More Than a Duke(59)

Anne winced. She threw a quick glance over her shoulder, eying a hasty retreat. When she returned her attention to the pair now studying her, she startled. And then started forward. She stopped, wordlessly before the duke.



A beaming, white smile wreathed Mother’s ageless cheeks. “Splendid!” She made her eyes go wide again in her best attempt at shock and surprise. “My goodness, wherever is Mary? Pardon me a moment while I retrieve Anne’s maid.”



Words of protest sprung to Anne’s lips, even as her faithless mother rushed from the room. Ah, so this is what it felt like to be turned over for a bag of silver. Anne shifted back and forth on her feet. For weeks she’d considered how to bring this very man up to scratch. She’d risked her reputation and sought out the notorious Earl of Stanhope’s assistance on the matter of seduction. Except, now, with the duke before her, all the reasons, wishes, and rationale behind a match with this man, fled. She didn’t want a duke.



Not this duke.



Not any duke.



She wanted far more than a duke.



She wanted Harry. Her eyes slid closed. God in heaven what have I done?



“I must admit, I don’t usually find myself the recipient of shocked horror.”



Anne snapped her eyes open at the duke’s droll response. “Y-your Grace?” Her voice cracked.



The duke looped his arms behind his back and rocked back and forth on the heels of his gleaming black shoes. “Eager fawning, wide-eyed stares but never shocked horror.” Such words could have been construed as bold, ducal arrogance. Then…he winked.



And in that moment Anne realized the Duke of Crawford had a sense of humor. She smiled, suddenly, unexpectedly at ease. “Not horror,” she assured him. She claimed the edge of the ivory embroidered sofa and motioned to the chair opposite her.



He flicked his coattails and settled into the gold-trimmed armchair. “Shock, then?”



Shock that had everything to do with a strikingly powerful, golden-haired gentleman, and nothing to do with this man. “Perhaps a wee bit of shock.”



They shared a smile.



Relief surged through her as Mary discreetly slipped into the room. The maid sought out her usual chair at the far back corner of the large parlor. Anne supposed she should have welcomed the time without her chaperone. Except she hadn’t. This man, a stranger, did not rouse the gentle ease that Harry’s presence did.



The duke sat back in his seat. He folded his arms across his broad, surprisingly well-muscled chest. Hmm, she’d have imagined he’d be one of those padded gentleman. It seemed not. His lips pulled at the corner and her skin warmed with embarrassment. He’d clearly noted her study and most likely took it for interest. Which it was assuredly not. Though handsome, it would be nigh impossible to admire any other figure when Harry had taken her in his arms and all but made love to her.



Or had he made love to her?



She suspected there was an element of lovemaking to what had transpired between them in their tucked away copse—



“I would trade my country holdings to know the reason for that delightful smile.”



She jumped. “That would be rather a waste of your country holdings, Your Grace.” And the end of her reputation if her actions this morning were discovered.



“Well, I have a good deal in terms of holdings, that it wouldn’t be missed.” At one time that would have mattered a great deal to her. Not anymore. “Why do I gather from your reaction that you seem wholly unimpressed by such a claim?”



Anne fiddled with the spectacles in her hands. Why, indeed? Why, when she’d craved monetary security above all else these nearly eight years now? Despite her family’s and Society’s ill-opinion of her, she craved more than material possessions. She yearned for stability. Harry’s grin flitted through her mind. And there was nothing stable in loving a man such a Harry. “Not at all,” she said at long last. Long enough for him to surely note her pause and detect the certain lie there.



He leaned forward. The scent of him, sandalwood and spice, pleasant but not Harry, wafted about her. “May I speak candidly?” he said with a bluntness that surely came from someone in possession of his lofty rank.



She nodded. “I prefer candid to veiled, Your Grace.”



That fleeting grin tugged at his lips and then disappeared, settling into a familiar, unsmiling mask of this man who seemed to fear expressions of mirth. Was it merely his station? Or had something happened to turn him so very serious? Her own girlhood had taught her that no one could truly understand what shaped an individual’s past. “I’d ask for your hand if I thought you might say yes,” he said quietly.