More Than a Duke (The Heart of a Duke #2)(8)

“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.

And Rutland wouldn’t hesitate to assist Lady Anne and introduce her to the art of seduction.

“Good evening, my lord,” Anne’s parting greeting, yanked him back from the hell of his past. The click of the door opening sounded like a shot in the night.

He imagined her slim body stretched out, bound to that bastard’s four-poster bed. A cold chill snaked through him. “Stop,” he said quietly. He must be going mad. There was no other explaining the fact that he now seriously contemplated her proposal.

She spun around yet again and all but sprinted across the expertly manicured grounds. “Have you reconsidered, my lord?” Hope danced in her eyes.

“Quiet. I’m thinking.” He stared out at the Lord Essex’s meticulous grounds. He fixed his gaze on the massive rendering at the farthest corner—a life-size stone Hercules with his spear thrust toward two lions reared in battle. Harry would be wise to seek out Lady Katherine and let her know just what request her sister had put to him. And yet… He glanced at Anne.

She studied him with a somber expression.

Perhaps it was boredom on his part. He looked back at the vicious stone lions. Or perhaps he and Rutland were not unlike those primitive beasts. He’d be damned if he allowed Rutland the upper hand in this matter. Not when it affected Katherine’s sister.

Something compelled him to help her. To protect her from not just Lord Rutland but also any of the other reprehensible rogues who would gladly take advantage of her naiveté. Yes, if he were any kind of friend to Katherine, he’d throw Anne his support.

Her blue eyes sparkled. “You’ll do it,” she breathed, having clearly followed the silent direction his thoughts had traveled. She excitedly clapped her hands. “You must—”

He held a hand up and effectively silenced her. “Let us be clear, Lady Anne, I’m doing this merely to protect you from yourself.”

Her mouth formed a small moue of displeasure.

He took a step toward her. “I’ve no intentions of touching you.” Did she appear crestfallen? “I’ll help until he makes you that offer.” And Harry had little doubt under his tutelage, the haughty duke would be offering for the infuriating Lady Anne well before the end of the Season. “I’ll instruct you on how to entice a gentleman but beyond that, do not expect anything else of me.”

She spoke on a rush. “Of course not, my lord.” A golden ringlet fell over her eye.

Harry brushed the silken tendril back. “Harry,” he corrected. For many years, he’d detested the nickname. It held reminders of the empty promises on Margaret’s lips as she’d breathed his name. He lowered his lips close to Anne’s ear. “If I’m to teach you the art of seduction, then I imagine you should use my Christian name.” Now he embraced the sobriquet for it reminded him of the perils in loving another.

With their closeness, he detected the audible inhalation of breath, the rapid rise and fall of her chest. She trailed her tongue over her lips. So the minx wasn’t immune to him. Harry reveled in that slight attestation of her feminine interest. Harry dropped his gaze lower as he once again appreciated the creamy expanse of her full breasts. He nearly choked. What in hell was he doing ogling Lady Anne’s charms? Hadn’t he just stated in no uncertain terms he’d not, in any way, touch her?

She squared her shoulders as if bracing for battle and said, “Very well, then.” She paused. “Harry.” All antipathy for that name, Harry momentarily lifted. There was a husky, almost sultry quality to Anne’s voice. It filled him with a sudden urge to hear it upon her plump, red lips once more.

She stuck a hand out. “Then you must call me Anne.”

He stared blankly down at her outstretched fingers. “What in hell is that?”

“What is what?” She looked around and then followed his gaze to her hand. “This?” She waggled her fingers. “This is a hand, my lord.” Confusion tinged her reply.

“Harry,” he corrected and sent a prayer skyward in search of patience. “And what are you doing with your hand, Anne?”

“I’m offering you my hand, Harry.” She smiled.

He counted to five. “For what purpose?”

“Well,” she screwed her mouth up as if pondering his question. “It seemed like a kind of an introduction between us and then I thought we might shake hands to seal our agreement.”

The young lady intended to enlist his tutelage in the art of seduction and she thought to seal that with a bloody handshake? His lips twitched.

She lowered her hand back to her side. A frown chased away her cheerful smile. “Have I said something to amuse you, my lord?”