More Than a Duke(73)
“I find it quite endearing.” Only, the hard, determined edge to his words hinted at a world wary man who didn’t find life endearing, let alone an unwed young lady’s sneezing.
Anne directed her attention to the handkerchief. Had the Duke of Crawford entered the world a squalling, haughty baby with a frozen noble heart? Or had life invariably done what life invariably did, and shatter whatever innocence he’d carried? She felt his stare on her and reluctantly shifted her attention upwards. She made to give the linen back but he waved his hand.
“Consider it yours, Lady Anne.” Specks of silver danced in his blue eyes.
“Thank you.” She studied the gold, monogrammed letters and angled her head, humbled by her own self-centeredness. She’d set her sights upon the duke, determined to have him as her husband…and yet she didn’t know something as simple as his Christian name. Society referred to him as His Grace, the duke, the Duke of Crawford. It occurred to her that she, like the rest of the ton hadn’t bothered to consider him beyond his title. She touched a finger to the single A, wondering over the lone initial.
“Auric,” he said quietly.
Her head snapped up.
“I gathered you wondered about the A.”
“Auric,” she said softly. A bold, unique name for one of the most powerful peers in the realm.
He shifted on his seat. “A rather unconventional name for an English lad.”
She managed her first real smile that day as she imagined him as Auric, a mere boy being schooled on the future role of duke. Then her smile withered as she considered her own grasping attempts at his title. She plucked at the fabric of the monogrammed handkerchief. She didn’t know the Duke of Crawford beyond their handful of meetings, but she’d already determined he deserved far more than to be desired for his title alone.
No gentleman deserved that.
No person deserved that.
He leaned over and placed his hand upon hers, his green eyes filled with such intensity she looked down—and stilled. Anne studied his large hands, cased in buff colored kid leather. She didn’t imagine a duke to have such imposing hands and more, she desperately wanted those hands to elicit all manner of delicious shivers inside. She wanted to burn from where their fingers met…and yet… Her eyes slid closed a moment.
Nothing.
Not a blasted spark.
Or shiver.
Or tingle.
Nothing.
“Marriages have been forged on nothing more than a matter of convenience, Lady Anne.”
She jerked her stare back to his. “Your Grace?”
“I’d have to be a fool to not realize you prefer Lord Stanhope’s suit to my own.” He sounded bemused, and she’d venture it was hardly every day a young lady preferred the attentions of a roguish earl to a powerful duke.
She bit the inside of her lip, unsure how to respond.
“Yet, I find I want you. As my duchess.”
Ah, there it was. The pinnacle of all her dreams realized. Only now did she realize those dreams belonged to her mother. They’d never been Anne’s. And perhaps Anne was, in fact, the foolish, whimsical creature everyone had taken her for, because she craved love above all else.
Fool. Fool. Fool. Hadn’t life taught her that most times, love wasn’t enough?
“Why?” she asked.
He raised her fingertips to his lips and touched his mouth to the inside of her wrist. The intimate gesture felt like a betrayal of sorts to Harry.
“Why, Anne?” When one was a duke he could drop all formality and call a young lady by her given name. Even without permission. “Because you wondered about the A.”
“And you’d have me for your wife.” She’d spent so very many days attempting to capture a duke, and yet so very little time in considering the best, most polite way to decline a duke’s offer. She took a deep breath.
He placed his index finger upon her lips. “Think on it. Stanhope’s past has returned and I suspect it impacts your future. Therefore, I’d like to claim that spot in your future, Anne. I don’t require an answer now.”
She knew so very little about the duke. No one truly knew a thing of this man or his past, and yet, she suspected he would make some young lady a wonderful husband. It didn’t matter if she gave her answer now or two years from now. The answer would still be no. That young lady would never be her.
As he stood, to take his leave, she suspected he knew it as well.
~*~
Harry strode through White’s, daring some foolish bastard to look his way. Since Margaret’s scandalous reentrance into Society, his name, her name, their past, the question of their future had been splashed across every last scandal sheet. He yanked out the chair at his table and sat with his back to the club. A liveried servant rushed over, with a bottle of brandy and an empty glass. Harry reached for them. And then remembered Anne’s damned father and shoved it aside. Instead, he picked up the empty glass and rolled it between his hands.