The duke took another sip. “I brought the lady flowers and spoke quite plainly of my intentions.”
Flowers. His lips pulled in a derisive smile. The bastard knew her so little he didn’t even know the small details that made Anne, Anne. He didn’t know she sneezed at the mere sight of a bloom.
Crawford passed his glass back and forth between his hands. “Though it appears the lady has an insensitivity to flowers.”
It would also appear her damned duke had gleaned that particular detail. He now knew her husky contralto, and likely her sultry laugh and…Harry tightened his grip upon the edge of the table, digging so hard, his fingers were sure to leave crescent indents upon the immaculate surface.
“Why don’t you say what it is you’ve come to say and then be on your way?” Harry snarled, all out of patience with the other man and his veneer of politeness.
Crawford set his glass down. He laid his elbows upon the table and leaned over, all hint of friendliness gone. “May I speak plainly?”
He gave a brusque nod.
“The lady will make me an excellent duchess.”
Harry’s empty stomach churned with nausea.
“There is nothing you can give her that I cannot. Perhaps with the exception of a broken heart, that is.” The other man ran a condescending stare over Harry. “I’m the better man.” He leaned back in his chair. “I suspect you know that, and will allow me to do the honorable thing where Lady Anne is concerned.”
Harry clenched his jaw so tight, pain radiated up to his temple as a tumult of emotion swept through him. Hate burned violent and strong, threatening to consume. Hate for Anne’s having involved him in this scheme. Hate with himself for caring for her when he’d pledged to never care again. And hate for Crawford—for being right.
“Oh, come, now, Stanhope,” the duke scoffed. “No need to act affronted. You’re a rogue,” he said flatly. “A shiftless cad. Then, I gather you know exactly what you are, which is why you’ll also realize I am, in fact, Lady Anne’s best option.” He shoved back his seat and stood. “Now, if you’ll excuse me.”
Harry stared after the duke’s swiftly retreating form, damning him to hell for being correct.
Chapter 19
Harry suspected that after Margaret’s unexpected return, the woman who’d broken his heart should occupy his thoughts. And yet, since the Duke of Crawford had taken his leave earlier that afternoon, Harry hadn’t been able to rid himself of thoughts of the other man’s visit.
He stared blankly out at the sea of faces, the waltzing couples, not truly seeing anything. He dimly registered Margaret at the opposite end of the ballroom. He yanked his attention away from her and searched the crowd for the woman he truly wished to see.
His friend, Edgerton, strolled over with two glasses of champagne. He handed one of to Harry. “I see Rutland has wasted little time,” Edgerton murmured.
Harry glanced up in time to see Rutland cut a path through the ballroom floor. He stared dispassionately on as his old rival for Margaret’s affections, a man he’d nearly fought to the death for the right to her made his way to the young duchess. Odd he should feel nothing. Not even the faintest stirrings of regret, jealousy…just a detached disinterest in these two people who owned a piece of his past and shaped him into the bastard he’d become. Rutland paused before Margaret and bowed. The crowd caught and held a collective breath in anticipation of the lady’s reaction. The duchess placed her fingertips in Rutland’s hand and allowed him to kiss her fingers.
“I heard you had a visitor at your club today.”
Bloody, Crawford. He’d love to send the arrogant bastard to the devil.
“Vying for a young lady’s hand.” Edgerton shook his head pityingly. “A bit of history repeating itself, one could say.”
“One could not say,” he snapped, despising the eerie similarities that had cost him first Margaret, and now, his greatest loss—Anne Adamson.
“He’s better off with her, Stanhope,” his friend continued, following Harry’s unspoken thoughts. “She’s an empty-headed, pleasantly pretty miss, who desires nothing more than the most advantageous match.”
Harry curled his hands into tight balls and fought the urge to bury his fist into Edgerton’s face.
“Do you know what I believe?” the other man went on, clearly having no idea how very close Harry was to laying him out.
“No.” Nor did he care about his friend’s opinion just then. With each word Edgerton uttered, the idea of delivering a well-aimed facer became more appealing.