“You are to stay the hell away from my wife’s sister.”
Katherine’s sister, as the cold, arrogant bastard referred to her, in fact, had a name. Her name was Anne and she was not defined by her connection to Katherine, even as the lady’s family and Society believed it to be the singularly most important thing about her.
Harry firmed his jaw. He leaned close, his words intended for Bainbridge’s ears alone. “You can go to hell.”
The duke continued as though he’d not even spoken. “If you hurt Anne and through that hurt Katherine, by God I’ll end you, Stanhope.”
Harry suspected that threat had a good deal more to do with his whole attempt to seduce Katherine, than anything else. He gave a curt nod. “Are we finished here?” he said with an affable grin.
If looks could kill, Bainbridge would have smote him with the fire in his eyes and probably eaten the ashes for an evening meal.
A loud buzz filled the ballroom. Knowing it would infuriate the other man; Harry directed his attention to the arrival of the guest who’d caused a stir at the front of the ballroom. He blinked. There was something vaguely familiar about the tall, voluptuous woman at the top of Lord and Lady Preston's stairs. She may as well have been any blousy widow he’d…
The air lodged in his lungs.
“What is it?” Bainbridge snapped.
Miss Margaret Dunn, now the Duchess of Monteith, had returned.
Chapter 17
Anne had done three small laps throughout the walled in gardens, this little sliver of country a mere illusion in the grimy, crowded city streets of London. She paused beside a peony bush. A slight breeze stirred the flowers around her, catching them in a gentle night dance.
She shivered at the uncharacteristic cold and hugged her arms close to her chest. Perhaps he’d not come after all. Perhaps even in this, Harry—notorious scoundrel, unrepentant rogue—had demonstrated greater constraint than the notoriously impulsive Anne Adamson.
The moon’s glow beamed down on a pale pink bloom. She leaned forward and smelled the fragrant bud…and sneezed. Anne straightened, wrinkling her nose. It really was such a shame being unable to appreciate the full beauty of the bloom. A shadow fell over the illuminated flower and she smiled. Large hands came up, rested upon her shoulders. She straightened and leaned back into Harry’s touch. And froze.
Her heart raced with panic as the scent of cheroot and coffee unfamiliar and not at all Harry, filled her senses. A husky baritone whispered against her ear, “Hullo, love.”
She’d been sweet, Anne, hellion, minx, and termagant to Harry. But only twice before had she been his love. Anne spun around and jumped backwards. She knocked against the pink flowers. Her heart pounded loudly as she stared up at Lord Rutland. A hard, stone cold smile turned the man’s lips in feigned warmth, the only suggestion of gentleness in an otherwise harsh, angular face. “L-Lord Rutland,” she stammered and sidled away from him.
A glint sparked in his brown eyes.
She frantically searched the gardens with her gaze.
“Are you perhaps looking for someone, Lady Anne?”
His faintly mocking question jerked her attention back to him. She shook her head and looked over his broad shoulder for sign of Harry. “Er…no…I merely sought some air.” Panic built in her breast. Should anyone else come upon her and Lord Rutland, she would be ruined.
“Air?” Rutland murmured and advanced toward her.
She hastened back another step. “Er. Yes. Air. You breathe it.” Stop rambling, Anne. The ghost of a smile played about his lips, which was really impossible. Men like Lord Rutland, who fought other men to first blood, did not smile. “It is particularly beneficial when it is extremely crowded or hot, which it was. Inside the ballroom, that is.” He continued his forward approach. “Wouldn’t you agree?” That gave him pause.
Lines creased his brow. “Wouldn’t I agree about what? The need for air? Or that you’re rambling?”
“Oh.” Her knees knocked against a wrought iron bench. “Did I speak that aloud?” She had that nasty tendency when she was nervous. She shot another glance over his shoulder for Harry.
He stopped so close their legs nearly brushed. “You did, Anne.”
Drat. She frowned at the sheer insolence of the man. “I didn’t give you leave to use my Christian name.” She should err on the greater side of caution, alone with this blackguard, but really he had no leave to go about using her given name.
He touched his thumb to her lower lip. She gasped and drew her hand back. He caught her wrist before her palm collided with his cheek. “Tsk, tsk. You shouldn’t do that.” He lowered his brow to hers. She shivered as the thick scent of brandy fanned her lips. “Unless I demand it. In which case you should do it quite hard.”