Page 70 of What's an Earl Gotta Do?
Anne accompanied him to the door with Hugh trailing after them at a discreet distance. “I take it Morsley proposed last night?” Lord Scudamore asked as he pulled on his gloves.
Anne felt her cheeks reddening as she considered her answer. “Er… yes. Yes, he did.”
Scudamore sighed. He took Anne’s hand in both of his, but instead of bowing over it, he pressed it. “Morsley is a lucky man,” he said, his expression rueful. “A very lucky man indeed.”
Then he did bow over her hand, his lips grazing the backs of her knuckles. “Good day, my lady.”
Chapter 25
Anne was ready when Michael knocked on her door that night. He came in a hackney carriage and was wearing his old jacket. The plain grey frock Sarah had found for Anne fit reasonably well, and the flaps on the cloth cap were large enough to conceal her face. The final accessory to Anne’s outfit was tucked inside her pocket. In addition to the flintlock pistol she used for target practice, she kept a tiny Queen Anne pistol, the kind one loaded by unscrewing the barrel. It was only five inches long, which made it perfect for when she needed something discreet.
Once they disembarked from the hackney, Anne took Michael’s arm and led him toward the alley behind the Red Lion Inn. Michael was on high alert, scanning their surroundings for any sign of trouble and occasionally turning to check behind them.
Anne sighed. “Michael,” she said, tugging his head down so she could whisper in his ear, “you can’t look around like that. It’s too conspicuous.”
Ignoring her, he whipped his head to the left to scrutinize what turned out to be an alley cat. “Someone could sneak up on us.”
“I understand, but you can’t be so obvious about it.”
“What do you suggest, then?”
“Act as if you’ve had too much to drink. Stagger a bit and, if you must turn your head, do so drunkenly.”
Michael glared at her but made a visible effort to comply.
Soon they reached the appointed alleyway. The night was clear and, although the moon was nearly full overhead, the alley was narrow enough that little light filtered down to where they stood. Anne urged Michael to lean one shoulder against a wall and took up a position facing him, trying to pantomime a flirtatious conversation between a streetwalker and a potential customer.
Michael was back to obsessively checking their surroundings. “Relax,” she whispered, smoothing his lapel in a manner she hoped looked coquettish. “Pretend you’re enjoying yourself.”
“I cannot enjoy myself while you are in danger,” he said, his voice clipped.
“You’ve got to try. Come,” she tugged at his coat, “look at me as if you want me.”
He turned his head and did just that, raising a hand to frame her face. It was dark, but Anne could read his face well enough. His expression was one of adoration, but it was mixed with a ferocity that took Anne’s breath away. It was a look that said he was ready to kill for her, ready to die for her, ready to do whatever was required to keep her safe. It was an expression that would not have looked out of place on his ancestors who built Cranfield Castle some five hundred years ago.
She gave a shaky laugh. “Now you’re overdoing it. I don’t think that’s how a man looks at the woman he’s just hired for the evening.”
“This is the only way I know how to look at you,” he ground out.
Anne’s cheeks grew warm, and she was trying to think of a reply when they heard the sound of a man clearing his throat.
Michael spun around and stepped in front of Anne, both fists raised. A short man with dark hair and broad shoulders stood peering at them uncertainly, his hat clutched in front of him in both hands.
“Lady Wynters?” the man said, leaning around Michael to squint at Anne. “Oh, good, it is you.” He shook his head, chuckling. “Blimey, you’re even prettier than your cartoon.”
Anne gave him a tight smile at the mention of the cartoon. She took Michael’s arm and tried to move him out of the way. When he didn’t budge so much as an inch, she stepped around him. “Thank you so much for meeting with me, Mr., er…”
“Price. Arnold Price.” He looked Michael up and down. “Who’s this, then?”
“A good friend,” Anne replied. “He can be trusted.”
Mr. Price frowned. “What I’ve to say is for your ears only.”
Oh dear. There was no way Michael was going to step so much as five feet away from her. What was she going to—
“I am Lady Anne’s betrothed,” Michael said quietly.
Mr. Price’s head snapped up to look at Michael. “Her betrothed, you say?”
