Lucy Muir (20 page)

Anne hesitated, unsure whether to confess her love for him or not. He had displayed desire for her, and tenderness, but he had not said he loved her. “It was your manner,” she said. “You were so cold—I did not want you to marry me because you felt you had to, and then resent me for the rest of your life.”

“So that was it,” he chuckled, “and I thought it was because I was ‘Hell-born Harry,’ a disreputable rake that no respectable woman would have if she did not desire my fortune or my title, which you obviously did not.”

“How could I object to you on those grounds when I am not received by most of the ton myself?’’ Anne replied. “But why was your manner so cold?”

“It was not lack of feeling; I was nervous,” Lord Stanton admitted. “I had come to realise only the night before how deeply I loved you, and I was not certain it was something you would want to hear. Then, after your refusal,” he further confessed, “I was angry.”

Anne responded only to the first of his comments. “Not want to hear!” she repeated. “There was nothing more in the world I wished to hear than that you loved me,” she said her eyes fully open now.

Lord Stanton looked into their green depths and drew her towards him, holding her close.

“Well,” he said after a moment, “are you going to confess you love me, too, or do my instincts tell me wrong?”

“Oh, yes, Lord Stanton, I love you with all my heart,” she said, the truth of the statement evident in her eyes.

“
‘Harry,’ my dear. I think ‘Lord Stanton’ is a bit formal.”

Anne laughed, relaxing into his arms and leaning her golden head against his shoulder. She felt comfortable there, secure in his love and strength. Who would have thought, the day she made her wager, that this would be the result? Remembering the wager caused a new thought to occur to her, and a small sound of distress escaped her throat.

“What is it, my love?” Lord Stanton asked with concern, looking down into Anne’s suddenly troubled face.

Anne blushed, unsure whether to put what had occurred to her in words. “I have but just realised that I did not pay my wager. I know you released me from it, but you shouldn’t have. What happened was only what you warned me about in the beginning. It doesn’t feel right, not keeping my obligations. What would Charlie have said?”

Lord Stanton laughed richly and tipped Anne’s head up so she was looking directly at him. “I have every intention of collecting the wager—after we’re married.”

* * * *

When Lord Stanton handed Anne from his carriage before her house on Half Moon Street, they were surprised to see that the residence was still brightly lit. Melissa had evidently waited up for her return.

Lord Stanton accompanied Anne inside, and they went up to the drawing room together, Benton looking after them uncertainly. Melissa rose from the chair where she had been working on a piece of embroidery, a look of shock on her face at seeing Anne in the company of Lord Stanton.

“It is all right, Melissa,” Anne reassured her, “Lord Stanton and I are betrothed.”

“Betrothed?” Melissa repeated, looking at them dubiously. “Do you
wish
to be?”

Lord Stanton laughed. “I know it is unbelievable that a respectable woman should agree to marry a disreputable person like myself, but I assure you, it is so.”

“Not so respectable,” Sanders muttered from the corner where she sat with some mending. “It took you long enough,” she added more loudly. “You should have offered for her last January after that first evening. Drinking brandy alone with an unmarried woman with the door closed.” She shook her head disgustedly. “But I suppose it’s better late than never.”

Lord Stanton grinned. “I agree.”

* * * *

Three months later the Marquess and Marchioness of Talford, in residence at their estate of Longworth for the autumn, inspected a large parcel that had arrived from London.

“It’s a gift from Prinny,” said Lord Stanton, reading the card he had been handed by the messenger. “A wedding gift.”

“I believe it is a painting,” said Anne, watching curiously as the footman endeavoured to undo it.

Suddenly Lord Stanton began to laugh. “What would you wager, my dear, that it is a Fragonard?”

“Wager, my love?” Anne said innocently. “I have no need of wagers now, and I believe, sir, you have been paid in full.”

“And with great interest I might add,” he said with a wicked grin.

They laughed together as they stood back to admire the gilt-framed painting that was revealed when the wrappings fell away. With their arms about each other they surveyed the three robust but attractive nudes in a muted forest setting. It was a Rubens, not a Fragonard.

“What do you think?” asked Lord Stanton, his arm tightening about his wife’s waist. “The Prince remembered the story I told him of our first meeting.”

“I think,” said Anne, turning in her husband’s arms and placing a kiss upon his lips, ignoring the presence of the footman, “that it should hang in a place of honour in the Long Gallery.”

Copyright © 1990 by Lucile Moore

Originally published by Harlequin Regency [0373311184

Electronically published in 2012 by Belgrave House/Regency Reads

ALL RIGHTS RESERVED

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This is a work of fiction. All names in this publication are fictitious and any resemblance to any person living or dead is coincidental.