Chapter 3 #2
“Two thousand guineas, twenty shillings.” Hart didn’t shout that outrageous bid. The rumble of his deep baritone did the work for him.
A fresh set of rustlings rolled around the library.
Winterly briefly lost his composure a second time. He swiftly collected himself. “Two thousand guineas, twenty shillings to His Grace, the Duke of H.”
A powerful quiet fell.
The stunned auctioneer looked to Baron and Baroness Chilton.
Trying to get another bid, were they?
Determined to put a definitive end to their greedy grab, Hart called a bid against himself. “Three thousand guineas, thirty shillings.”
The room broke into pandemonium.
The matter of the auction settled, he returned to bantering with the amusing chit beside him. He forgot what he had been about to say.
All the color had left Fleur’s cheeks, leaving them a stark white that highlighted several freckles and a previously unnoted beauty mark at the side of her right nostril.
“What have you done?” she uttered.
“Won.”
She somehow managed to both look like he’d kicked her dog and spoke with a barbed tone that would penetrate any other man’s skin.
“Be thankful I saved you from certain scandal,” he said collectedly.
The lady didn’t look appreciative—she looked ready to claw his eyes out.
“You. Stole. My. Lot.”
Ahh, so the real crux of her fury.
When he’d arrived, he had only intended to stay long enough to air his influence, win Byron’s collection for the mistress Hart was in the process of setting up, and take his leave.
Hart’s Anglo-Saxon-rooted frame had begun to protest his minimal Trafalgar chair at Chilton and Winterly’s opening remarks. Sparring with the spitfire proved compelling enough reason to stay and put up with some mild discomfort.
Hart shifted his weight and settled in for the long run.
“Is that truly the title you came to bid on?”
“Yes,” she hissed.
He should have figured.
“If I had known that, I would have paid double.”
“Paid d-double,” she choked.
“I didn’t take you for a sore loser,” he said. “Strike that. I absolutely did.”
“Sore loser?” Her face flamed so red it was a wonder the hellion didn’t catch fire. “Sore loser?”
They were attracting attention. He didn’t even care. Now, she was discomfited.
He freely admitted to enjoying the shoe being on the other wearer.
Winterly accurately assessed the volatile exchange at the back of the library. The gentleman glared at Hart and gaveled the room to attention.
Hart fastened a stare on the besotted fool that said: “Interfere at your own peril.”
The standoff ended in a flash.
“…Lot 246, if you please…”
Hart put the same harsh, implacable look on the outraged woman to his right.
Unlike the unnerved Winterly, Fleur had a bored air to her—or she tried to.
Fleur kept her focus on the auctioneer. Her eyes still glittered like lightning bolts.
The poor gentleman glanced swiftly down at his papers. “…This is another coveted work…”
“I forgot your penchant for seeking out scandals.”
“…A signed presentation of Ivanhoe by Sir Walter Scott…”
“Just as you have a fondness for throwing your title around to get what you want and scaring people,” she spoke quietly. “I have a fondness for doing as I please.”
The first part she intended as an insult rolled off him.
“This is a game to you,” she noted.
Surprised at how quickly she had set herself to rights, he curled a corner of his mouth to provoke a reaction. “I am not enjoying it, if that is what you mean.”
Fleur kept her focus on the current bidding. “Actually, I meant exactly what I said.”
He wasn’t fooled by her fake interest.
“You find your defeat of me as nothing more than checkmate on a chessboard, Hartwell.”
“Hartwell was my father,” he gritted out.
The stubborn bit of baggage dug her heels in. “I refuse to call you Hart.”
“Fine. You may choose from Your Grace or I’ll even allow you Duke.”
He may as well have saved his breath.
“You have one of those king’s names: William or Henry or Edward. Maybe Charles.” Fleur stretched up and gave him a closer study. “Probably all four.”
Tension stabbed at his temples. It was all four, but not in that order.
“Hartwell is your title, as it was your father’s before you, as it was before his and so on,” she advised like his first bloody tutor decades earlier. “But now, you are Hartwell.”
The bloody gall of this wench. She advised Hart on his given name?
The throbbing in his head grew.
He wanted to throttle her. Worse—he wanted to, right here and now, toss the lady’s bright, airy skirts about her waist and show the saucy chit her place.
She flashed the dazzling smile that worked for gents like Winterly. Having her use those same wiles now on Hart only made his pressure-boil.
“I shan’t call you Hart, on account of you do not have one,” she said.
The poor chit’s intended insult failed. One couldn’t be offended by a fact.
She tossed her curls and instantly summoned images of those sun-kissed coils bouncing while he had his way with her. His body responded in due accord.
Undoubtedly not the reaction she sought, but one she would see if she cast a glance at Hart’s lap. He silently dared her to. Willed it.
Defiantly, she stared on ahead.
“…Ten guineas…to your left, sir. Do I see twelve guineas…”
Hart dipped his lips near her ear and whispered, “Take heart, you can set your sights on a different triumph for the day.”
“I came here for Don Juan,” Fleur said, with a saint’s calm.
“…Twelve guineas now…”
“Tsk. Tsk. Such disrespect for the great Scottish poet. With your penchant for love and romance, I should think Ivanhoe a great consolation.”
This time, Hart got a reaction. But not the one he expected—or wanted.
Fleur shook her head sadly. “You have no idea what it is like to be a woman.”
A muscle bunched at the corner of his jaw. “Am I to feel bad for you?”
Her eyes narrowed to thin, dangerous slits. That trace of rage burned even brighter.
He’d gotten his reaction.
She was going to kill him.
Or try to.
Somehow, Fleur collected herself.
Rarely impressed, Hart—frustratedly—discovered an unwelcome appreciation for Lady Fleur McQuoid.
“I neither want nor need your pity. I’m merely educating you about something you know nothing about.
What it is like being a woman,” she spoke quietly.
“I saved my pin money. Money I’m incapable of earning myself.
I amassed what to me constitutes a fortune.
I came here with everything I have. Whereas you, by chance of birth, find yourself richer than Croesus and”—she painted the air with her dainty palm—“sweep in with all your power and wealth and…and…”
Hart winged an eyebrow. “Bid on an item I desire?”
“You can buy anything.” Fleur stamped her ankle-length boot. “Find another item to desire.”
He couldn’t summon the unsparing laugh he ought. Where was the hide of an ox that Tremaine and their friends were always chortling about? The abrupt absence of it in the face of this woman’s sad eyes made him want to snort like a bloody, enraged bull.
“If you expect to use tears to get what you want…” His nostrils flared. “Save them for some fool who responds to such tokens. As I said, I did you a favor earlier, but know better than to expect any thanks from a McQuoid.”
Hart also knew not to be swayed by any woman—even one as delectable and entrancing as Fleur McQuoid.