S.
“You can’t see the damned words, can you?”
She bristled with indignation and gave a flounce of her golden ringlets. “I can see them. Some of them,” she amended. “And you really shouldn’t curse in front of a lady.” Though that was likely one of the lesser charges she could level at the dashing earl.
His long, powerful legs ate up the distance between them as he strode over. “You need spectacles,” he said.
“I don’t.” With him finding it a matter of such hilarity, she wouldn’t dare admit that truth to him, not when he’d already had such a laugh at her expense.
“You do,” he spoke with a finality that suggested he considered the debate ended.
“I don’t.” She held the copy of The Times protectively in front of her. “This isn’t about what I can see or not see, Harry. This is about your behavior last evening with…”
He arched another quizzical eyebrow. “With?” he prodded.
“Oh, hush, you very well know I didn’t read—”
“Because you couldn’t see it.”
“—the entire article,” she finished. She tossed aside the paper and once more settled her hands on her hips. “Did you leave me and go see one of your fancy pieces?” His lips twitched. She narrowed her eyes. “This is not a matter of amusement.”
“Yes, I do believe you are jealous, sweet.”
She widened her eyes and opened her mouth. She closed it. She tried again. Words failed her. “I am not jealous,” she managed after a long, uncomfortable stretch of silence. In spite of everyone’s low opinion, she had enough good sense to avoid any emotional entanglements with Harry. He snorted. “I’m not,” she insisted. Anne began to pace. “As Mother said, it reflects all rather poorly on me.” She slashed the air with her hand. “Society will speak about how I’m unable to hold your affections—”
He grinned. “My affections?”
She nodded and continued pacing. “They’ll wonder at what flaw I possess, failing to realize the truth.” She paused mid-stride and met his gaze squarely. He really did have splendid eyes. The flecks of gold put her in mind of the fabled pot at the end of a rainbow.
“And what is the truth, Anne?” he asked, jerking her back to the moment.
She pursed her lips. “That my inability to hold your affections is through a detriment of your own character, my lord. You are unable to love anyone. Not just me,” she hurried to clarify when his eyes narrowed.
Harry wandered close. She retreated. He continued until the backs of her knees thumped against the King Louis XIV chair and she tumbled into the seat. She craned her neck to look at him and swallowed, resenting his height. It hardly seemed fair she should be a mere smidge in his commanding shadow. “You’re wrong. I tried love once before. I’ll not give myself over to weak sentiments.”
His admission sucked the breath from her lungs. Harry, the Earl of Stanhope, unrepentant rogue, scoundrel, bane of every innocent young lady’s existence had been in love? Why did envy knife her heart? “Oh,” she whispered. Because really, what else was there to say to the staggering realization—Harry had buried truths of his own.
He placed his hands on the gold arms of her chair and leaned close. His breath fanned her cheek, a delicious blend of mint and lemon. “Won’t you ask questions, sweet? Don’t you want to know the story of Miss Margaret Dunn?”
She furrowed her brow. No, she really didn’t care to hear one bit about this Miss Margaret someone-or-another who’d held his affection.
They studied one another in stony silence. With mention of some faceless young lady, Harry suddenly belonged to another. Anne frowned, regret turning inside her belly. She, for some inexplicable reason, preferred a world in which he was the grinning, teasing gentleman who courted her—if even just to school her on the art of seduction. “What
“You can’t see the damned words, can you?”
She bristled with indignation and gave a flounce of her golden ringlets. “I can see them. Some of them,” she amended. “And you really shouldn’t curse in front of a lady.” Though that was likely one of the lesser charges she could level at the dashing earl.
His long, powerful legs ate up the distance between them as he strode over. “You need spectacles,” he said.
“I don’t.” With him finding it a matter of such hilarity, she wouldn’t dare admit that truth to him, not when he’d already had such a laugh at her expense.
“You do,” he spoke with a finality that suggested he considered the debate ended.
“I don’t.” She held the copy of The Times protectively in front of her. “This isn’t about what I can see or not see, Harry. This is about your behavior last evening with…”
He arched another quizzical eyebrow. “With?” he prodded.
“Oh, hush, you very well know I didn’t read—”
“Because you couldn’t see it.”
“—the entire article,” she finished. She tossed aside the paper and once more settled her hands on her hips. “Did you leave me and go see one of your fancy pieces?” His lips twitched. She narrowed her eyes. “This is not a matter of amusement.”
“Yes, I do believe you are jealous, sweet.”
She widened her eyes and opened her mouth. She closed it. She tried again. Words failed her. “I am not jealous,” she managed after a long, uncomfortable stretch of silence. In spite of everyone’s low opinion, she had enough good sense to avoid any emotional entanglements with Harry. He snorted. “I’m not,” she insisted. Anne began to pace. “As Mother said, it reflects all rather poorly on me.” She slashed the air with her hand. “Society will speak about how I’m unable to hold your affections—”
He grinned. “My affections?”
She nodded and continued pacing. “They’ll wonder at what flaw I possess, failing to realize the truth.” She paused mid-stride and met his gaze squarely. He really did have splendid eyes. The flecks of gold put her in mind of the fabled pot at the end of a rainbow.
“And what is the truth, Anne?” he asked, jerking her back to the moment.
She pursed her lips. “That my inability to hold your affections is through a detriment of your own character, my lord. You are unable to love anyone. Not just me,” she hurried to clarify when his eyes narrowed.
Harry wandered close. She retreated. He continued until the backs of her knees thumped against the King Louis XIV chair and she tumbled into the seat. She craned her neck to look at him and swallowed, resenting his height. It hardly seemed fair she should be a mere smidge in his commanding shadow. “You’re wrong. I tried love once before. I’ll not give myself over to weak sentiments.”
His admission sucked the breath from her lungs. Harry, the Earl of Stanhope, unrepentant rogue, scoundrel, bane of every innocent young lady’s existence had been in love? Why did envy knife her heart? “Oh,” she whispered. Because really, what else was there to say to the staggering realization—Harry had buried truths of his own.
He placed his hands on the gold arms of her chair and leaned close. His breath fanned her cheek, a delicious blend of mint and lemon. “Won’t you ask questions, sweet? Don’t you want to know the story of Miss Margaret Dunn?”
She furrowed her brow. No, she really didn’t care to hear one bit about this Miss Margaret someone-or-another who’d held his affection.
They studied one another in stony silence. With mention of some faceless young lady, Harry suddenly belonged to another. Anne frowned, regret turning inside her belly. She, for some inexplicable reason, preferred a world in which he was the grinning, teasing gentleman who courted her—if even just to school her on the art of seduction. “What
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