The Beast (McQuoid Family Saga #3)

Chapter 1

“In her first passion, a woman loves her lover, in all the others all she loves is love.”

~Lord Byron

London, England

Almost Spring

All of High Society knew the McQuoid family to be an enormous, scandalous, boisterous, notorious—and every other imaginable “ous”—lot.

What else should one expect? The Earl of Abington and his six children were, after all, of Scottish stock.

The ton was looking to the McQuoids for one scandal or another. Why should they not when the McQuoids unfailingly giveth and provideth them?

As for the Earl and Countess of Abington’s youngest child—a daughter, Lady Fleur McQuoid—since her very birth, she had been centered in the scandal sheets.

Actually—

The Londoner

Almost-Killing of the Countess

by M. Fairpoint

Lady F nearly kills the Countess of A…

—was how it read, to be exact.

In Polite Society’s brutality, papers and peers blamed a babe for a heinous crime—attempted murder.

Born just minutes after her almost-twin, Quillon, at the very start of a new year, Fleur was technically a year younger in name. She deeply resented both the age gap and her brother’s teasing about it.

Since Fleur’s arrival, her siblings and cousins got into enough trouble to make her look almost saintly.

Why, even now, on the cusp of Fleur’s debut for the upcoming London Season, the latest McQuoid shenanigans had nothing to do with her.

A morsel so delicious that nearly all the ton had prematurely returned to London before the Season to be closer to the gossip.

Her cousin, Miss Meghan McQuoid-Smith, now the Countess of Culross, was abducted by a privateer she loved, which resulted in jilting her actual betrothed, the Duke of Hartwell.

Not that Fleur had continued on like St. Margaret. No one knew anything about Fleur’s almost-ruinous adventure several weeks earlier.

At least not yet.

And God willing, they never would.

If her secret was discovered, no family member would be spared; even the men would face consequences, though they were usually pardoned.

Prior to her cousin Meghan’s almost-wedding to the Duke of Hartwell, Fleur, Meghan, and Meghan’s younger sister, Andromena, sneaked out to Lord and Lady Rutland’s notorious masquerade.

And ever since that one magical night, she had resided—and quite happily so—in her mind, living over and over each and every wonderful—

“My. My. My. If it isn’t the spirited Lady Fleur McQuoid.”

Lost in her memories, Fleur took a moment to return to the literary auction about to commence in Baron and Baroness Chilton’s library.

Or, as her current case had it, she returned to her uncomfortable wooden chair at the farthest back row in the farthest corner of the baron’s enormous library. Fleur tilted her neck back, farther back, and all the way back, until she made the long climb to her visitor.

She didn’t even bother to hide her endless sigh.

Of all the rotten luck. It was always with this man.

The Duke of Hartwell.

The first exchange between the Duke of Hartwell and any McQuoid—that wasn’t his sister-in-law, Lady Linnie Tremaine, ne McQuoid-Smith—would be with Fleur.

After the Great Jilting, as it had come to be called and referred to in papers and in private, it fell to Fleur to smooth things over.

He flashed a crooked smile that surely did wild things to women’s hearts.

It must because even Fleur, who was unimpressed by the swell-headed duke, felt her heart hop into a strange rhythm.

Hartwell lowered his voice. “Lest we gather the crowd’s attention, might I suggest you insert a curtsy.”

“I cannot very well curtsy while seated, Your Grace.”

“That was my point, Lady Fleur.”

He arched a dark brow.

Meghan’s former betrothed must have practiced that lift in the schoolroom.

“I am grateful for the reminder, Your Grace,” she said, coming to her feet.

He executed a bow.

She gave a graceful curtsy—and waited for him to go.

Which, of course, he did not.

This was where polite conversation was required. She wasn’t even bad at it when she wanted to be. She just didn’t want to make it here, now—or maybe ever—with this particular gentleman.

And he knew it, too.

“Your Grace,” she said, all polite deference. “It is very good to see you in public.”

He gave another of his infamous eyebrow arches. “And why ever would I not?”

Fleur opened her mouth to speak, but no words came out, because the ones she had been about to say weren’t at all going to help in the whole “smooth things over” effort.

My cousin broke it off with you, then married your family’s enemy.

All that notwithstanding, she smiled. “I meant it is lovely to see you here.”

Fleur gave thanks she was going to get off freely with only a minimal amount of awkwardness at their ex—

“Are you waiting for me to leave, Lady Fleur?”

Hoping. Wishing. Praying.

“Not at all, Your Grace,” she assured.

