for a rush of panic—that did not come. Harry studied her with intensity in his hazel eyes, saying nothing, his face set in an expressionless mask and just then she wanted to share the truth with him, when no one else knew it. Her gaze slid to a point beyond his shoulder. “Aldora wears spectacles.”



Harry claimed the seat beside her on the grass. He stretched his long legs out in front of him as though reclining on a fine, upholstered sofa and not upon the dew-dampened morning grass. “And?”



She lifted her shoulder in a shrug. “I’m just Anne.”



“And you wouldn’t be with spectacles?” Had his question contained a recrimination, she wouldn’t have continued, but it didn’t.



Heat flooded her cheeks and she spoke on a rush, needing him to understand. “I’m not seen as the intelligent one as Aldora or the sensible one like Katherine.



He quirked a golden eyebrow.



Her heart wrenched at the unwitting reminder of his attempted seduction of her twin. “But all my life, I’ve been the pleasantly pretty one, Harry.” She lifted her palms. “If I’m not pleasantly pretty, then what am I?” Her mother and the world had been quite clear—she was nothing without being a pleasantly pretty, English miss. Until Harry, she’d buried the truth even from herself—she wanted to be seen as more, appreciated for more.



She curled her toes with the truth she’d at last shared; sure he’d chuckle at her in that charming, affable, roguish way of his and not knowing if she could stand the pain of that. He passed his eyes over her a long while. He came up on his knees over her and claimed her chin between his thumb and forefinger. Anne braced for an onslaught of his amusement.



“Look at me,” he demanded in that commanding, harsh tone that had probably been the demise of too many young ladies’ good reputations. She looked up. “You will never be just anything.”



Anne swallowed hard, as there amidst the copse with just the noisy kestrel overhead as her witness—Anne fell in love. She expected she should feel the race of panic in her breast. The impending sense of doom that would surely come in giving her heart to a man who no more wanted possession of the foolish organ than he wanted to attend Sunday sermon after a sinful night of debauchery. Later, she’d restore her mind and heart to rights. When the birds didn’t soar about the pink-and-orange tinted morning sky and Harry didn’t study her with his hot, heated stare, she’d recall her mother’s warnings and all the perils in loving such a man.



For now, she knew she loved him. Logic could come later.



“Close your eyes,” he instructed.



Her lids fluttered closed and she tipped her head back to receive his kiss. The book tumbled from her fingers as she prepared to open herself up to the fierce invasion of his mouth. Wanting his kiss. Needing his kiss. And needing him. She needed him. Something cool and metallic touched her burning skin. Her eyes flew open.



He thrust her opened book into her hands. “Here.”



She stared at the concise, clear words. Words that didn’t blur together and require squinting in order to bring them into focus. She touched the wire-rimmed spectacles perched on her nose. “You gave me spectacles,” she whispered.



He cupped her cheek. “And you’re still as beautiful as you’ve always been, Anne,” he said softly. Tears filled her eyes. He released her as if her skin had burned his palms. He nearly fell over himself in his attempt to put distance between them. “Egads, you’re crying.” He jumped up.



She tipped up the spectacles and dashed away the hint of moisture. “I am not,” she said defensively.



He snorted. “You are.”



Anne set the book down hard beside her. “I merely had something in my eye.”



A muscle jumped at the corner of his eye, as though detecting the clear lie to her words. “I detest a woman’s tears,” he muttered.



She glared up at him, detesting his placing her into a category with all women. “Well, that is fine, my lord, because I don’t make it a habit of crying.” The last tear she’d shed had been when she’d made her Come Out and discovered the truth of her whore-mongering, wastrel father. After that, she’d decided no gentleman was deserving of a single salty memento. “And furthermore, if I had been crying, which I certainly was not,” she added pointedly when he opened his mouth to speak, “tears of happiness are entirely acceptable.”