More Than a Duke (Heart of a Duke Book 2) (7 page)

Katherine all but yanked their mother into the vacant seat beside the duke.

“She appears thrilled,” Harry drawled into her ear.

Anne nudged him with her knee. “Do hush,” she whispered. What mother would be thrilled at the most notorious rogue in England’s attention being fixed on her daughter? Of course, the same mother would never suspect the same daughter had enlisted the rogue’s attention in garnering the notice of a duke.

Lady Westmoreland’s daughters trotted down the long center aisle, onward to the front of the hall like a gaggle of geese meandering through Hyde Park. The eldest of the Lady Westmoreland daughters claimed the pianoforte bench while her sisters took their position at the front of the dimly lit hall.

The crowd politely fell silent. A discordant key resonated through the hall. As the young woman launched into song, the audience seemed to flinch in unison.

“You owe me, Anne,” Harry murmured against her ear.

“Hmm?” She arched her neck and strained to see the front of the room. She cursed her diminutive frame and the faraway seating Mother had insisted upon.
Last row sees all
, she’d insisted. Except the blasted instruments being played by the young ladies. What make of pianoforte did the lady play? She squinted into the distance; it appeared to be a Broadwood—

“Never tell me you’re enthralled by this show,” Harry continued in that devilishly silken whisper that tickled the shell of her ear.

She continued to study the rosewood-and-brass instrument. Then froze. Harry’s teasing voice came as if down a long corridor. The vivid blue of the jasperware cameo adorning the magnificent piece and the faint
AA
etched into the pianoforte so very familiar. Too familiar. The air left her on a swift exhale. She curled her fingers along the edge of her seat.

Anne drew in a shuddery breath. She’d not really spared a thought as to where all her worldly possessions were taken. Thinking of someone playing with Benedict’s soldiers or wearing her ribbons or reading Katherine’s books had been too painful. But the extent of her father’s betrayal was so much greater in this, in knowing he’d cared so very little he’d wagered away the one possession she’d loved more than all others…and that now, some other man’s daughters stroked the same keys Anne herself had, once upon a lifetime ago, dug at her.

Harry glanced down at her and his body went taut. He moved an intense gaze over her face; all earlier teasing replaced with concern. “What is it?” His soft-spoken whisper thrummed through her.

Anne managed to shake her head and looked up at him,
really
seeing him perhaps for the first time. Her breath caught. She’d always taken Harry as an indolent rogue, and yet this man, a stranger mere days ago, was so aware of her body’s nuances he could detect her upset, challenging every notion she’d carried of him—before this moment. Harry, who delved enough to see hurt when everyone else remained unaware making her feel something she’d only dared to dream of within the pages of her books—cherished. Warmth spiraled through her; it drove back the pain of her father’s treachery. She managed a smile. “I’m all right,” she mouthed. Because she was. The pianoforte, a token from a lifetime ago, was really just a material object, transient and fleeting. Here one day. Gone the next in a game of faro.

Harry brushed his fingertips over the exposed skin of her shoulders. “I detest your frown, Anne.”

She frowned. What a horrid thing to say.

His lips pulled at the corners. “Not this displeased little frown. The other, forlorn one from a moment ago.”

Her mother leaned across the seat and glared at them.

Harry promptly removed his arm from behind the back of Anne’s chair and she mourned the loss of that closeness. The countess returned her attention to the performance. He returned his hand to its earlier position, and briefly brushed his knuckles along her exposed shoulders.

Anne shivered at the spiraling heat that coursed through her. She glanced around to see if anyone had noticed his deliberate touch. All the guests in front remained with their gazes trained forward. She could ill-afford the scandal of Harry intimately touching her in public, yet she craved his expert caress.

His grin widened, as though he knew the very effect he was having on her. “Now that I have your attention, sweet.” His whisper fanned her ear.

