More Than a Duke(71)
And Anne would never be anything more than a distant thought in his head. She pressed her eyes tight, dreading the moment he would arrive and all her happiness ended. With a shuddery sigh, she opened her eyes and stared blankly out into the streets below. The loss of Harry would force her to confront just what a liar she truly was. She’d told him she didn’t expect a profession of love or his undying devotion, but God help her she did. Wanted it more than she craved food or drink or silly ribbons and mindless Gothic novels…even that blasted pianoforte played by the Westmoreland daughters.
She wanted him. All of him. And more, she wanted him to want her.
Anne bit her lip hard and winced. A rider pulled up on a magnificent chestnut steed. Her heart thumped madly and she leaned close. “Harry,” she mouthed silently.
A young lad rushed forward to collect the reins. Harry handed them off, tossed the boy a sack of coins and murmured instructions.
A shuddery sob escaped her lips and she buried it in her fingers.
Her mother’s visage reflected back in the exposed glass panel. “Anne Arlette Adamson, come away from that window,” she snapped from the doorway.
Anne ignored her demands. Instead, she pressed her forehead against the glass and peered down at him as he rapped on the door.
“He’s come for no other reason than to end this madness between you, Anne,” her mother predicted.
“I know that,” she whispered, no longer lying to her mother or herself in the importance his presence meant to her. Somewhere along the way, he’d come to mean more than a lesson in seduction. Perhaps it happened when they’d been seated side by side at Lady Westmoreland’s musicale. Or after one too many tweaks of her golden ringlets or Dibdin’s songs or…
She didn’t know the precise moment but at some point, Harry’s happiness had come to matter more to her than even her own.
The door opened below and Ollie allowed the earl entrance. She pressed her lids tightly shut so that flecks of white light danced behind her closed eyes.
Mother touched a hand to her shoulder. “He is not worth this pain.”
“He is,” she whispered brokenly. He was so much more than the shiftless bounder he presented to Society. He was the sole person to look close enough at her to know she needed spectacles to read, and had taken it upon himself to find the most perfect pair, so that she might read to her heart’s pleasure.
“Even if he comes here now, Anne, and does not break it off, then it is honor driving his actions.”
She fisted her hands at her side. “Perhaps he loves me,” she ventured, hearing the futility in her own hopeless words.
“I imagined your father loved me as well.” The pity underscoring her mother’s tone dug at Anne’s insides. “He’s no different than your father.”
Anne spun around. “He is nothing like Father,” she spat. She slashed the air with her hand. “Father was a wastrel, dishonorable, disloyal to his children, to you—”
“And your Lord Stanhope will be the same if you do not have the courage to set him free, Anne.” Her mother took her hands. “Set him free,” she implored with her eyes. “Do what I could not. Allow him his love. His true love,” she amended, her words a thousand daggers upon Anne’s wounded heart.
As if on perfect cue, a knock sounded at the door. The butler, Ollie, appeared. He cleared his throat. “My lady, the Earl of Stanhope to see Lady Anne.”
Anne jammed the heel of her palms against her eyes, attempting to rid herself of thoughts of Harry.
“Anne, remember yourself,” Mother scolded.
Ah, yes, the unpleasantness of showing the hint of real emotion. Anne forced herself to take a deep, and slow breath. “Please tell the earl I’m not receiving callers,” she said, the words so faint, Ollie, the ancient servant, cupped a hand around his ear.
“What was that?”
“Please tell the earl I’m not receiving callers,” she repeated, this time resolve strengthened her words.
Mother tossed her hands into the air. “Anne, meet with him and—”
“I will, Mother. Just not now.” Please, do not ask this of me. Allow me to do this as I will, at my own time, in my own way.
Her mother gave a terse nod and left.
Anne waited for her mother to take her leave and then sprinted across the room to her spot beside the window. She peered down into the streets in time to observe Harry’s exit. He beat his black hat atop his right leg and glared at the door, as though he could command the black panel to open and permit him entry. A broken laugh, more of a sob escaped her lips. Then, Harry possessed enough roguish appeal to charm a door to open.