The dancers erupted into a bevy of applause as the country reel drew to a close.
She looked away. And how much emptier it would be when he ultimately wed another.
Harry glanced down at the dance card about Anne’s wrist. “Will you do me the pleasure of partnering me in the next set?”
Ignoring her sister’s pointed look, Anne placed her fingertips upon his sleeve and allowed him to draw her out onto the floor as the orchestra plucked the opening strands of a waltz.
“I missed you last evening, Anne,” he murmured, as they took their places amongst the other dancers.
If it weren’t for the insolent grin on his cynical lips she might believe him. She looked to a point beyond his shoulder, ultimately finding the lush widow. The woman stood eying them with such pain dripping from the depths of her eyes, Anne forced herself to look away. “Did you?” she said tightly.
He applied slight pressure to her waist. “Never tell me you were displeased with me?”
She fixed her angry stare upon the expert lines of his white cravat. This was all a game to him. Margaret’s reentry into his, and subsequently, Anne’s life. The ton’s morbid fascination with the small scandal. All the while he’d met with his former love, Anne had fended off Lord Rutland’s vile advances.
“What, nothing to say? Were you this silent with Crawford earlier this morn? After you’d sent me away.”
Her eyes flew to his. A hard glint reflected in their hazel depths. “How…?”
“How did I know about Crawford?” he correctly finished her question. “I’ve my ways, sweet.”
She gritted her teeth. “I’d ask you not to call me sweet, Harry.”
“Particularly if you are to become the Duchess of Crawford,” he said, his words taunting.
She would never be Crawford’s anything.
Anne said nothing. She’d not give Harry the satisfaction of baiting her, not when she was the one suffering so.
He pulled her body closer. She wanted to shove him away, remind him of the rules of propriety, but more she longed to feel his body close to hers. Harry dipped his head. “I gather our lessons are at an end,” he said, close to her ear.
He might as well have taken a blunt dagger and thrust it into her breaking heart. Anne dropped her gaze to his cravat shamed by the truth; she’d broken the promise he’d required of her in Lord Essex’s conservatory. “I gather you’re indeed, correct,” she said, her voice a near whisper. She’d fallen hopelessly in love with him.
“Will you meet me, sweet Anne?”
Fool that she was, she’d steal this one final moment with him, for herself. “Where?” So someday, when she was miserable and alone, she’d recall there had been a gentleman who’d made her heart race, even as his heart had belonged to another.
“In the conservatory.” Her eyes slid closed of their own volition. Of course. The conservatory. “Will you?” His husky whisper brushed her skin. Like any other one of his scandalous widows and unhappily wed ladies.
She managed a jerky nod and mourned the ending of the waltz that signified the beginning of the end of her and Harry, the Earl of Stanhope. “Meet me, after the next set.” The harsh, unyielding command belonged to a man accustomed to women falling at his proverbial feet, for the pleasure of his touch. They parted. He with a curt bow. She with a stiffly polite curtsy.
And then for the first time in ten days, moved in opposite directions. Away from one another.
Anne spied Katherine and Jasper; their bodies leaned close, a soft smile on her sister’s blushing cheeks. Anne halted, feeling like the worst sort of interloper upon their intimate exchange. With wooden steps she changed direction and wandered back to her spot beside Lady Cavendish’s potted fern, staring blankly at the green plant. How very unusual, to have a fern in the midst of a ball. She touched a finger to a green leaf, wondering if she didn’t meet Harry just now, would they continue on as they had for the past ten days? She drew her hand back, and gave her head a clearing shake. She’d been fool enough where Harry was concerned, giving her heart to him when he could never love her in return.
With wooden steps she skirted the edge of the ballroom floor. Of course, no one would note her furtive movements, her inevitable disappearance. They had only been interested in the old scandal brought to life for the voracious appetites of hungry peers. The pad of her slippers nearly silent upon the thin, carpeted corridor. She followed the crimson red path. Absently, she thought of the many scandalous trysts Harry had engaged in. How had he known where the conservatory was from the garden from the library?