Neither did she issue an invitation. So, of course, being a duke who could summon a pineapple and have it bedecked in chocolate drips for a midnight snack if he so craved, Hartwell availed himself of a chair.

Welp. He was sitting.

To be precise, he sat. In the seat right next to hers.

Ugh. Now, Fleur would have to. There was no other way, no other choice.

She briefly considered the double mahogany doors at the back center of the room.

Eight, maybe nine feet away—so close. Had they crossed paths at Gunter’s, Burlington Arcade, or Harding, Howell, and Co.

, she’d have recalled a missed engagement and excused herself.

But she had come to bid on—and win—a copy of Lord Byron’s Don Juan.

Fleur couldn’t very well leave and miss—

“Eying your escape, my lady?” His dark eyes glinted with amusement.

She was going to have to sit.

She did. The delicate wood legs of her chair scraped gleaming mahogany floors.

Hartwell slid a sideways glance that said, Are you trying to bring all eyes on us, you silly ninny?

“I confess, I considered it,” she said. “If it were not for a particular volume I am intent on procuring, I should have already begged off.”

“You bring much warmth to the soul,” he drawled.

She set her reticule down on the empty seat beside hers. “Not on account I dislike you, Hartwell.”

“The compliments continue coming.”

“As you are so very accustomed to them.”

“Yes.” His “yes” sounded like “of course, I am, you peasant.”

Well, maybe not the peasant part.

As the duke settled back into his seat and folded his arms at his very broad chest, his rogue’s smile spoke to the fun he had at her expense.

He appeared unbothered and very well might be, but she was not cruel.

“It is not personal, Your Grace.”

“Are you asking me to leave?”

“Not at all.” She would if she thought it would make a difference, but he might as well have stuck a flag in his chair and declared it his newly claimed country. “It is only that, this is the first interaction between our families since…” She caught her lip. “Since…you know,” she finished weakly.

“I’m afraid you’ll have to be more specific, Lady Fleur.”

No, she didn’t. He knew very well what she was talking about.

“I am hardly the one who should open the lines of communication between my family and…well, you.”

“Why not you?”

“Naturally, I don’t possess the power or influence of my more mature family members.”

“Lady Fleur, you are more tolerable than all of your family members combined,” he declared.

Coming from him, that sounded as close to a compliment as Fleur would get.

Not that she wanted his compliments. She most certainly did not. She would never. She would leave that to the future Diamond of her Season, eager to be chosen as his duchess. That would be the second woman chosen.

Maybe Fleur could bring accord to their families.

“Our families are not necessarily on the best of terms, Hartwell.”

“I cannot fathom why,” he said dryly.

Then the strangest thing happened.

The Duke of Hartwell’s ink-black lashes dipped, and he gave her a teasing wink.

“I need a better look. May I borrow your monocle, Your Grace?”

“I do not possess a quizzing glass.”

“Are you even a duke? Never mind, you needn’t answer that.” His title oozed from his very un-duke-like physique.

Fleur tipped her head. His very, very un-duke-like physique.

Of a certainty, she didn’t need a monocle to appreciate the way his biceps bulged in his wool jacket.

It was normal to note such things, she told herself.

Women noticed pretty things like flowers, and clouds in the sky, sunsets, and… well-built men.

She just hadn’t noticed this particular man before.

The duke’s presence here confirmed one thing. Fleur had a decided partiality for well-built gentlemen.

One who had been charming and swoon-worthy. And the other, who was, well, Hartwell. He was enigmatic in a way Fleur couldn’t put into words.

The duke leaned nearer, but he was like the Tower of London, and she was confident he couldn’t see the blush on her cheeks.

“What exactly do you need a closer look at it, my dear?”

Oh dear. He had caught her staring. But truly, it was his fault for being built like a stallion, dark as one, and possessing all the advantages of a duke.

Fortunately, calling her “my dear” as her father did to Fleur’s mother had a welcome cooling effect. She recalled asking him for a quizzing glass.

“I was trying to have a better look at you as you seem…happy.”

“Looking for evidence of grief?”

She nodded.

His lips twitched in the exact opposite of a frown.

“Should I be sad?”

“Ideally, no.” Fleur leaned up, stretching her neck as far as her nape allowed.

Hartwell tapped a laugh line at the right corner of his eye and lifted a finger.

A long, gold chain fell across Fleur’s vision. She followed the twisting strain until she went cross-eyed.

The duke took the chain and dismissed his servant.

By the time she righted her vision and looked back, Lord Kilmartin, the duke’s man-of-affairs, had already retreated to the doorway, where he stood like a sentry, and Fleur held his gold quizzing glass in her gloved palm.