More Than a Duke (Heart of a Duke Book 2) (3 page)

“Ah, yes,” she wagged a finger under his nose. “But I’m reasonable enough to put aside my personal differences on matters of importance.”

“Three,” he caught her wrist. His large fingers encircled the delicate flesh. “Though you are passably pretty, I couldn’t even begin to drum up interest enough to help you.”

Hurt flashed in her eyes. “Pleasantly.” She wrenched her hand free.

He furrowed his brow. What was she on about?

“The papers have called me pleasantly pretty.” Something in her tone hinted at a young woman who desired more than being gossiped about and ascribed labels by a judgmental
ton
.

He dragged a hand through his hair. “Bloody hell,” he cursed. The little termagant brought out the worst in him…and ladies didn’t ever bring out the worst in him. Not the young debutantes, not the eager widows, not even the frowning dowagers. Lady Anne, with her usual, reserved-for-him-frown and often-harsh words, on the other hand, did. “Forgive me,” he said. “That was uncalled for.”

She waved a hand. “You needn’t apologize for being truthful, my lord,” she said with far more somber maturity than he’d imagined her capable of. She held up her palms. “But I need help and I decided to enlist your aid first.”

First
.

Which, of course implied there’d been a second gentleman whose aid she intended to seek out if, nay,
when
, he refused to take part in her imprudent plan.

If he’d been any other rogue, Harry suspected she’d be ruined by now with her skirts up, bodice lowered, as he instructed her on all the ways to seduce
whomever
it was she wanted to seduce.

Anne spoke softly, pulling him back to the moment. “You have a notorious reputation and I…” Her gaze skittered to a point beyond his shoulder.

Harry told himself not to ask. He really should send her on her way, back to the ballroom and forget she’d ever put the scandalous proposition to him. “And you what?” he asked, tersely.

She jumped. The color in her cheeks deepened. “And I thought as Katherine’s friend I could trust you with my request and also trust that you wouldn’t, er…” She fanned her cheeks. “
You know
.”

No, he really didn’t know. He recognized the perils in acknowledging as much. He eyed her warily. “What wouldn’t I do, Lady Anne?” And then promptly wished he’d never fed his curiosity.

“Why, you wouldn’t take liberties with any inappropriate embraces.” Her pink cheeks burned red.

“As opposed to the more appropriate embraces?” Droll humor underscored his question.

Anne nodded once. “Er, yes, I do suppose I see your point,” she conceded.

He’d intended to send her away with a curt rejection, back to her protective, but not protective enough, mama’s side. Except, she’d mentioned Katherine and as a friend, he could not in good conscience let her go without talking some sense into her senseless head. He’d wager his entire land-holdings that if he sent her back to the evening’s festivities with a simple no, she’d surely find the second someone on her list to help her with this
plan
. He balled his hands into fists. “Who do you intend to seduce?”

Hope flared in fathomless depths of her eyes. “I can trust you?”

“Really, my lady?” He scoffed. “You’d ask me to teach you how to seduce a man but you’ll withhold his identity?”

“I suppose you’re right.” She caught her lower lip between her teeth and nibbled the plump flesh. “To be skeptical, that is.”

His gaze went to her mouth. Heat surged through him at the innocently erotic movement. And then he remembered the sweet taste of her, orgeat and honey. His fingers twitched with a sudden urge to pull her back into his arms and avail himself to …“Christ.” The angry entreaty burst from him.

She jumped, clearly misinterpreting the reason for his annoyance. “Forgive me. The Duke of Crawford. I’d like you to teach me the skill of seduction so I might…er…earn the duke’s affections.”

She’d clearly mistaken the reason for his frustration. He imagined the fun Anne would have at his expense if she gleaned his sudden desire to kiss her senseless until she was moaning in his mouth once more.

Then her words penetrated the mad haze around him. “The Duke of Crawford?” he repeated.

She nodded.

