More Than a Duke(67)
She cocked her head. “Whyever would you want me to slap you?”
He froze, and then tossed his head back and laughed. The sound came rusty and hoarse as though from ill use.
She’d never understand gentlemen. Not a single one of them. Not her somber brother-in-law, Jasper. Not Harry in his many lessons. And not this stranger who spoke of welcoming a slap to his person. Anne shoved against his chest, but he was as immobile as Lady Preston's towering brick wall. For her efforts, a strand of hair fell loose from her expertly arranged curls. “Wh-what are you doing?”
“I’m going to kiss you, Lady Anne,” his words emerged as a steely, satiny promise.
Her stomach lurched. “No.” She shook her head. “No. No you are not.” She slammed her fist into the hard muscles of his stomach and cried out. He grinned as though amused by her ineffectual attempt.
He lowered his head and she arched away not wanting his kiss. She’d already had loathsome Lord Ackland’s tongue in her mouth. And then Harry. Now, she’d know no one else but Harry’s kiss upon her lips. Certainly not Lord Rutland, the cad who’d dueled Harry for his ladylove, Margaret.
Anne slipped out from under his arm and all but sprinted toward the door. When Harry arrived, she’d have certain choice words for his rather delayed entrance and— She gasped when a strong arm closed around her waist, bringing her close.
“Do you know, Lady Anne, I never imagined when I followed you out here that I’d find our meeting so vastly entertaining.”
She pulled his forearm. “I’m so very pleased to be able to entertain you, my lord.” Her desperate attempt at nonchalance came out breathy with fear. Did he hear it? Did he delight in it? Somehow, she suspected it brought him perverse pleasure.
“I merely thought to sample the charms known by Stanhope.”
“I assure you, there’s been no sampling of charms.” She pursed her lips. Well, that didn’t sound altogether correct.
He tweaked her nose. “Do you know, I believe you’re lying to me, Lady Anne?” The teasing gesture was so vaguely reminiscent of all the times Harry touched her so, Anne slapped at his hand.
He chuckled.
She shot a glance over the marquess’ shoulder, searching out Harry.
“In fact, I’d wager you’re out here even now awaiting a meeting with Stanhope.”
“I’m not,” she said a touch too quickly.
“And,” he continued, the unholy glint in his eyes indicating he delighted in her unease. “I’d venture you’ve come to even love the earl.” A mocking sneer wrapped about that supposition. He must have taken her silence for an admission. He tossed his head back and laughed, a chillingly empty sound that sent fear spiraling through her.
She yanked her arm, but he only angled her body closer to his. “What do you want?” she asked, proud of the steady deliverance of that question. Panic churned in her belly. If she were discovered with Lord Rutland, she’d be ruined and forced to wed the bounder—if a cur like him were even capable of honor. “I really must return, my lord. If you’ll unhand me.”
He pulled her closer and whispered as if his was the most delicious secret in the world. “Surely you wonder where your love is?”
She flattened her lips into a tight line to keep from responding to his deliberate baiting.
“Tsk, tsk. Poor Lady Anne Adamson. You’ve no idea how little you matter to him.”
All her mother’s warnings, Anne’s own fears twisted about, magnified by the poison in his taunting words. “What are you speaking about?” she snapped.
“Come now, surely you know of his Margaret.”
His barb hit like a well-placed arrow to her heart. She gave a toss of her curls, determined to conceal the effect his taunting words were having. “I believe she was your Margaret, as well.”
His body went taut like a King Cobra poised to strike she’d once viewed as a small girl at the Piccadilly Circus. “No,” he spat. “She was always Stanhope’s.” A deep-rooted bitterness coated his words.
And for the fraction of a moment, she felt awash with guilt for deliberately hurting Lord Rutland. Instead of loathing, she felt a kindred connection to this man who loved another incapable of returning those sentiments. “I’m so sorry,” she said softly.
A dull flush stained his cheeks. “You’ve never been anything more than a diversion,” he lashed out ruthlessly. “I suggest you return to the festivities so you may see just why Stanhope has left you out here alone. With me for your only company.” He pressed a hard kiss to her lips.