Chapter 6 #2
Hartwell dropped one of his big square shoulders against the marble mantel, hanging himself like a shadow over her. “What was that?”
She really did not know. Fleur liked big-built men.
She admired the gentlemen who stood a head above the crowd and who packed muscle from their rounds at Gentleman Jackson’s and morning rides in Hyde Park.
Those gentlemanly endeavors weren’t the ones to credit to Hartwell’s physique.
He was a colossal man. Not fat. More like he had achieved the ultimate level of ducal refinement while his physique stayed stuck in the Dark Ages.
The Duke of Hartwell was not classically handsome—far, far from it.
There was a rough-hewn attractiveness to his nobly squared features that further cemented his face from those of warriors of old.
Her heart beat strangely. Another man had made her feel this way. Through her skirts, the ring burned hot. Her lips did too. Because now she knew what it felt like to be folded in a built man’s arms, properly kissed…and more.
From his perch above her nose, Hartwell caught her staring. “Lady Fleur?”
She found her head and voice—thankfully at the same time. “I am trying to determine if two Sundays have come together? Or pigs flown? We have found something to agree over, Your Grace.”
“Are you saying you would prefer being buried in the Tremaine crypt to attending this dinner party?”
“I would prefer being in any crypt to attending this or any of the planned events between our families.”
The slight twitch at the corners of his significantly chiseled lips gave the fellow away—there was the humor she’d had a taste of at Linnie’s wedding breakfast…and Lord Chilton’s. A soft pang struck at the remembrance.
“It occurs to me you are positioned near my brother,” he remarked.
A man as astute and perceptive as Hart would notice. Not that Fleur had placed herself here for that reason. She would never.
She canted her head. “Is that an observation, or are you wanting me to comment on where my alliances lie?”
“Your family would insist there are no two alliances, and that our respective families are one,” he said.
“Again, I must ask whether yours is a question or a comment?”
“Both.”
“In this? My loyalty and friendship belong first and always to my brother’s childhood friend and my cousin’s husband.” She paused. “That is your brother.”
“I know,” he drawled. “I only have the one.”
“I was jesting.”
“You are bad at it.”
Fleur bristled. “You cannot judge my wit by one quip alone.”
“I shall reserve my judgment until you make one.”
She was filled with the childlike urge to kick him hard in the shins.
“Fear not, Lady Fleur, a clever wit is not a requirement in marriageable ladies.”
Hart gave his sage advice the same way he might recite the begats entries in Debrett’s.
“I will take comfort in that,” she said drolly.
Alas, sarcasm was wasted on dukes. And she knew. She had tried her best with her brother-in-law, Aragon.
“Your loyalty to my brother recommends you, Lady Fleur,” he said, in what she was sure was the closest he could ever get to a meaningful compliment, particularly after the falling out between her and Hart.
Fleur felt a new stirring of something that felt strangely like hope.
He ruined it with his next breath.
“I had not expected that, given you come from a long line of disloyal kin.”
Having three brothers, Fleur was well-versed in boy behaviors. Regardless of age or title, they all had a good deal in common. Propensities for belching, breaking wind, rough-and-tumble play, and, as the current case had it, a good quarrel.
That made it all the more fun to deny them.
“I will give you the same advice I always give my young nieces and nephews, Hart.”
He stiffened. “What is that?”
“Do not bother with a tantrum when you are able to say what it is really bothering you.” She favored him with a serene smile.
He was going to strangle her. Fleur was certain of it, and with hands as mesmerizingly powerful and large, it would take all the McQuoids to pry his fingers from her.
“You made a bloody fool of me with your performance at Chilton’s.”
Fleur caught the curl at her shoulder and twisted it slowly around her finger. “My performance?” She batted her lashes. “Pray recount my sins that day?”
Then she made the egregious mistake of looking too close. And now that she had looked, she could not unsee the tension in his jolie-laide features. The muscles bunched in his jaw from the words he hung onto. A small vein bulged at his temple.
His gaze shot fire.
Fleur’s heart quickened. If she weren’t baiting him, she’d have taken the dangerous sparks there as desire. But it wasn’t. Not that she wanted it to be, either way.
“You know,” he seethed.
And of a sudden…Fleur did.
She understood Hart’s rage had nothing to do with her. The joy she found getting under his skin vanished—and not because it was so easy to do so. All of his fury funneled back to Megan and Culross and the shame they had brought to his name.
She saw through the very big cave-man-like strong show he put on to the hurt, ashamed boy that existed under all boys and cavemen-like men.
Fleur softened her delivery by first deliberately stroking his ego. “Hart, you are a sensible man. You know your anger is misplaced. That I did nothing—”
“Nothing?” He chose viciousness. “You batted your pretty eyelashes and flirted outrageously.” Hart scraped a derisive stare over her. “You behaved like a bloody tart Byron couldn’t refuse. Just as you’re doing now with me…”
And that’s what she got for feeling badly for the dunderhead. “You flatter yourself, Your Grace.”
A footman entered the drawing room and bowed for the countess, giving the signal for dinner.
Catching that signal, Fleur and Hartwell joined the rest of the guests as they fetched their name cards.
She waited until she and the duke were alone.
While they searched the more than a dozen placards that still remained, Fleur spoke from the corner of her mouth. “You, Hartwell, are no Byron.”
She may as well have stolen his favorite toy soldier for the dull flush that crept out from under his meticulously folded, white silk cravat.
Fleur finished her salvo. “Byron, with his charm, dashing looks, and poetic brilliance compels a lady. Only with your inflated sense of self-worth could you possibly believe I would waste my wiles on you.”
She snatched her card. “Buck up,” she said. “Perhaps you’ll land Arran as a partner, and you can shame him all you want over his disloyalty.”
She had to hand him credit. He didn’t bat an eye.
Fleur finally glanced at her seating details. Dash it!
Then she found Hart’s card—and his partners. Wicked mirth filled her.
They reached for the ivory and gold folded velum at the same time. Fleur beat him to it.
“Here you are, Hartwell,” she said, with a serene smile. “I trust you will have a most enjoyable evening with your tablemates.”
With a curtsy, she left a rightfully dubious Hartwell standing in her wake.