Page 11 of What's an Earl Gotta Do?
“I’m doing well, just focusing on the Ladies’ Society, as always.” A smile stole over her face. “The most wonderful thing happened recently. It’s a long story, but I came into possession of this little bejeweled box that turned out to be an ancient Egyptian artifact. It sold at auction last month and fetched enough that the Ladies’ Society will be able to double in size.”
“That’s marvelous. An Egyptian artifact—how on earth did you come by that?”
Anne’s eyes went wide as guineas. “Oh dear, you probably haven’t heard. My husband died a year ago.”
Oh, he had heard, all right. “I’m so sorry,” he said, which wasn’t even a little bit true, but seemed like the correct thing to say.
“He won it at a hand of cards just before he passed away.” She pressed a hand to her heart. “I hope I didn’t imply I was glad my husband died!”
Michael for one wouldn’t have minded. “Not at all.” He cleared his throat. “So… you’re a widow now?”
She tilted her head. “Well, of course. What else would I be?”
“Indeed, I was just wondering if you had perhaps remarried already, or were promised to someone else,” Michael said, the words spilling out in a rush. This was his greatest fear. As soon as Wynters had died, everyone he knew had immediately written to him with the news.
His friends had been so prompt that their letters had all gone out on the same ship.
And that sack of letters had gone astray, moldering in some godforsaken corner for six months, so that he only received them twelve weeks ago. His father’s more recent missives, asking what the hell was taking him so long, had suddenly made sense.
He’d rushed back as quickly as he could, feeling sick with worry that Anne would accept another man’s suit before he got there. He peered at her, his heart in his throat. “Are you?”
“I am not. I only just left off full mourning.”
“And are you planning to remarry?” Michael asked, striving to make his tone conversational.
“I am. You know I’ve always wanted a large family. And I didn’t have any children. With Lord Wynters.” She flushed, turning to rest her hands on the balustrade and gaze out over the gardens.
Michael took up a position next to her. “I see. Well, are there any leading contenders?”
“None so far. I’ve only just started my search. It’s actually the reason I’m here tonight—to look for a husband.”
Suddenly Michael felt better than he had in… about four years. “And you’ve found him,” he muttered under his breath.
Apparently he hadn’t spoken as quietly as he’d intended, because Anne’s head whipped around and her mouth fell open. “What was that, Michael?”
“Er, nothing.” Although, judging by the pack of men scrapping after Anne’s dance card, the sooner he declared himself, the better. He couldn’t risk waiting too long.
Again.
“Actually, Anne, the truth is…” He swallowed. This was it. He took her hand in both of his, gathering his courage. “The reason I came back—”
“I say, Morsley,” came the familiar voice of Anne’s brother Harrington, “just how long were you planning to monopolize our sister?”
Michael gave the Astley brothers, who emerged from the ballroom, a look of incredulous annoyance. “A bit longer, as it happens.”
“What’s this scowl?” returned Harrington. “Is that any way to greet an old friend?”
“I would rather speak with your sister,” Michael said pointedly.
“She is, after all, so much better looking than I am,” Harrington replied.
“Better smelling, too,” Michael muttered.
“Now, don’t be silly, Harrington,” Anne said. “Michael and I have catching up to do. You know we’ve always been best friends.”
Harrington rolled his eyes. “Oh, yes, best friends. I have a best friend, too, yet I cannot recall the last time I scooped Thetford into my arms and—”
Without even looking at him, Fauconbridge reached out and cuffed his younger brother upside the back of the head. “Harrington. Behave,” he intoned.
