His friend’s jaw tightened. “Your Grace,” he drawled. It didn’t escape Harry’s notice that the other man failed to bow.
Her rouged-red lips twitched. She turned her attention to Harry. Her sultry brown-eyed gaze ran a path over his face. “Hullo, Harry,” she whispered.
He bowed. “Your Grace,” he said stiffly polite. This woman, who’d broken his heart, who’d reduced him to an empty, hollow version of his youthful self now stood before him.
He’d not allowed himself to think of her but with resentment through the years. In the earliest days of her marriage he’d relished the moment they’d once again meet. He would have mocked her union with the wizened, ancient duke and then given her the cut direct. On his worst days, he’d tortured himself with the reminder of her lush, generously curved frame. Now, staring back at her, it struck him just how her dark beauty paled to Anne’s innocent light.
He made another stiff bow. “If you’ll excuse me.” He stepped around her. She touched his sleeve, staying his movement. The crowd gasped. He cast a pointed look at her gloved fingers. “Remember yourself, madam,” he said with deliberate coldness.
Margaret pulled her hand back. “Forgive me,” she said quietly. “Will you…? I…” She glanced pointedly at Edgerton. “May we talk, Harry?”
“This seems like a rather ill-choice of a meeting place,” Edgerton said tauntingly. Then, after an insolent bow, took his leave.
Margaret shifted her attention to Harry. “Please. I’d speak to you.” She looked momentarily to the couples assembling for a waltz.
“Whatever you care to say, you may do so here, madam,” he said stiffly. He’d not partner her for a dance and he most certainly didn’t care to meet with her alone.
“Very well.” She sighed. “You’d have me humble myself here. I will. For you. I love you,” she said her words soft yet resolute. “I’ve always loved you. My marriage to the duke, my parents required it of me, Harry.” She held her palms up beseechingly. “Surely you know you’re all I’ve ever wanted.”
All she’d ever wanted but not enough to fight for his love. He braced for the familiar rush of old resentment. That didn’t come.
“I came out of mourning early for you.”
He arched an eyebrow. “Am I supposed to be flattered, Your Grace? Grateful?” Did Margaret imagine she’d reenter his life and they might resume the courtship begun before life had jaded them?
She winced. “If my misery brings you happiness, know that I’ve spent the past eight years in hell, dreaming of,” her voice grew husky. “Longing for you.”
A twinge of pity tugged at him. She had her title of duchess, but he couldn’t imagine there’d been anything pleasant in being wed to the ancient, doddering duke. And in that moment he realized, for all the pain she’d caused him, he didn’t resent her. Sometime over the years, his love for her had died.
“In spite of what you believe, I don’t wish for you to be unhappy, Margaret,” he said, surprised by the truth of that admission. If he were still in love with her, perhaps she’d inspire grand sentiments of agony and old, youthful jealousies. And mayhap if she’d stepped into a different ballroom, a different soiree a mere ten days ago, before Anne had upended his life, this conversation would continue a different course. Anne, however, had driven back all the bitter hurts and replaced them with a genuine, unfettered happiness.
“I read there is a woman.” Pain hoarsened her voice. “Is there?” Tears filled her eyes and she blinked them away. “Tell me there is not,” she pleaded.
Ah, she’d learned of Anne. A muscle jumped in the corner of his eye. He didn’t want Margaret speaking of her; he preferred the smiling, teasing Anne, untouched by the scandal of his past.
She took his silence for confirmation. “Do you care for her?” Margaret asked, with marked hesitancy.
Harry gave a curt bow. “Please excuse me, Your Grace.” He certainly cared for Anne. What she meant to him exactly, he didn’t allow himself to consider and most definitely not before the ton, and worse, before Margaret. “This is neither the time, nor the place.” With that, he turned on his heel and went in search of Anne.
Chapter 18
From the corner of the parlor, Anne pulled back the curtain and peered down into the street below. She touched a finger to the sun-warmed windowpane.
She’d been expecting him if for no other reason than to make his apologies for abandoning her last evening, to Rutland’s cruelty, no less. The greater likelihood was that Harry would call and ask to be spared of any further lessons with her. She swallowed painfully. This way he would be able to pursue his Margaret, a widow and free to therefore pick up where life had left them. Harry would be free to become the man he’d once been, before Margaret’s marriage had turned him into a jaded, heartbroken rogue.