More Than a Duke(68)
Anne recoiled as revulsion turned her belly. And then he set her from him. He gave her firm nudge between her shoulders, sending her toward the garden doors.
The hard beating of her heart filled her ears and matched her fleeting footsteps. Her slippers skidded upon the moisture of the grass. She continued running, knowing if she were seen she’d appear a madwoman loose in the halls of Bedlam. When she’d reached the corridor leading to the ballroom, she patted her cheeks, smoothed her skirts, took a deep breath and returned to search for Harry.
As she entered the ballroom, she expected the lords and ladies to eye her with charged accusations in their eyes, expecting someone to know Lord Rutland had cornered her. All the while his cruel words weaved around her mind, refusing to relinquish their tentacle like hold as she sought Harry out. Surely there had been a reason Harry had failed to come to her. Surely he’d merely been deterred. Surely—
The din of whispers tugged at her attention. The ton moved as one, as their gazes swiveled to the front of the room.
Anne frowned and leaned around the edge of the wall to study the tall, willowy creature who’d captured their notice. With raven black hair and a diaphanous gown that clung to a lush, perfectly curved figure, she’d earn the resentment of all ladies present and the admiration of all the gentlemen. Even in the darkest times for her family, Anne hadn’t allowed herself that iniquitous emotion of envy. Her own struggles had taught her that one never truly knew the inner tumult carried by others. Still, the stranger possessed an ageless beauty it was not hard to be the slightest bit jealous of.
A figure moved beside Anne. “Where have you been?” her mother snapped.
“I tore my hem.” The lie came easily. She returned her attention to the stranger at the front of the room. “Who is she?”
“Why, that is Her Grace, Lady Margaret Monteith.”
There was something so very familiar in the name. Lady Margaret Monteith… Lady Margaret… Her mind slowed to a stall. Margaret.
As in Miss Margaret Dunn.
As in Harry’s love.
As in her heart was breaking open and bleeding for all to see, if they weren’t already focused upon the breathtaking creature that held Harry’s heart.
“Oh, God,” she whispered. At the unrepressed admission, her mother shot her a scathing look. Anne gave her head a shake, but the fog retained its hazy hold over her. She could not leave, and bury her head, a coward to the truth, so instead, she stood, witness to the horrific unfolding tableau. Of rival suitors who’d waged a duel. Of a long-returned love. Of a reunion .
Of a life that Anne did not belong to.
Lady Margaret searched the crowd with her piercing, cat-like eyes and Anne knew as sure as she knew the count and color of every ribbon to her collection just who the woman sought, and also the moment her unwavering eyes found him.
Anne sucked in a shuddery breath. She watched, as though a voyeur to some other pathetic woman’s publicly agonized pain as Harry’s love glided through the crowd. She didn’t know what she expected. Perhaps, the foolish naiveté that compelled her to read silly Gothic novels imagined Harry would turn his back, storm across the floor, claim Anne’s hand and publicly declare his love. Then, for any of that to happen, Harry would have to love her. And he didn’t. As Lord Rutland had ruthlessly, yet accurately, pointed out, Harry had forever seen her as an empty-headed, pleasantly pretty miss, and not much more.
Lady Margaret stopped before Harry, so close their bodies brushed. Anne curled her fingers into the palms of her hands so tightly she left crescent marks upon her skin. A glutton to this agonizing pain, Anne continued to watch the reunion of two old lovers.
The magnificent creature eyed him with such familiarity, Anne felt the worst sort of interloper on their private moment. Theirs was an intimate connection that moved beyond mere lovers. The room swayed beneath her feet and she shot her hand out in search of purchase, finding it along the wall. Her throat worked spasmodically.
Did Harry still love her?
Of course he does, you ninny.
Heart cracking with each unknown word spoken between Harry and his Margaret, Anne forced her gaze away. Her agonized stare collided with Lord Rutland’s stock-still frame. She stared blankly at him. The monster who’d held her outside a short while ago and threatened her very existence had seemed incapable of all feeling and emotion. Yet, studying him, agony bled through his eyes, so stark, so real she may as well have peered into a mirror.
He jerked his stare away from the reunited couple and inadvertently caught her gaze. Something honest and real passed between them; a bond shared by two people who would never be the choice of the one they truly loved. Then the moment faded as quick as it came.