Page 38 of His Scandalous Lessons
“I need your help,” Richard said, strolling into Caroline’s studio after being announced.
The Duchess of Hastings was at the easel of yet another painting. This one of her landscapes, the proper work she did under her own name. She had several hanging in the National Gallery, and from the looks of things, this one was about to be another masterpiece of a Cornish coastline.
The duchess put down her paintbrush. “Something to do with Anne, I’ll wager.”
“I know you told me to let her do what needed to be done, but she hasn’t been out in days, Caro,” Richard said, pacing. “I’m worried about her.”
“Of course you are. You love her.”
Richard paused, gaping at her in surprise. “I never—”
Caroline’s expression was soft with understanding. “You didn’t need to.”
Richard had refused to let his mind consider the word. It made things too difficult, complicated. In the past, women who claimed to love him only wanted the things he could give them: money, jewelry, hours of fierce fucking. He had appreciated women who were honest in their desires; love was not for them anymore than it was for him.
Anne expected nothing. For her, kindness was the most basic requirement in a man, because she didn’t know that she ought to have expected more. But Richard loved her because she was brave. She fought to save herself.
She fought to savehim.
“I need to speak with her,” he said hoarsely. “And if not that, then at least see that she’s well.”
Caroline let out a breath. “What would you like me to do? Short of kidnapping her.”
“You’ve an established relationship,” Richard said. “Her father approved of you seeing her before. Bring her to your house. Host another party.”
“You have to be smart about this, darling,” Caroline said. “She’s just spent almost a month at my estate. Do you want her father to grow suspicious?”
“She’s being forced to marry in a matter of weeks. It can’t be too long until the wedding is announced.”
Caroline turned away and began painting the waves along the coast, but he knew she was considering something. Over the years, he grew to understand that it helped the duchess think when she used her hands. Her paintings were the results of an active mind, not ennui.
“Then perhaps that’s how we’ll allay suspicion,” she murmured. Then she snapped her fingers, dropping her paintbrush with a clatter. “The Ashbys’ ball.”
Richard shook his head. “I’d already considered meeting her at events, but the plan is flawed. Her father attends with her.”
“Stop thinking like a politician and think like a nobleman. You used to be quite skilled at both.” At his glare, she rolled her eyes. “Lord and Lady Ashby host the first ball of the season and it would be advantageous for them to announce an engagement for a duke. They are good friends of mine. I’ll ask them to invite Anne under the pretense of making her engagement to Kendal public. He is, after all, Hastings’s family.”
“Forgive me for not thinking like a bloody nobleman, but the entire point wasnotto marry him.”
“She has to play along as if she’s delighted to become a duchess, Richard. You want to speak with her? This is how we do it until we can come up with something else. The announcement will be a foregone conclusion as long as she remains in that house. At least this way you can reassure her that we are behind her.”
“All right.” Richard sighed. “Fuck. All right.”
Caroline’s look was sympathetic. “Take heart, friend. We will find a way to fix this for the both of you.”
Chapter 21
Anne hated pretending to be the dutiful daughter.
Her father had her sequestered once more to recite information whenever he asked. She had never needed to know his motives before; he put together the scraps of intel she gave him, like an inventor placing each cog in a contraption. Each day he would provide her something new — an address, a name, a monetary amount — and then burn the paper on which he had written.
None of them had context. They were simply parts of a puzzle, but only he knew where each belonged. She was only there as a reminder, a recording of each fragment, for she served no other purpose in his life. She was not a son.
Stanton had begun to remind her of her duty to the Duke of Kendal, as if she would forget. He had suggested they renew their acquaintance before saying their vows. Just the thought of Henry — his hands, his lips, his words — made Anne wish to run again. But she could not escape.
Not even from the man her father had instructed to do whatever he willed to make a decent wife of her — from the age of twelve.
Her father had sold her. Before now, Anne had never considered using such a damning description of her relationship with the duke, but this was the truth. Kendal had bought her — against his will, for Stanton had information to force his hand — but she was a product purchased to use how he wished.
