More Than a Duke (Heart of a Duke Book 2) by Christi Caldwell

outrageous thoughts if they’d involved anyone other than Anne?
     
    “Crude?” Edgerton guffawed. “Never tell me you’ve gone all priggish on me.” Harry lifted one finger in a vulgar gesture. His friend laughed. “No, I suspect one wouldn’t fear you’d go all proper.” He set his elbows on the table in front of him and leaned close. “Rumor has it you were at Lady Westmoreland’s musicale.”
     
    Rumor traveled faster than a purebred stallion on an empty Roman road. He took another sip. With Edgerton’s unwavering loyalty there was little Harry kept from him, and yet something froze all discussion of Anne on his lips. Sharing his pledge to help her felt like a betrayal of sorts.
     
    “Tsk, tsk,” Edgerton mocked. “Attending dull, societal recitals to see an innocent miss with ringlets and ruffled white skirts?”
     
    What is wrong with my ringlets?
     
    A growl rumbled up his chest at those last two mocking words. There was nothing wrong with her blasted ringlets. They suited her well. Too well. Whatever the hell that meant. They just did. He really wished Edgerton would close his blasted mouth. “Go to hell,” Harry muttered. He took another sip and set the partially drunk brandy down with a thunk.
     
    His friend drummed his fingertips on the mahogany table. “Or is it merely that you have seen a hidden diamond ready to be plucked by an eager lord?” He chuckled. “It hardly matters if a lady is as empty-headed as Lady Anne when you have her underneath you.”
     
    Harry’s legs jerked reflexively, knocking the table. The abrupt movement rattled the glass and sent brandy spilling onto the smooth wood surface. A servant rushed forward to clean the mess. He supplied Harry with a new glass.
     
    Lord Alex stretched his legs out in front of him. “Ahh, you must have been soused before you attended Westmoreland’s.”
     
    He didn’t bother to correct his friend’s inaccurate assumption that he was tap-hackled. Though he’d consumed several glasses, Harry was still dead sober. Certainly sober enough to feel the chill of rage run through him at the other gentleman’s disparaging of Anne. Instead, he said nothing. He reached for the bottle and sloshed several fingerfuls, thought better of it and filled the glass to the rim.
     
    “I’m not in the mood for company,” he said curtly. He passed a glance around at the tableau of sin unfolding before him. Young, scantily clad women on the laps of some of the leading members of Society. Nubile females bent over the tables while others slapped at their well-rounded buttocks. He frowned. Once enticed by such depravity, Harry now battled a sense of tedium.
     
    His friend followed his stare, “Ahh, so that is why you’ve come this evening.”
     
    Harry reached for his glass.
     
    “That is a good deal more reassuring than imagining you’ve become a stodgy chap at recital halls courting the vain Lady Anne.” 
     
    He knocked over his second tumbler.
     
    Edgerton cursed and jumped back in his seat as liquid spilled onto his breeches. “Bloody hell, Stanhope. I never imagined I’d say this, but you’ve indulged in enough spirits for the evening.” He yanked his chin in the direction of a blonde angel eying Harry through sultry, interested eyes. “Time to lose yourself in a lush beauty.” He motioned the woman over. “You’re in a foul mood, which I gather has much to do with that recital you attended,” he said as the tall, Spartan-like vision sidled up to Harry.
     
    He stiffened. His foul mood, as his friend referred to it, had more to do with the gleam of interest he’d detected in the bloody perfect Duke of Crawford’s eyes earlier that evening. The bastard had eyed Anne as if she was a berry dipped in champagne and he wanted to lick every last drop from her delectable frame.
     
    He dimly registered an expert set of hands moving from his shoulders, over his chest. He blinked at the golden-haired angel. With her skin flawlessly