More Than a Duke(91)

And that was the instant Anne realized the cold, hard exterior he presented to the world was nothing more than a façade. In his brown eyes, she detected a glimmer of the man buried deep inside the wary, broken-hearted marquess.



Then the stiff, brittle set to his lips masked all momentary warmth. “Oh, and Lady Anne?”



“Yes, my lord?”



“I do wish Stanhope had turned you away. It would have been my pleasure to school you in the art of seduction.” He touched the brim of an imagined hat, opened the door, and…nearly collided with Harry. Jasper stood, stoic at his side.



Harry froze, his mouth fell agape at the appearance of Lord Rutland. The two men eyed each other for a moment, two savage beasts warring over terrain. In a way, they had been for eight years. In a way that didn’t truly have anything to do with Anne and everything to do with Margaret, Duchess of Monteith.



Lord Rutland ran his flinty gaze stare over Stanhope. “A pleasure as usual, Stanhope,” mockery lined that curt greeting. Without a bow, he took his leave.



Jasper motioned Harry forward. “Anne.” He gave her an indecipherable look and then closed the door with a soft click leaving her alone. With Harry.



~*~



Harry stared after Rutland’s swiftly retreating form then swung to face Anne. “What the hell did he want? Has he threatened you?” He advanced forward. Anne backed away. From him? What in hell was Bainbridge thinking allowing her to meet with that reprobate? “Why were you alone with Rutland?” His voice came out an angry snarl he barely recognized.



Anne toyed with a single, deliberately placed strand interwoven with an orange ribbon. She continued to edge backward. “The duke was so good as to arrange a meeting between us,” she said, her voice breezy. “It is, after all, essential that Rutland say nothing about what he observed.” If she believed Rutland to do the honorable thing with their secret, then she was a good deal more naïve than he’d ever believed. She swept her arms wide. “Come in, dear Harry. Do come in. Please.”



He furrowed his brow. “Why are you speaking in that manner?” The faint stirrings of unease unfurled in his belly.



Anne laughed, the sound like clear tinkling bells. “Oh, Lord Stanhope.” She snapped her skirts. “You scoundrel, you know you shouldn’t curse in front of a lady.” She dropped her voice to a scandalized whisper. “Imagine the shock.”



Harry beat a hand against his leg. “Are you flirting with me, Anne?”



She tittered behind her hand and danced backward, until her lower back knocked against the duke’s solid desk and she spread her palms on the surface behind her. “Oh, come, Lord Stanhope,” she fluttered her thick, golden lashes. “We’ve moved well past flirtation.”



He strode forward and stopped, a mere handbreadth between them. “What is going on?” This shallow creature did not bear even a hint of resemblance to Anne. “Why am I suddenly Lord Stanhope?” And why did he crave the sound of his name upon her tempting, red lips? Anxiety roiled like a rapidly brewing storm inside him.



Anne gave a flounce of her luscious golden curls. “You were always Lord Stanhope. Our relationship has been clear from the very beginning.”



He raked his trembling fingers through his hair. “What are you on about?” he asked, his voice gruff. He held a hand out. “Is this about Rutland? I’ve already plans to speak with your mother after my meeting with Bainbridge. You’ll not be ruined.” He’d slice off his own hand before he allowed Rutland to destroy her reputation.



Some emotion flashed behind Anne’s eyes. Grief, shock, agony, together as one. Then gone as her lips curved up in the corner as she smiled with her lips and eyes as one…as he’d instructed her. She eyed his fingers a moment, and then her lips pulled back in a sneer.



Harry staggered backwards. His Anne did not sneer. She wasn’t even capable of such hardness.



“Oh, Lord Stanhope,” she said in a self-aggrandizing way that made him grit his teeth. “Surely you know you needn’t offer for me?”



“I want to,” he said, his answer instantaneous, born of truth. After she’d taken her leave last evening, after she’d coolly, if politely, rejected his offer, he’d realized he wanted her. Not merely because he sought to do right by her. “Mayhap not ten days ago, or a week, but now, I’d wed you.”



Her long, graceful fingers, toyed with a single curl. “Oh, Harry. Poor, poor, Harry.” She shook her head. “Never say you’ve come to,” she widened her eyes, “care for me?” Those handful of words dripped with pity.