Page 12 of What's an Earl Gotta Do?
Harrington sighed. “It will go against form, but just this once, I suppose I could give it a try.”
“Glad as I am to see you both,” Michael said, giving them a glower that said he wasn’t glad at all, “is there any particular reason you have interrupted my time catching up with your better-looking, better-smelling sister?”
“Indeed, there is,” Fauconbridge replied. “As you may have noticed, Anne has caused quite a sensation this evening. The first dance is almost over, and Gladstone has the second. He has already vowed that, unlike Bassingthwaighte, he will call you out if you take his dance.”
Michael was already turning back to Anne. “Fine. Let him call me out. Now, if you two will excuse us—”
“Michael! No!” Anne exclaimed. “I won’t have you taking such a risk.”
He rolled his eyes. “Oh, please, Anne. I was at school with Gladstone. He’s the worst shot in the world. He probably doesn’t even know which end of the gun to load.”
She took his arm and began tugging him back toward the ballroom. “All the more reason not to duel with him. He’s like to kill you by mistake while attempting to delope.”
“I’m willing to take the chance,” Michael grumbled, digging in his heels and pulling her to a halt just shy of the ballroom.
She turned to face him. “Well, I’m not. There will be no taking of unnecessary chances. Not when I’ve just gotten you back after such a very long time.”
Her voice was tremulous with sincerity, which managed to penetrate his annoyance. “I suppose I can accept that.”
“Morsley!” Fauconbridge called from inside. “Are you coming?”
“I suppose I should be calling you Lord Morsley, too,” Anne mused, “at least when someone’s around to hear.” The rest of the Astley brood called him by his courtesy title, but he and Anne had always used each other’s first names, as far back as he could remember.
“Don’t you dare,” he whispered. He still had her mask, and now he lifted it to her face, gently fastening the cord behind her head. He purposely swept his fingers along her hairline as he finished, framing her face. “Perfect,” he said softly. He felt her shiver, which was immensely satisfying. “I take it your dance card is full for the rest of the evening?”
“I’m afraid so.”
“I feared as much. So, when can I see you again? For more than two minutes between dances?”
“Tomorrow. I join Edward and Harrington for shooting practice once a week. You’ll come, won’t you?”
“I’d like nothing better.”
“Meet me at my house at nine o’clock.” Anne wrote the address on the cover of her dance card, then ripped it off and handed it to him.
“Nine o’clock. Perfect.”
Anne left then to fulfil her promised dances. As anticipated, he found few chances to speak with her, and never for more than a minute or two.
But that didn’t matter. Tomorrow he would find a way to shake off her brothers so they could be alone.
Tomorrow, at long last, he would propose.
Chapter 3
Except the next morning, Michael didn’t go shooting with Anne. Just as Anne was preparing to leave, she received a note from Michael—apparently Lord Hobart had gotten wind of his return and requested that he present himself at Horse Guards to provide an update about the current situation on the Canadian frontier.
Anne sighed as she strode into her front parlor. She usually found its yellow silk wall hangings so cheerful, but today they failed to ease her disappointment. She took a seat at the rosewood writing desk and pulled out a sheet of foolscap to pen a quick reply. Michael could hardly refuse the Secretary of State for War and the Colonies. But this was the only free moment she had today, and she’d been hoping to spend it with him.
She was just putting the finishing touches on a note suggesting they go for a drive tomorrow when one of her footmen, Hugh, appeared in the doorway. “Mr. Samuel Branton,” he announced.
Anne smiled as one of her closest friends came into the room. Samuel Branton was a barrister—her barrister, as it happened—and a fixture in London’s charitable reform movement. Samuel was born in Jamaica but had lived in Britain for more than a decade. He was five years older than Anne and a bit taller, with warm brown skin and tightly coiled black hair he wore cropped short to facilitate the barrister’s wig he wore when arguing before court. As always, Samuel was impeccably turned out, wearing a burgundy silk waistcoat beneath a perfectly tailored coat of charcoal grey.
“Thank you for coming,” Anne said, rising from her desk. “Let me ring for some tea.”
Samuel held a hand up. “Thank you, but no. As it is Wednesday, I know your brothers will be by to collect you any minute, so you can enjoy your one and only hour of leisure for the week.”
Anne wrinkled her nose. “That’s rich, coming from you. If you’ve ever taken the afternoon off, I’ll eat my bonnet.”
