Chapter 4 #2
“How could I hold anything other than an abiding admiration and deep respect for those ladies possessed of a clever mind?”
“That really is the question, isn’t it?” Lady Chilton’s droll remark brought a splotchy color to Hart’s face.
He slid Fleur a sideways glance. If men were in the habit of giving grown women spankings, the dark glint in Hart’s eyes said she’d even now be over his knee.
Oh, dear. If he hadn’t hated Fleur before, this decided it.
Taking Fleur’s hands in her own, Lady Chilton dismissed Hart in favor of Fleur. “Oh, Lady Fleur. I am most sad you were unable to win Byron’s volume when your heart was so clearly set on attaining it.” Lady Chilton spoke to Fleur but looked at the Duke of Hartwell.
Fleur gave a sad smile. “Such is the way of the world. Men have the advantage over us, do they not?”
“I—”
Before Lady Chilton could complete her response, the room went eerily silent, and a melodious voice sounded at the entrance of the door and the room.
“Such a cynical remark from a lovely display of femininity, grace, and poise.”
Every single stunned gaze went to the vaunted figure; a man larger than life. One who brought sighs from ladies and gentlemen alike.
They called him Mad, Bad, and Dangerous to Know. But surely, magnificent should be included. Or otherworldly. Or magical. Or…
No. Not a single word would or could ever accurately describe the legend. The larger-than-life figure who walked with a calm deliberateness of a man in full control of himself—and his space.
Byron.
“Close your mouth else you’ll catch flies, chit,” Hart muttered from the side of his mouth.
If she could have done anything with her mouth, Fleur would have delighted in pointing out how rude Hart was to suggest their hostess had insects flying about.
But through a dizzying haze, Fleur could barely summon her name.
Fortunately, she didn’t have to.
As it turned out, Lord Byron had naturally stopped to greet Baroness Chilton—and now, Lord Chilton—who had swiftly joined his wife, while Fleur and Hartwell stood forgotten beside the trio.
Fleur spoke hushedly. “Hart?”
“What?” he said, as testy as a boy who had his treat snatched from him.
“If I swoon, don’t catch me.”
“Happy to oblige,” Hart muttered, tight-lipped.
She found her way out of the clouds, and sluiced Hart with a scowl the exact moment Lord Byron put his magnificent eyes upon Fleur, and then Fleur put her eyes on the poet and the dashing, dark curl across his brow.
“Such a sable scowl from such a starry face—a darkening cloud upon a brow of grace.”
Fleur sighed. She would never recover.
She did, however, enough to remember her curtsy, albeit belatedly. “Forgive me, my lord—”
“And she—the soft, yet fierce—hath knelt to me? A plea for mercy on such soul as I? Who is thy queen who I should kneel for?”
If Hart’s gaze climbed any higher, he’d keel over backwards.
“My lord, it is our utmost honor to welcome you home to England; allow me to present you to the Duke of Hartwell…and Lady Fleur McQuoid.” Lady Chilton spoke the last as any proud mama would.
Hart bowed.
Byron did only for Fleur. “To what does your day’s sorrow belong, my lady? Spare them, and let them belong to only me.”
Her heart quivered. “Ah, but how can I giveth when the great art of life is sensation, to feel that we exist, even in pain.”
“What a lot of twaddle,” Hart uttered under his breath, in a very un-duke like way.
Lord Chilton coughed to cover up some of the duke’s mumbling. Not that Lord Byron paid Hartwell any heed. “If I may account for the lady’s disappointment. Lady Fleur put up an impressive bid amount on your copy of Don Juan and regretfully lost to His Grace.”
Now that earned Hartwell a look from Lord Byron. And not in any way remotely favorable.
“You are a romantic, Lady Fleur?” the dashing poet asked, but looked at Hartwell.
All the room attended them. A pin dropping would have thundered like a shot.
“What is sacred, my lord?” Fleur said softly. “Of what is the spirit made? What is worth living for and what is worth dying for? The answer to each is the same. Only love.”
The great poet said nothing for a long while. He slid an assessing glance up and down Fleur’s person, and then nodded his approval.
The room erupted into loud whispers.
In a display of impudence only Lord Byron could get away with, he slapped Hart between the shoulder blades. “What say you, of my Don Juan? To have joy, one must share it,” Byron said dryly. “Isn’t that right, Hartwell?”
Fleur clasped her hands to her chest. He would defend—
“Rest assured, Lord Byron,” Hartwell coolly advised, “the title will be so enjoyed.” Just not by this woman.
He should have just said it, the wretch.
In an interesting turn of events, Hart, who as a rule did the bothering and remained unbothered, appeared dangerously close to separating Lord Byron’s beautiful head from his just as beautiful body. It was a crime not to be conceived.
Any person under the sun would have melted into nothing at having the Lord Byron stare disapprovingly as he did now. Hart remained as intractable as steel.
Later, Fleur thought she might have been impressed by that detail. Being amidst Byron’s audience, there was only Byron.
For reasons that could not be named or clear, even to her, Fleur found herself rushing to Hart’s defense. “Fear not, worry not, my lord. Though my heart has broken, it will live on.”
She succeeded. Byron made her his focus, a fact of which Hart appeared in no way appreciative. In fairness, Lord Byron had turned a shoulder and gave him the cut direct, so she understood why.
“Lady Fleur, shy of stealing my own book from this selfish fellow and delivering it to your gentle hands, I cast my regrets and a promise to deliver a smile for you.”
She clasped her hands together, and this time truly looked at a gentleman from under her lashes. “Lord Byron, I recall all the verses of my Don Juan, but the memory of you here now will carry me to the time when I’m no longer spry enough to fight a duke for one of your masterpieces.”
Lord Byron leaned in and peered close at her face. “There will never be such a time, my willow leaf. You will remain forever young and vibrant as a rose.”
Either Lord Chilton had let a bad-tempered dog in his library or Hart was growling like one.
Finally, the greatest poet of their time paid the other peasants around him consideration.
“This time, as I depart these great shores once more, in what will be, forevermore, I mourn to leave an angel such as the lady before us. She walks in beauty, like the night. Of cloudless climes and starry skies; And all that’s best of dark and bright meet in her aspect and her eyes…”
Lord Byron favored Fleur with a long, wistful, last glance. He left Lord and Lady Chilton’s library with the same sovereign elegance with which he had entered.
After the Baron and Baroness Chilton’s auction, gossip did what gossip did—it spread through all of England like wildfire.
From parlors to promenades. To White’s, Brooke’s, Forbidden Pleasures, Devil’s Den, and the rest of the wicked hells. It was all anyone spoke of.
Lord Byron’s brief return to England where he had anointed her.
And…the Duke of Hartwell’s heartlessness.
Duke of H Bullies Lord Byron’s Beauty.
Then, the impossible happened.
A McQuoid lass became…a Diamond.