More Than a Duke (The Heart of a Duke #2)(7)

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—”