Crawford. The thirty-year-old duke who’d inherited his title nearly ten years back was rumored to be in the market for a wife. Obscenely wealthy, coolly proper, company desired by all, Lady Anne could not have set her marital sights on a more sought-after bachelor.

Harry’s lip curled back in a sneer. Surely a title-grasping miss should no longer take him aback. Not after Margaret Dunn’s betrayal all those years ago. As long as there was an unwed duke about, there would be a scheming miss at hand. Lady Anne Adamson could not be more different in appearance than the woman who’d broken his heart many years back, but she was remarkably similar in her goals and desires.

Lady Anne waved her hand in front of his face. “Lord Stanhope?”

He squared his jaw. “So, you’ll trap poor, unsuspecting Crawford?”

She patted the back of her head. “I’ve already said I do not intend to trap His Grace. I intend for you to teach me how to teach him to desire me.” Another blush. “For a wife,” she said hurriedly.

He folded his arms. “Why Crawford?”

“Well, if you must know—”

“I must.” Though he already strongly suspected not much more than the man’s old, revered title most accounted for Anne’s interest in the duke.

She gave a slight shrug. “He’s pleasantly handsome.”

He snorted.

Anne bristled. “And he’s unfailingly polite.” She gave him a pointed look.

“I gather that’s because you’ve never insulted the gentleman,” he muttered. Unlike Harry, who’d become something of an archery target for her well-placed barbs since their first meeting. Though, in, fairness at this particular moment he quite deserved the lady’s displeasure.

“I suppose you are correct,” she surprised him by concurring. Her next words ended all such shock. “But then, the duke has never done something as reprehensible as trying to seduce my sister.”

A dull flush climbed up his neck. And when put in those blunt terms, he did feel properly chastised.

She continued either uncaring or unaware of his discomfiture. “He’s wealthy and in possession of one of the oldest titles.” Ah, there it was. “And he doesn’t even know I exist,” she finished on a dramatic sigh.

Harry tugged at one of her golden ringlets. “It is your ringlets—”

“Oh, do hush.” She slapped his fingers again. “It is not my ringlets.”

“Then, what is it?” he asked in a lazy whisper as he laid claim to the silken strands once more.

Anne froze, her mouth screwed up in concentration. He used the momentary quiet to study her. Though not the lithe, exotically dark beauties he generally preferred, she really was quite lovely; in an unsophisticated, English-lady, type of way. “I don’t know what it is,” she said at last. Her shoulders rose and fell. “I’ve tried to capture his attention.”

He swallowed a chuckle, imagining just what
that
had entailed.

Her face set in a familiar scowl. “Don’t laugh at me.”

“You need my help,” he reminded her and released the satiny strand.

She squared her shoulders. “I’ll still not humble myself and be mocked by you because I’ve
sought
your help.”

Good for the young lady. With her steely strength, Anne rose in his estimation. Oh, he’d never admit as much to the spitfire. He drummed his fingers upon his thigh. There was no helping it, he really must know. “How have you gone about trying to capture Crawford’s notice?”

She gestured to her skirts. “My gowns.”

He looked at her wildly gesticulating hands. “What about your gowns?”

“I’ve worn my finest gown.”

It would seem Harry was more a gentleman than even he believed because he managed to resist pointing out that her ivory ruffled skirts wouldn’t manage to stir interest from even the most staid, respectable lord in the market for a wife. Instead, Harry mentally stripped the proper gown from her lean, lithe frame and replaced it with the gold, water-dampened skirts the Viscountess Kendrick’s had worn. He must have had too many spirits to even be considering such an outlandish thought involving the tart-mouthed Anne Adamson. “Hmm,” he said noncommittally.

“And I’ve dabbed lavender oil behind my ears.” She recoiled. “What are you doing?”

He froze, his nose a breath away from her ear. “I’m smelling your lavender-scented skin, my lady.”

Color stained her neck. Harry inhaled the sweet, fragrant hint of lavender that clung to her and started. He’d never found the innocent scent to be the least enticing and yet… “Well?” Anne prodded.

