Anne scratched at her brow. “Harry?”
Harry attempted to still the panicked beat of his heart, fearing this momentary lapse in sanity. Fearing it was, in fact, more. Only, it couldn’t be. He’d not be so imprudent as to fall in love. He affected a lazy grin. “Come, Anne, even I’ll not steal your virtue in Hyde Park.” She’d chosen her duke long ago. And he’d chosen the safety of an uninjured heart.
She pursed her lips. “But—”
Harry tweaked her nose, killing the words that would follow. “I’ll not chance someone stumbling by.” This could never be anything more. Not with her. Nor any woman. “Then you’d be stuck with this old rogue for a husband instead of your duke.” Yet, why then did a sharp pain twist inside him with the knowing that some other man would lay claim to her?
Anne passed a searching gaze over his face. “Is that what you’d have, Harry? Would you have me become his duchess?” Her question emerged haltingly.
He fisted his hands tight at his side as the image of her in the marital ducal bed rolled through his mind. He imagined a world in which Anne belonged to Crawford while Harry waited on the sidelines for a place in the wedded lady’s bed. Only… Knowing Anne as he now did, he knew she’d never give herself to another. Not after she bound herself to a man. She’d honor Crawford, or whoever the nameless, faceless gentleman who took her to wife in name, body, and spirit.
Harry dusted his hands over the front of his breeches. “No, Anne. You’d have you become his duchess.” He sketched a bow and ignoring the question in her eyes, turned on his heel and left.
Wishing for the first time that he could be more than a shiftless bounder.
Chapter 15
Anne made it no farther than the foyer before her mother descended upon her like a hawk circling a poor field mouse. “Where were you, Anne Adamson?” Mother sailed down the sweeping staircase in a flurry of pale peach skirts.
“I—”
Mother wrapped a hand around Anne’s forearm and propelled her forward. “Your hair is mussed. Your skirts are wrinkled. And…” She jerked to a sudden halt and dragged Anne in front of her. Horror filled her eyes. “Are those spectacles?” she hissed. She plucked the precious gift from Anne’s nose.
“No!” She grabbed for them. “They’re merely to help me re—”
“By the queen and all her maids, if you say read, Anne, you’ll not see another ball this Season.”
This would be rather fine with Anne who, after two full Seasons and part of a third, had grown to detest the silly, nonsensical events. Anne slipped her glasses back from her mother’s distracted hands and buried them into the side of her skirt.
“Oh, why, why must you have gone out and returned looking like you’ve…” Mother dropped her voice to a hushed whisper. “Been doing inappropriate things in the grass.”
She’d been so very close to doing all number of inappropriate things in the grass. Regret tightened in her belly. If Harry weren’t so very honorable…
Her mother narrowed her gaze as though she’d gleaned her daughter’s thoughts.
“I was reading, Mother,” Anne said quietly. She may as well have said she’d been tupping a servant.
Mother’s eyes went round in her face. “Regardless, there is no time, to change your attire, to right your hair. He’s been waiting.” She took Anne’s hand and tugged her from the corridor.
Anne cocked her head as they continued the brisk pace through the house. “He…?”
Mother drew to a halt beside the drawing room. The Duke of Crawford stood at the empty hearth, hands clasped behind his back.
Oh. That He. Noting her sudden appearance, his broad shoulders stiffened. The fabric of his fine, russet jacket tightened over his frame.
Mother rushed past Anne. She sank into a deep, deferential curtsy. “Your Grace, thank you ever so much for your patience. My Anne has a strong constitution and enjoys a brisk walk in the morning…” The countess continued to prattle on and on.
The duke shifted his hard gaze to Anne. His probing stare lingered a moment on the stained white hemline of her day dress. Anne tipped her chin as he returned his attention to her face. The ghost of a smile played about his lips, with unexpected amusement at her slight show of insolence. He bowed.
From the doorway, Anne dipped a belated curtsy.
Mother looked between them and Anne ventured the title-hungry countess even now planned the distinguished guest list and morning breakfast for some imagined wedding between Anne and the duke. She held her hands out. “Come forth, dear Anne. His Grace has come to visit you.” Her high-pitched whiny tone and wild gesticulations were better reserved for a recalcitrant dog than a cherished daughter.