What are you doing here?
Do you belong? Or am I dreaming?
Was the other night naught but a trick? A farce?
Were those starlit kisses truly as compelling as I remember?
Or was that last one only her?
Anne found her palm and fingers cupping her lips, lest she gasp again. Or cry out her confusion.
Do you not mean your yearning? He is here! Claim him—before he disappears!
“Merry?” Harriet laughed and turned to Anne. “Merry! You see, ’tis spreading!”
Nay, what was spreading—based on Redford’s abruptly ruddy complexion and Anne’s lightheadedness—was mortification. A heaping dose of it. As if he, finally, had only then recalled his near offer to make her his mistress!
The lout. Already intending to take a lover—before even greeting his probable wife?
Inconsiderate imbecile.
She would refuse him. She would!
As he stepped over the threshold and struggled out of his coat—refusing Wilson’s aid—Harriet’s smile faltered. “Your hand,” she persisted, but did at least lower her volume. “Did you lose it fighting Napoleon?”
“Harri. Hush.” Anne snaked an arm around her sister’s collarbone and tugged her backward, against her trembling form. “Forgive us, L-lord Redford”—how she stumbled over that—“for not welcoming you properly to our home.” Then she could not help but needle. “I trust your journey was a strenuous one, else you would have arrived before dinner began? Mama held it back, waiting for you but stomachs gurgled and grumbled, threatening to turn the drawing room into a rumpus.”
Despite the hold on her sister, she dipped a mocking curtsy just as her mother bustled in and the man himself spoke—to Harriet, while still managing a glance at Anne. A wholly unreadable glance. “Aye. Left it in Spain, I fear.”
“Lord Redford!” her mother exclaimed, approaching. “Welcome! I see you have already met Anne. Your mother will be along—”
“Anne?” His gaze swung from Harriet to her mother to Anne’s now embarrassed countenance. The winter flush left his complexion as he paled. “LadyAnne? Not Mary?”
“Mary?” her mother repeated blankly.
Beyond the small party gathered near the door, Anne heard cutlery clinking, chairs scraping back and a renewed murmur of voices. Like a plague of locusts descending, the Entrance Hall was about to be overrun.
Arms still anchored around her sister, Anne edged toward the latecomer, rather than risk him asking again. In an aside intended only for his ears, she explained, “M-E-R-R-Y. You misunderstood. I daresay we both did.”
“Rather a lot, it appears.”
Be my mistress…
Those startling, gravel-voiced, absolutely flattering and wholly insulting words ran through her mind yet again.
Swoon? Yell at him? Take a swing, perhaps? Rail at her mother? Appeal to her father? What in blazes should she do?
“Where at in Spain?” Harri wanted to know. “Did you see it afterward? Your hand? The rest of your arm? Terrifically gruesome, I suppose. How much did you bleed? Do you know? Did your claret splash out? Or only trickle?” Her sister gave a bit of a shudder.
And the look on Lady Redford’s face as she approached in time to hear that last bit? Shock? Outrage?
Harri’s inappropriate Inquisition likely scandalizing that kind, majestic woman to the point she, in all probability, now lamented ever seeking an audience with Anne.
Her gaze bounced back to his. Blue fire.
Then back to his mother’s.
If Lady Redford knew how Anne had behaved with her son? Climbing over his bare chest wearing naught but his shirt! Rubbing herself against—