More Than a Duke(78)

He must be quite practiced, indeed. Why— A startled shriek escaped her as a horribly familiar, flawlessly beautiful figure stepped into Anne’s path.



The Duchess of Monteith picked Anne apart with her eyes, and Anne knew the moment the woman lifted her vivid brown gaze up, that she’d found her lacking. Suddenly, feeling very silly in her modest ivory skirts when the other woman in her dampened satin sapphire, evinced the beauty men penned sonnets for.



When it became clear the duchess had little intention of breaking the awkward silence, Anne sank into a deep curtsy. “Your Grace,” she murmured. “Forgive me, I was just—”



“You are Harry’s current lover, aren’t you?” Anne flinched feeling as though she’d been kicked in the stomach. A malevolent gleam lit the sparks of green in her eyes and for a moment all hint of beauty was lost in the ugliness of a woman made bitter by life…and jealousy. “I’ve read of you,” She paused and flicked her gaze over Anne’s person. “And the others dear Harry has been with.”



Anne flinched but then took a steadying breath. This mean-spirited shrew would not cow her. Beauty aside, she couldn’t fathom what Harry saw in one such as this. “I’m no one’s lover, Your Grace. I’m a lady.”



Her black eyebrows knitted into a single line. Fury sparked in her cold gaze.



“If you’ll excuse me,” Anne said again.



It was one thing to give Harry up to this foul creature, quite another to needlessly take the woman’s abuse.



“I gather you’re off to repair your hem?”



The mocking words slowed Anne’s step.



Do not look back, Anne Arlette Adamson. Do not give her the satisfaction.



Then, her sister had always deplored the rash decisions made by her. She turned back around.



“You may have your champagne in the conservatory. Ah, surely you didn’t think you were special,” the duchess jeered, clearly seeing the shock in Anne’s expression.



“No. No, I did not think I was special.” She’d known all along just how much she meant to Harry.



Nothing at all.



“Go have your champagne, Lady Anne and when you’re done, he’ll come back to me. Because he loves me.” If those last four words had been biting and cruel they’d have hurt a good deal less. But the matter-of-factness of that pronouncement burned like acid thrown upon an open wound.



“Just as you love him?” Anne shot back. Fury licked at her insides and she embraced it, finding strength in the heated emotion. “You loved him so much you threw away his heart and the opportunity to be his in every sense of the word. And for what? The title of duchess.” She passed a condescending glance up and down the woman’s perfect form, and then shook her head, repulsed by the mere sight of her. “You never deserved him.” And yet, he would forever be hers.



The woman blanched, in apparent shock at Anne’s boldness. “I’ll not answer to you for the mistakes of my past, Lady Anne.” She spoke in a stoic calm. “Know that I’ve never stopped loving him and I intend to win back his heart.”



“I’m sure that will be some consolation after the manner in which you betrayed him.” She dipped a final curtsy. “Now, if you’ll excuse me, I should really see to my…hem.” Anne snapped her flawless skirts and started down the hall. All the while the duchess’ stare bore a hole into her back. When she turned right down another corridor she leaned back against the wall, and sought support from the solid plaster. She pressed a hand against her wildly hammering heart.



She’d never before realized how vastly different she was than the Harry, Earl of Stanhope’s of the world. She’d spoken to him of seduction with a child’s naiveté and yet, in truth she did not fit into the malicious, grasping world that belonged to him and all the widows and lovers he’d taken before her.



She peeked around the wall and found the duchess at last gone. She briefly thought about returning to the ballroom and abandoning this clandestine meeting. “You’re a fool, Anne,” she muttered under her breath and started in search of the conservatory.



A short while later she’d turned down another long corridor and at last found the blasted room. Before her courage deserted her, she pressed the handle and stepped inside. “Hullo,” she called into the quiet.



Hullo, Lord Stanhope…



The memory of Lady Kendrick in her dampened gown in an altogether different conservatory weaved its way about her consciousness. She strolled over to the long worktable.