He’d paid her a visit earlier that afternoon, but he’d been politely, if coolly, turned away by the aged butler. Not receiving callers.
Harry growled. As though he were any other suitor and she was any other woman. Nothing could be further from the truth. Why, she was…hell, he still didn’t know quite what Anne Adamson was or meant to him. It was enough to know fury roiled in his belly at being turned away from her front door.
He imagined she was cross with him for having failed to meet her in Lady Preston’s gardens last evening. Any woman would be annoyed at having been abandoned with a scheduled meeting. Even as he’d ached to find the temptress in orange satin, her damned brother-in-law and then Margaret had cut off all hopes of seeing Anne, alone, removed from the gossipy ton. Anne had never struck him as a vindictive female. Yes, she’d made him want to gnash his teeth on more scores than he could count, but he’d never imagine she would turn him away.
He set the empty glass down with a thunk! He’d not truly allowed himself to consider what Margaret’s appearance meant to him and Anne, because even now, he didn’t even know what the hell he and Anne had, or were, if anything. What Harry did have the sense to realize, however, is that Margaret’s arrival in London would inevitably impact his relationship with Anne. In the span of a single evening, he’d been forced to confront his past and try and sort out just where Anne fit into his future.
With Margaret’s reentry into his life he’d at last found an unexpected sense of peace. The resentment and fury he’d carried had been the passionate response of a headstrong, competitive gentleman vying for her hand. There had been no real love there.
Anne mattered. She mattered in ways that no woman, not even Margaret truly had…or ever would.
Could he wed Anne?
Could he, when after Margaret’s betrayal, he’d sworn to never give his heart to another?
Tension knotted in his stomach. Since his first meeting with Anne, she’d vowed to capture the heart of a duke and Harry had done his damnedest to teach her just how to land not just Crawford, but any gentleman’s notice.
He swiped a hand over his eyes. Could he humble himself before her, in the hope that she would invariably choose him? Choose him, when there was another more titled, more proper choice?
“You look to be in need of company,” a haughty, now hated voice drawled.
He glanced up at the more titled, more proper choice. The illustrious Duke of Crawford didn’t wait for a response. Instead he slid into the vacant seat opposite Harry. And the pressure in Harry’s gut tightened. The last thing he cared for was company. Particularly with the man Anne had set her sights upon.
Crawford gestured to the brandy. “May I?”
Wordlessly, Harry shoved the unused glass across to the other man. Someone should make use of the fine spirits.
A servant rushed forward and the duke waved him off. “Believe it or not, I can manage opening my own bottle and pouring myself a glass of brandy.” His dry humor, as crisp as autumn leaves, gave Harry pause.
He preferred the image of lofty noble who considered himself well-above the lesser lords and ladies. He preferred that image because he’d rather hate the man Anne would have as her husband, in her bed, the man who’d place his hands upon her breasts, and bring her pleasure, and—
“I just visited with Lady Anne.”
Harry’s leg jumped in an involuntary reflex. The duke caught the opened bottle before it toppled over. “Did you?” Harry managed to squeeze past tight lips. She’d turned him away but received the duke. “And how is Lady Anne?” Of course, she sent you away, you blasted fool. You’ve served one purpose, to school the lady in the art of seduction. He’d apparently succeeded beyond even his expectations.
The duke took a sip of his brandy. “Quite well.”
Quite well. And here he’d spent all of last evening awake, well into the early morning hours fearful Anne had been wounded with Margaret returning and calling his attention away from their arranged meeting.
Fool. Fool. Fool.
“I’ll speak bluntly, Stanhope. I intend to wed the young lady.”
Harry stared, unblinking at the duke’s throat. It would create quite the scandal if he dragged the other man across the table by his meticulous cravat and beat him within a breath of oblivion. Harry, however, had weathered far greater scandals. “Do you?” he asked with a deliberate yawn. “And does the young lady know of these intentions?”
“She does,” Crawford said quietly.
Another image slipped into his mind. Anne taking Crawford’s kiss, and laughing about Harry, the poor sod who’d grown to… He forced his mind to a screeching halt, not allowing himself to consider just what he’d grown to do exactly.