More Than a Duke(93)
He paused, staring dumbly at the wood panel, begging for her to point her eyes to the ceiling as she was wont to do, and say she merely teased. “That is my favorite ribbon. Treat it with care.”
And all hope withered and died in his chest. He wanted to hurl it at her title-grasping, deceitful face. He yanked the door open and left without a backward glance, her burnt orange ribbon a forever reminder lest he forget the perils in loving.
Chapter 23
Anne suspected the pain of letting Harry go would always be with her. But now, nearly one week later after sending him away from Jasper’s office, she suspected her heart would always be a useless, deadened organ that could never be mended.
“You have to get out of bed, sweet.”
Anne pulled her knees to her chest and stared blankly out the window at the night-darkened sky. “Don’t call me, sweet.” The pillow she clutched to her mouth muffled her words. Once upon a lifetime ago, Harry had called her sweet. Then, she’d craved the endearment, love from his roguish lips. Now, she’d settle for sweet, hellion, termagant. Anything to hear his voice again. She pulled her arms closer to her chest. Oh, God. She could not bear this.
“Very well. You have to get out of bed, Anne.” Katherine picked up the wrinkled copies of The Times that littered the bed and dropped them into a heap upon the floor. “I’m worried about you. Mother is worried about you.”
“Mother is not worried. She’s angry.” Livid, if one were being truly accurate. Anne had agreed to wed Mr. Ekstrom; she’d not agreed to smile her way through his offer, and the inevitable union . She curled deeper into herself.
“Yes. I’m sure there is merit to that.” Katherine stroked a soothing circle over Anne’s back. “But you can’t simply lay abed reading copies of The Times.”
She wasn’t reading The Times. She was squinting hopelessly through them, scouring the blurred words for hint of Harry’s name, for some indication of how he spent his days…and worse…his nights. She needed her spectacles.
More… She needed him. Tears filled her eyes.
“Oh, Anne,” Katherine whispered and lay down behind her. She folded her arm across her older sister the way she had when they’d been small girls. “I’m so sorry you’ve been hurt. I’d take it away.”
“I know,” Anne said and borrowed support from her twin. She knew, because she would barter her very soul for Katherine’s own happiness. “Do you see him?” The words emerged halting past her dry lips. Her sister hesitated. Anne felt it in the way her body stiffened and the prolonged pause, and knew. She closed her eyes tight because did she truly wish to know?
“You’ve always known he was a hopeless rogue, Anne.” Katherine spoke with such gentleness, her meaning clear as if she’d bluntly stated the truth—Harry had begun carrying on with his ladyloves.
Knowing did not make it any better. When he’d whispered against her ear and perched her spectacles upon her nose, she’d managed to convince herself she meant more to him.
She’d believed he would go to his Margaret and that thought had shattered her, but this, knowing he’d become the same Harry meeting his scandalous ladies in conservatories with two flutes of crystal champagne glasses wrenched at her insides.
She’d lashed at herself in the six days, twelve hours, and handful of minutes since she’d fed him every worst perception he’d ever carried of her. She’d forced her eyes to make sense of the words in the gossip sheets…and had seen enough to recognize his name linked to any other number of widows and scandalously wed ladies.
In the end, Harry had proven himself to be…well, Harry. And there was little consolation in knowing her lies had wrought the transformation upon him once more, because ultimately all he’d revealed was how little she’d meant to him.
Which really wasn’t all that fair, considering she’d set him free. Tears filled her eyes. She blinked them back.
Katherine sat up. “You need to make an appearance at some event, Anne. Society has noted your absence.”
Inevitably she would. At her betrothal ball. Anne rolled onto her back. She flung a hand over her eyes. “I don’t care.” In the past, polite Society’s singular interest on Lady Anne Arlette Adamson would have mattered.
“I’m not leaving,” Katherine said, firming her jaw.
Guilt needled at Anne. Each morning, Katherine had come and stayed with her, nearly throughout the day. Her sister had fashioned herself as something of Anne’s protector through the years. Everyone had believed Anne in need of saving. She’d never have imagined the only one who could save her was in fact the single gentleman she’d taken to be a rogue and scoundrel.