Page 41 of What's an Earl Gotta Do?
“I was at the Falmouth ball, you know. I didn’t know who he was then, but I saw him scoop you into his arms when that man almost knocked you down.”
“He was merely looking out for me, as a friend.”
The snort Mrs. Wriothesley gave this pronouncement was something less than ladylike. “I saw the way he looked at you. Take it from someone who’s married off eight daughters—that is not how a man looks at his good friend.”
Anne swallowed. And that was the rub of it. Because a little nagging voice in the back of her head had been saying the same thing, ever since their incident on the Serpentine.
Anne still didn’t put much stock in his physical response. The hardness she’d felt pressing against her stomach was just an involuntary reaction, one that a man would have in close physical proximity with any woman.
But what happened next, she had no explanation for. Because he had reached out and framed her face, and his lips had been craning toward hers, and the look in his eyes…
Oh, God, she would never forget the look in his eyes.
How could she explain that? She couldn’t. It flew in the face of everything she had always known about Michael Cranfield, which was that he would never, not in a million years, want to kiss her. But what if…
What if everything she had always known was wrong? What if there was a chance that he… that he…
She reminded herself that she was specifically and demonstrably bad at determining whether Michael Cranfield was thinking about kissing her. That her attraction to him was clouding her judgment.
Because Anne could no longer deny that she was attracted to Michael, not after the way her body reacted when he took her into his arms in the boat. Although who could blame her? Just look at him!
Anne felt her shoulders sag as she did just that. She was being ridiculous. Just look at him, indeed. There was absolutely no chance that the majestic demigod Michael Cranfield had become would ever be interested in the likes of her.
Mrs. Wriothesley’s voice emerged as if through a fog. “Lady Wynters? Lady Wynters? Is everything well?”
“I’m so sorry.” Anne shook her head to clear it. “You caught me woolgathering.”
“From everything you’ve told me, he is a man of outstanding character.”
“Yes.” Anne swallowed. “He is the very finest man I know.”
Those were the words she had said to him after she found out that it had been Michael who had pressed his father to intervene on Bridget’s behalf. She knew she had embarrassed him when she said it; his ears had turned positively vermillion.
Well, it was still true, even after all these years. Just thinking about his recent words, about how she deserved a husband who would treat her like a queen, made tears spring to her eyes.
What a shame that husband wouldn’t be Michael.
Mrs. Wriothesley’s expression had turned peevish. “You cannot expect me to believe that you wouldn’t like to have ‘the very finest man you know,’ who also happens to look like that, for your husband.”
“Any woman,” Anne said carefully, “would be lucky to have Michael as her husband. But,” she held a hand up as her friend tried to interrupt, “it won’t be me.”
Mrs. Wriothesley seemed genuinely confused. “Why ever not?”
“Lord Morsley doesn’t feel anything for me beyond friendship.”
“But—”
Anne laid her hand upon her dear friend’s arm. “I know it for a certainty,” she said quietly. “It is so very kind of you to dream of such a fine match for me. But…” She had to look away. “I know it will never happen.”
She felt her friend place her hand over her own, and when Anne looked up, Mrs. Wriothesley’s expression was… a bit patronizing, truth be told. She patted Anne’s hand three times. “We’ll see now, won’t we?”
“Mrs. Wriothesley!” Anne protested.
“I would advise you not to bet against the woman who’s married off eight daugh—”
“Lady Wynters?”
The aroma of pickled cod announced Augustus Mapplethorpe, who either did not notice or preferred not to ask why Anne was hiding in a shrubbery. And so Anne excused herself and went off to fulfill her promised dances, feeling more confused than ever.
