And froze.
Two crystal champagne flutes.
That appeared to be what she would now throw away her respectability and sense of decency for.
Anne picked a glass up and for the first time in her twenty years sipped of the forbidden French liquor. She downed it in a long, slow swallow, delighting in the liquid fortitude that worked its way through her suddenly warm being. The moments ticked by, with the loud hum of quiet blaring in her ears and she stared into the now empty glass. One crystal bead clung to the inside rim of the glass. Anne stilled, and then touched one trembling finger to the lonely drop.
She loved him. She loved him with a strength that terrified her. The same depth of emotion that had surely broken her own mother’s heart. And yet, even with her love for him, she couldn’t forsake either her pride or her virtue. If she did this thing, if she allowed Harry to lay claim to her body as she longed to, knowing all the while he belonged to another—then what would she be?
Large, sure hands settled upon her shoulders. Her lids fluttered closed. “I can’t do this, Harry,” she said with the same regret surely known by Calypso when being forced to free her Odysseus. “I shouldn’t have come.”
“I’m ever so glad you did,” a loathsome voice said against her ear.
She dropped the glass. It shattered upon the mahogany table. Crystal shards sprayed her skirts. Lord Rutland’s lips brushed her ear and she cringed. “Unhand me, you…you bastard,” she hissed. Her heart thumped painfully.
Lord Rutland chuckled.
Gooseflesh dotted her skin at that mirthless, cruel sound. The implications of being here, alone with the merciless Lord Rutland sank into her with a growing dread. She struggled against him. “I’ll be ruined if I’m discovered with you.” She attempted to slip out from under his powerful grip.
He held firm. “Never tell me you didn’t think of our last kiss.”
How could she ever think of another kiss, imagine another embrace after Harry? She jammed her elbow into his stomach. “No. I really haven’t,” she said with a bluntness that elicited another one of those steely smiles.
Anne ground her heel upon his instep. “Unhand me,” she ordered again. Last time she’d managed to elude the marquess, but really the truth is more he’d set her free. What if he held firm? One passerby and she’d be ruined. The pebble in her belly grew to the size of a boulder and churned painfully.
He shifted her in his arms. “Rest assured, I’ve no intention for us to be discovered together, my lady,” he drawled in that condescending tone she’d come to expect.
The conservatory door opened and her heart sank somewhere in the vicinity of her toes. “Anne?”
She pressed her eyes closed.
Harry.
Chapter 20
It took a moment for Harry’s eyes to adjust to the dimly lit conservatory. A cloud drifted over the half-moon in the inky black night sky bathing the room in temporary darkness. Then the cloud passed and a black haze of fury descended over Harry’s vision.
Until he drew his last breath, he’d forever remember the vile sight of Rutland with his arm wrapped loosely about Anne, his lips against her skin. He’d detested the idea of Lord Ackland forcing his kiss upon her at a masquerade, but witnessing this horror robbed him of rational thought until he knew the manner of madness that saw men shut behind the walls of Bedlam.
“You bloody bastard. Release her or I vow I’ll cut your hands off and stuff them down your throat,” he snarled feeling like a caged beast unleashed in the wild.
Rutland grinned, a cool, vindictive smile that never reached his eyes. “Do you know, I think I won’t. Not yet, anyway, Stanhope.”
Harry strode forward. “What is this about?” Before he’d dueled him to first blood. This time would be different. This would be to the death and he’d relish putting a bullet through the blackguard’s heart.
Rutland flashed another taunting grin. He kissed Anne’s cheek. Even with the space between them, Harry detected the faint shudder of her fragile body. He growled and leapt forward, but Rutland placed Anne between them, a form of shield.
Harry fell back. He’d sooner sever his own leg than see Anne come to hurt. He’d wait for whatever game Rutland now played to run its course. When it did, he would pounce on him like the loathsome pig’s flesh he was.
“Do you know, I’d never have taken Lady Anne as a true beauty,” Rutland remarked as casually as if he spoke of the evening’s weather. “But you did. Didn’t you? Oh, not immediately. Why at first, you saw the same vain, silly girl all the ton did.” His smile deepened as one who knew the hell he wrought and relished in it. “But you managed to look past her empty head and silly ringlets. Didn’t you?”