Hero, Come Back (Cynster 9.50)

Subsequently, however, nothing went quite as he wished.

Lady Hammond’s soirée proved too crowded to indulge in anything beyond the social norm; Hammond House was sadly lacking in amenities—at least the sort of amenities that might have helped. He was reduced to doing the pretty for the entire evening. The only mitigating circumstance was that Anne remained by his side throughout, and nothing—no word, no glance, no touch—in any way suggested she regretted the previous evening’s interlude in Lady Hendrick’s parlor.

Quite the opposite, which only lent yet another layer of tension to the evening.

Added to that, none of the Caverlocks appeared, which fact exercised Anne greatly.

Nerves he hadn’t known he possessed rubbed raw, he set out early the following morning, too early for the social round, determined to catch Anne at home and speak privately with her—put what lay between them into words, and take the next step—only to discover she’d already left for the Foundling House.

He followed her there—as long as the room had a door he didn’t care where it was—only to be totally distracted; he spent the entire day learning things about her—and himself—that, while decidedly relevant, only built the pressure within him, and her, until the need to speak filled their eyes, colored their words, infused every touch.

And still they had no opportunity, no chance to be alone and broach that one, urgent topic.

Now, later that evening, standing by the side of the Grismeades’ ballroom, he watched Anne whirl down a country dance. Even from this distance, he knew she was slightly flustered, although she knew her partner, Gordon Canterbury, quite well. She didn’t like being physically close to other men, yet conversely, with Reggie, she took his arm with relief, stepping as close as propriety allowed. And when they waltzed, she came into his arms with an alacrity she didn’t try to hide; her senses might leap, but they did so with pleasure, with anticipation and delight.

The noise about him faded; a vision swam before his eyes—the first sight he’d had of Anne that morning at the Foundling House. She’d been seated on a stool reading a story to a score of children gathered about. Her attention had been complete, as had been theirs.

And his.

Then she’d looked up, seen him—and smiled.

And promptly conscripted him into helping with the older boys.

Later, he’d looked across the yard and seen her with two toddlers in her arms, one balanced on each hip. By then, her pins had come loose, or been pulled loose by chubby hands; she’d been flushed and radiant.

The sudden surge of remembered feeling jerked him back to the present, but left him slightly giddy. He dragged in a breath, then uttered a prayer of thanks as the music ended.

Enough was enough.

Concealing grim resolution behind his usual affable mask, he crossed the floor to rescue Anne. She looked about, searching for him, then saw him and smiled. When he joined her, she slid her hand onto his arm.

Gordon Canterbury blinked, but was too polite to comment.

The end of the ball was nigh; once again, the Caverlocks had been noticeable by their absence. Reggie steered Anne toward the chaise where Minerva sat.

“I’m not sure what to make of it,” Anne murmured. “Harriet Grismeade said Imogen had intended to come but sent word yesterday that she was indisposed.” She glanced briefly at Reggie. “She hasn’t been about for the past two days.”

Reggie didn’t truly care about Imogen. “Perhaps she caught a chill.”

Anne caught the edge to his tone; startled, she glanced at him.

He captured her gaze. “Tomorrow morning.” Once assured he had her complete attention, he stated, “I’ll call to speak with you at noon.”

“Noon?”

“Yes. Be there.”

She searched his eyes, then, a touch of nervousness returning, nodded. “Very well. I’ll be in.”

“Good morning.”

Anne’s soft voice reached him; he turned as she shut the parlor door.

A morning gown of pale green emphasized her delicacy, turning her hair a deeper chestnut in contrast. The wide skirts shushed as she came toward him, searching his face, her expression guarded; he kept his features impassive, searching her eyes in return.

He saw a frown grow, inwardly frowned in response.

She halted with a yard between them, drew herself up, clasped her hands before her. “If you’ve come to lecture me on watching the Caverlocks…”