Page 63 of What's an Earl Gotta Do?
“I never said that!” He looked affronted.
Now Anne was annoyed. “You most certainly did! You said you would never, not in a million years—”
“I said that I never meant to insult you! That, in spite of what was going on inside my trousers, I wasn’t going to violate you in the middle of a field!”
Anne was back to blinking at him. “Your… your trousers? What are you talking about?”
“I didn’t mean to have such a coarse response. But I was fifteen, Anne. Even today, well, you were there in that boat. You saw about how well I can resist you. I’m sure you can understand that at fifteen, there was absolutely no chance I could find myself lying on top of the girl I desperately loved without having an… an ungentlemanly response.”
Anne’s spine went ramrod straight. “Oh! You’re saying you had a… an…” She gestured vaguely toward her groin.
He gaped at her. “You mean to tell me you didn’t even notice?”
Anne’s cheeks were positively aflame. “I was fifteen, too, Michael. A very innocent fifteen. I didn’t understand there was anything to notice. I mean—” She swallowed. “At fifteen, even if someone had come along and pointed out exactly what was going on inside your trousers, I wouldn’t have understood what it meant. I thought you were trying to explain that you would never be interested in me. In that way.”
“Oh my—” Michael tilted his head back and gave a wordless growl. “I glanced down and you had your eyes squeezed shut. You were cringing, you were stiff as a board, and I suddenly realized that I was pinning you to the ground. I thought I must have terrified you, especially given, well, what happened to Bridget.”
Another tear coursed down her cheek. “I wasn’t terrified. ‘Nervous’ would be fair. I closed my eyes because… because I thought you were going to kiss me.”
A look of pain crossed his face that was so acute, she could hardly bear to see it. “God, how I wish I had.”
A silence fell. Anne felt about as disoriented as if the carriage had lurched into a ditch and turned onto its side. Michael loved her? And had done so ever since they were fourteen? This flew in the face of everything she’d believed.
Anne frowned. “Wait, Michael, if you were in love with me, why didn’t you say something before you left for Canada?”
“I did. I proposed—”
“No, you didn’t!” Suddenly she was furious. She’d been having trouble enough believing him, but now Michael might as well have been telling her that left was right, and up was down, and one plus two equaled four. “I feel quite certain I would have remembered that.”
He squeezed his eyes shut. “I’m explaining this all wrong. I tried to propose, would be more accurate.”
“What do you mean, you tried to propose? It would seem that one either does or does not issue a proposal. There isn’t any middle ground!”
“I—” Michael broke off, glancing out the window. He released Anne’s hand to knock on the roof of the carriage. “Harold, take a right up ahead. Take us to Astley House.”
“Yes, my lord,” Harold said.
Anne peered out the window. They’d been driving past Cavendish Square and Astley House was already coming into view. “Michael, why do we need to visit my parents’ house?”
The carriage pulled to a halt. Michael’s face was set into grim lines. “You’ll see.”
Chapter 23
Michael felt nauseous as he led Anne up the steps to her parents’ townhouse. He hadn’t been here since the day of his thwarted proposal—not the most comforting memory.
And now he was about to inform Anne that her former husband, the man whom she had pledged to love and to honor, and in favor of whom she had promised to forsake all others, was an outright villain, and that her marriage had been built upon a lie. And even though every indication was that Wynters hadn’t treated her particularly well and that she harbored no deep affection for him, Michael, the man who’d stared down a charging bear without flinching, was terrified.
Yarwood was manning the door, and as soon as he spotted Michael, his stern features creased into a portrait of misery. “Lord Morsley, I am so glad you have come. I spoke to Lord Fauconbridge and Master Harrington the other day, and I beg you to allow me to express how horrifically sorry I am. I honestly thought I had delivered your letter to Lady Anne. But clearly I failed to safeguard it.”
Anne’s mouth had fallen open as she stared wide-eyed at the Astleys’ normally taciturn butler. “Yarwood?” she said softly. “What on earth?”
Yarwood did not seem to have heard her, for he soldiered on, wringing his hands. “I had entirely forgotten he was here that day. It was not until some months later that we came to realize that Lady Anne had never received your proposal, you see. And compared to your unexpected arrival, his presence was such a trifle, it was hardly even worth remembering. It wasn’t until Lord Fauconbridge and Master Harrington questioned me that I recalled that you were not the only guest we had that morning.”
Michael nodded sympathetically. “It’s all right, Yarwood.”
“It is not all right.” Yarwood’s voice was shaking. “It is not all right, and it never will be. I think—” He squeezed his eyes shut. “He asked me to fetch him a drink. I’m almost certain of it. And I left the room. I left the room, left your letter right there on the desk, and he must have…"
Michael clasped him on the shoulder. “You are not to blame. The blame lies solely with the man who acted with such dishonor.”