“Behave,” she scolded. She leaned forward in her chair determined to put aside thoughts of Harry’s touch, or his heated gaze, or well, anything and everything him. She leaned sideways in attempt to gather a better view of her beloved pianoforte around Lord Cumberland’s, well his er, cumbersome frame.

“Anne,” Harry whispered.

Warmth unfurled in her belly at the hot intensity of his bold stare.

“It is time for your next lesson, sweet.”

She gulped. With his thick, golden lashes he made her forget the plan that had brought him into her life. “Here?” God help her, she was as weak as her now heartbroken mother.

“Here,” he said, quietly. He leaned down, closing the distance between them. “Music. It is the food of the soul.”

She blinked several times. This is what he’d speak of? Not forbidden kisses and heated caresses. “I thought that was poetry,” she blurted. Katherine and her mother shot her a glare. Anne sat back in her seat, cheeks ablaze.

“Music, poetry. It is all the same, sweet,” he continued, either unaware or uncaring of the disapproving stares trained on him by her family. Knowing Harry’s reputation as she did, Anne ventured it was the latter. He pressed his thigh against hers. “You
do
know how to sing?”

The great, big lummox. She pursed her lips. “Of course I do.”

He removed his hand from the back of her seat. “Not the soft, lyrical soprano type of voice, sweet, but rather the husky whisper of song that makes a man think of bedrooms and bedsheets and all things forbidden.”

She should be scandalized by his outrageous words and yet, she’d never thought of music as a tool of seduction. Through the years, music had been the small pleasure she’d allowed herself in life. Something she was tolerably good at in a world where people didn’t see her as very much good at anything. It seemed inherently wrong to use song to earn a gentleman’s affection.

The crowd erupted into applause as Lady Amelia Westmoreland’s piece abruptly ended. Anne clapped her hands until Lady Ava Westmoreland stood and approached the pianoforte. The plump, bespectacled young lady launched into song two.

She winced at the high-pitched squawk of the woman’s voice, and stole an upward glance at the chandelier, fearing for the well-being of the crystal. The young woman’s somewhat dismal performance, however, gave her something to focus on other than Harry’s clear attempt at shocking her.

Alas, Harry was relentless. “Will you regale the duke with a song this evening, Anne?”

She scowled. “Do hush.”

He leaned ever closer, so close the scandal sheets would have had quite a bit to print the following morning if Anne and Harry weren’t seated at the back of the hall with only the servants as their witnesses. “You’ll sing,” he commanded. “And you’ll remember my lesson. You’ll sing in a husky—”

“A lady cannot determine whether she is a contralto or soprano, my lord,” she interrupted. He might know all manner of things about seduction, but was remarkably ill-advised in matters of music.

“Sultry, contralto, Anne.”

“Humph.” She folded her arms across her chest and stared at the back of Lord Cumberland’s baldpate, determined to ignore the rogue at her side.

~*~

The young lady thought to ignore him. Unfortunate for Lady Anne Adamson, she’d yet to learn it was nigh impossible if Harry wanted a lady’s attention.

Not that he
wanted
her attention, per se.

He stole a sideways glance at the proper English miss beside him with golden ringlets and… that single curl wound with a ribbon, nestled between her plump breasts. He swallowed hard. When he’d agreed to school the termagant Lady Anne Adamson on the art of seduction, he’d never for a moment considered that he himself would be tempted by the young lady who’d been quite rude to him since their first meeting. Even with her curved-in-all-the-right-places figure, Anne would never be the manner of miss to tempt him. Her tongue was too tart. Her frown of disapproval too deep. There were enough sweet-lipped, sultry-eyed beauties that Harry wouldn’t bother with the Lady Anne’s of the world.

Yet, something about her intrigued him. Perhaps she represented a diversion from the
ennui
that had plagued him for these months since Katherine had left London and returned with her husband. Mayhap it was the thrill of teaching a young lady the art of seduction. Whatever it was, she’d drawn him into her siren’s net and he was loath to shake free of her hold.

