More Than a Duke(63)
She reached the top of the winding staircase. Her mother glanced up. “Hurry, hurry, Anne. The duke has surely arrived by now.” She tugged on her stark white evening gloves.
If Mother were to find out that the Duke of Crawford had mentioned marriage and Anne’s name together and her daughter hadn’t managed even a hint of joy or gratitude, she’d have Anne wed to cousin Bertrand as certain punishment.
As Anne made her slow descent, she gave thanks for the protective cover of her cloak. Her mother would have ordered her back abovestairs, to her chambers, and into a new, more suitable gown if she’d caught one glimpse of Anne’s scandalous gown.
The butler pulled the door open. She smiled up at him as she trailed after Mother, onward to the waiting carriage.
The driver stood beside the black lacquer carriage. A footman assisted Mother inside, and then handed Anne up. She murmured her thanks and settled into the thick, plush red-velvet squabs. The door clicked closed lending finality to her bold decision this evening. She swallowed hard, toying with the fabric of her cloak.
“I venture he’ll offer for you soon, Anne,” Mother said, with a smile to rival a child given the last cherry tart at dessert.
“Who, Mother?”
Her mother’s eyebrows snapped together. “Do not make light of this, Anne. This is your third Season. And you were the one I’d imagined would have made a match within the first month of your Come Out.” She patted the back of her head. “Though, if you manage to bring Crawford up to scratch, well then all will be forgiven.”
Ah, yes, because she’d only served one purpose for the Countess of Wakefield—marriage to a lofty lord. Over the years, Anne’s worth had been measured in the match she might make and not more than that. She bit back the stinging words on her lips. “Is my unwed state something that requires forgiveness?” she asked, her tone dry.
Her mother carried on as though she’d not spoken. “Oh, can you imagine my ultimate triumph over all those who’ve made snide remarks about your unwed state?”
Her stomach muscles clenched involuntarily. She’d not allowed herself to consider the unkind comments made after two failed Seasons—even if those ‘failed Seasons’ had been in large part a decision she’d made. A desire for more. Once, the title of duchess, now…the love of a gentleman who didn’t even believe in that emotion.
She pulled the curtain back and peered out at the passing streets. The irony of her situation didn’t escape her. If anyone had told her a mere week ago that the Duke of Crawford would have courted her and spoken marriage, and she’d have rebuffed any interest on his part for Harry, the Earl of Stanhope, she’d have eaten every last one of her ribbons.
Now, she knew she wanted more than a duke.
And she was determined to not sit around waiting for Harry to realize she was more than sufficient. Her smiling visage reflected back in the windowpane.
I hope you are prepared to have your lessons used fully against you, Harry Falston, Earl of Stanhope.
~*~
He’d not seen her in three damned days. Which, in the scheme of time, wasn’t altogether very long. Rather, a mere seventy-two hours. That somehow managed to seem like a bloody eternity. With Anne’s profession of love, he should have run as far and as fast as his legs would carry him. Instead…
Harry scanned the crowded ballroom. He passed his gaze over a sea of blonde hair either a shade too-light or a touch too-dark, searching for the pale honeyed tresses kissed with liquid sunshine.
“You do know Society has noted your interest in the particular lady,” Edgerton drawled at his side.
“Go to hell,” Harry muttered, dismissing his friend. When he’d handed Anne the truth those three days ago, he’d suspected she’d been wounded. He’d not however, imagined she’d cut him from the fabric of her life as neatly as she’d snip the thread from an embroidery frame.
A servant came over bearing a tray of champagne. Edgerton retrieved two glasses. He handed one wordlessly over to Harry.
Harry took a sip and continued his search over the rim of his glass. And that was another matter entirely. Did Lady Anne embroider? He didn’t know if the lady was proficient or whether she enjoyed it. He knew she tasted of raspberries and lemon. He knew the way her brow wrinkled with annoyance. He even knew the breathy little moans that escaped her lips when she came undone in his arms. But he didn’t know the littlest pieces that together made Lady Anne and he intended to rectify that.
As soon as he found her.
He skimmed the hall. Where in hell was she? His footman had it on good authority from her tight-lipped maid the lady would be attending Lady Preston’s. He took a long swallow of fine, French champagne. Alas, it would seem it had come to this. He, the Earl of Stanhope likening her hair to hues of gold and sunshine like a lovesick poet, and sending his servants to ascertain the lady’s plans for the evening.