“No,” she said quickly.
“Did he touch you?” If Rutland had dared put his vile hands upon that which belonged to him, he’d kill him quite gladly.
She shook her head once. He’d come to know her so very well that he detected the hesitancy in that movement. “It doesn’t matter, Harry.” The resignation in her tone dug at him.
He took her by the shoulders. “It does matter,” he said angrily and then gentled his tone. “It does matter, Anne.”
She jerked away from him. “He knows. He knows all.” She began to pace, the frenetic movements indicated the very thin thread she had on her control. “My mother, my sisters through the years have insisted that one of my madcap schemes would ultimately result in my ruination.” Her words broke on a shuddery sob. “But this…” She stumbled to a halt and stared sightlessly at the doors through which Rutland had just departed. “This I’ll never recover from.”
Harry steeled his jaw. He’d see Rutland in hell before he allowed him to destroy Anne’s reputation. “I’ll wed you.” He blinked, not knowing where the words came from.
Anne swung back to look at him. Her eyes round like moons. “Why?” Her voice was so whisper soft he strained to hear.
His palms dampened and he rubbed them along the side of his breeches. Why, indeed. He settled for the least complicated response that didn’t require much further thought on his part. “I’ll not see you hurt. I will give you the protection of my name.”
A spasm contorted her face. “What of your heart?” Her gaze slid to a point past his shoulder.
His mouth went dry, a loud humming filled his ears. He closed his eyes desperately wanting to be the man she deserved. “Anne…” He began. “Are you asking me if I love you?” His mind stalled at the implications of that question and more, his own feelings for Anne. He’d protected himself against hurt for eight years now. Margaret’s reentry into Society only served to remind him of the dangers of entrusting oneself to a woman’s fickle hands.
With sad eyes, Anne searched his. She touched her fingertips to his lips, cutting off the inadequate words. “If you must ask it as a question, then I don’t need any answer but that.” The muscles in her throat bobbed up and down. “You don’t need to say anything.” Apparently, in his silence he’d said enough. A woeful smile played about her mouth. “I’ll not have a husband who’d wed me out of a sense of obligation.”
His body jerked reflexively. She’d reject his offer. With the realization of that, a panicky terror gripped him. Say something, you fool. Give her the words she desires. Give her the words she deserves. “It wouldn’t be borne of obligation, Anne. I enjoy being with you. You make me laugh. You’d make a sufficient partner.” Isn’t it more than that, though?
A desperate giggle bubbled past her lips and she shook her head slowly. “Oh, Harry. You’d do just as well with a loyal pup than a wife, if those are your requirements.”
He tried again. “Anne,” he said gently. “We are happy together.” In the days he’d spent with Anne, he’d found more happiness than he’d ever known in all his thirty years. His mouth went dry, fear holding back the words that would splay him open before her. He’d offered all of himself once before. He could not humble himself again.
Seeing the determined tilt to her chin, Harry realized that nothing he could or would say in that moment would convince her of the rightness of his suit. He, the Earl of Stanhope who’d no intention of settling upon the future countess any time in the near or even distant future, had spoken to her of marriage—and she’d very clearly rejected him. Then, his offer had been more an afterthought, one made out of obligation. Anne surely craved more than that…
A dark, niggling thought worked its way about his brain. Mayhap it’s not that she’d rather be ruined. Mayhap she still longs for the title of duchess. He stomped over and took her by the arms. “Look at me,” he commanded, his tone harsh and angry. “You’d rather be ruined?” Than accept a union we can ultimately find happiness in?
She boldly met his gaze and in the clear depths of her blue eyes he saw the truth—she wouldn’t wed him. In that moment, his past converged with his future as he recalled a different woman, a different rejection. Her shoulders moved up and down on her slow inhalation. “I’d rather—”
“Good God, Anne!”