The crowd broke into a smattering of applause as Lady Ava concluded her piece that might have been one of Shield’s works, but Harry certainly would never make any significant wagers on the actual composer of the song. He hooked his ankle across his knee and continued to eye Anne. She pursed her lips and stole a quick glance up at him and then promptly returned her attention to the front of the hall. His lips twitched. Yes, the lady might attempt to ignore him, but she was little match for his charm.

“Don’t you know it’s impolite to stare?” she whispered from the corner of her mouth.

“Yes,” he said on a grin.

Anne pointed her gaze skyward and returned her attention to Lady Caro Westmoreland, the next Westmoreland girl to take the floor. The young lady could have sprouted wings and joined the heavenly choir of angels amidst Lady Westmoreland’s recital hall and Harry would still be unable to look away from Anne’s breasts. The pale creamy white of her modest décolletage evoked all manner of sinful thoughts that involved her on her back and…

He groaned.

Concern replaced the earlier annoyance in Anne’s pale blue eyes. “Are you all right?”

Harry waved a hand. “Fine, fine,” he said quietly, his voice garbled. Really, far from
fine
. Because by God, Harry did not desire proper, marriage-minded misses. Even if they did possess lush forms to rival the fabled fertility goddesses. More specifically, he did not desire Anne.

She was cheeky.

And rude.

And condescending.

To him, anyway.

And he’d enough ladies clamoring for his notice that he didn’t need or want the attention of an impudent creature like her. She craned her long, graceful neck around Lord Cumberland’s
cumbersome
frame in attempt to view the front hall, her attention on Lady Caro now singing her off-key tune.

“She’s wearing a pale yellow satin gown with white lace trim,” he said from the corner of his mouth.

Anne blinked. She looked around.

He gestured to the front of the hall. “I gather you’re trying to see the young lady’s gown?”

She furrowed her brow. “Why would I care about the lady’s gown?”

Anne’s family glared as one at the two of them.

Harry grinned in response and continued. “Isn’t that what you have, my lady? A keen appreciation for fashion and—”

She snorted. “Lord Harry, I wear white and ivory satin ruffled monstrosities. Do I take you as one to spend the evening mooning over a pretty gown?”

“Quite the reason
to
moon over a pretty gown,” he amended.

Her mouth screwed up. “I suppose.” She shook her head. “But I’m not staring at her gown. I’m watching the performance,” she spoke as if scolding a recalcitrant child.

Lady Katherine frowned at the two of them. Harry winked and the Katherine he’d come to know as friend gave her head a disapproving shake.

“Oomph.”

Anne jabbed an elbow in his side, a frown on her plump lips.

Bloody hell. The chit had sharp, dagger-like elbows. “What was that for?”

She opened and closed her mouth several times like a trout plucked from a well-stocked lake. “You weren’t paying attention.” He cocked his head. “To the recital,” she clarified.

Lady Caro concluded her song and thunderous applause filled the hall, applause which likely had a good deal more to do with the actual end of her piece than anything else. The next Westmoreland lady stepped forward to wound the ears of those present. She eyed the crowded room with something akin to horror, and Harry suspected this particular Westmoreland was well-aware of her precise level of talent. She opened her mouth and another off-key song resonated throughout the marbled space.

He sighed. “Another lyrical soprano,” he said, knowing it would infuriate Anne.

She jabbed an elbow in his side. Again.

Harry winced. He was going to have a vicious bruise to his ribs by the end of the evening’s performance.

“I’ve already told you, a lady can no more determine the pitch quality of her voice than she can…”

He arched an eyebrow.

She frowned. “Than she can…well, I don’t know. But I do know a lady cannot simply decide if she is a soprano or contralto. It is something she’s born with and not something she can or for that matter should” another jab, “
want
to change, all to earn the affections of a man who’d have her with a husky singing voice.”