“Yes, certainly the scent of lavender, there…ow…” She jammed the heel of her slipper into his toes. He’d always taken her for a bloodthirsty creature. With that disagreeable attitude the young lady stood little hope of snaring the sought-after Duke of Crawford.

“Oh, hush. I’m speaking of the duke.
Not
about my skin.”

My skin.

Something sultry and spellbinding held him captive as he considered the delicate, satiny softness of Lady Anne’s skin. When she’d been in his arms, he’d appreciated the silken feel of her, smoother than the finest French fabrics. Christ, he must be going mad to notice such things as—

Anne jammed her heel into his foot yet again.

He grunted in surprise. “What the hell was that for?”

“Er, you seemed distracted. That was merely to obtain your attention. Will you help me attain the duke’s affections?”

He snorted. “Title grasping and fortune-hunting, my dear?”
Just like Margaret.
His humor fled as with Anne’s scheming, she dragged him back into a past he’d buried long ago, and forgotten—until now. Until Anne and her talk of wealthy, powerful dukes. “I must say not wholly unexpected for one such as you.”

She folded her arms across her chest once more, and drew his gaze to her plump breasts. He angled his head. How had he failed to note her rather enticing décolletage? “Why must you use that ‘one-such-as-you’ phrase? It’s rather insulting.”

“Are you trying to seduce a gentleman for his title?” He shot back.

Her color deepened to the red of a sun-ripened strawberry. “It’s…I…you wouldn’t understand.”

Harry thought back to a different woman. A young lady he’d been reckless enough to waste his heart upon. He thrust thoughts of her from his mind. He lowered his head so his lips nearly brushed Anne’s. “No, you are correct. I wouldn’t,” he whispered. “Nothing can ever merit seducing a gentleman for his wealth and title.”

She angled her head back and withered him with a glare. “No, but seducing a woman for her…female attributes is entirely honorable, my lord?”

Touché.
And, hell, when she put it that way…

She tapped his cheek. “Will you help me or not?”

Most any other young lady would be fluttering her lids and using a honeyed tone to convince him to do her bidding. Anne, however was immune to his usual charm. “I cannot, my lady.” In spite of Society’s low opinion of him, he still had some sense of honor. Honor enough to not teach a marriage-minded, innocent miss the art of seduction.

She sprung forward on the balls of her feet as if prepared to launch her whole self into the protest on her lips but then sank back on her heels. “Very well.” She gave a flounce of her curls and started for the door.

He crossed his arms and drummed his fingertips on his forearm. He knew from those mere two words and the steely resolve in her tone that the young lady had already moved on to the alternative in her plan to ensnare the duke.

Do not ask. Do not ask. Do not ask.

Her fingers touched the handle of the conservatory door.

“Who do you intend to seek out next, my lady?” Because a lady as resolute to snare the duke, a lady who’d crafted this ill-advised plot had surely already considered the course of action after his inevitable refusal.

Anne spun back to face him. “The Marquess of Rutland.”

Bloody hell.

She tipped her head. “What was that?”

Of all the men in the whole damned kingdom, she’d picked Rutland. He fisted his hands at his side. “What was what?” His question emerged as a steely whisper.

She glanced about, seeming wholly unaffected by the inner turmoil raging through him. “Er, nothing, I’d believed I’d heard—”

“Do not try and change the subject, madam,” he bit out.

She waved her long, graceful fingers breezily about. “No matter, then.”

He stared transfixed at her elegant fingers and unbidden thoughts entered of the innocent Lady Anne Adamson using those hands upon that bastard Rutland, using them for things no proper lady should ever do. The irony in her selection for tutor was not lost on him. Nearly ten years ago, he’d battled Rutland for the avaricious Miss Margaret Dunn’s hand. His lips twisted in a humorless smile. In the end, they’d dueled and she’d chosen neither of them. Since then, Rutland, with his shocking proclivities for bondage and riding crops behind chamber doors, had earned a reputation far blacker than Harry’s.