Chapter 7
“This is the age of oddities let loose.”
Don Juan
~Lord Byron
Hart had permitted Tremaine’s friendship with the McQuoids through the years.
The more time Tremaine spent with the McQuoids, the less he spent with his father or reflecting on the Duke of Hartwell’s disdain.
Hart, even in his deepest thoughts, found himself justifying his brother’s tie to an unacceptable family.
Tremaine was bastard-born. The McQuoids were what they were, yet still had noble blood—sapskull though the Earl of Abington might be, he was, nevertheless, an earl.
Lady Catherine, the countess, brought far nobler heritage, which increased Abington’s standing—and diminished hers somewhat.
Still, the Countess of Abington alone provided enough reason for Tremaine’s connection to the family.
Hart had been wrong, though he only came to realize it tonight.
Even when he had been engaged to the now Lady Culross, he had avoided McQuoid functions like the plague. He had always made his excuses. Urgent, unavoidable business in the House of Lords. A critical situation at one of his estates demanded his attention.
The closest he had come was the wedding breakfast between Tremaine and his wife, Lady Linnie.
That morning, Hart and Kilmartin had been in good spirits.
How could they not have been? He and Tremaine had thwarted an alliance between the Archdales and McQuoids.
They had also diverted the hard-to-come-by timber from Culross to rebuild Tremaine’s ship.
Captain Arran McQuoid, the betrayer of his brother, had seethed through the affair.
Tremaine was to slake his lust for his wife, then return to sea.
Everything had gone swimmingly—until Tremaine went and fell in love with his bird-witted bride.
Had Hart ever foreseen that Tremaine would grow soft and expect Hart to extend support and an appearance to the unseemly family, he would not have allowed the association during Tremaine’s Eton years.
Not for the first or even thousandth time, Hart nearly knelt to Heaven at having been spared a permanent union to one of those wildlings. But a duke only bent the knee to his king on this early plane.
The youngest McQuoid lads, who were at university, flicked peas like they were boys in the schoolrooms.
The ladies raised their voices to make themselves heard down the length of the table. Like tavern wenches trying to get a customer’s attention.
Except for the countess, the family’s laughter was unchecked, ladies and gentlemen alike snorting like pigs. Hart pictured them, faces flushed from claret and good cheer, bent not over porcelain but troughs.
They were nothing less than ghastly.
Amidst it all, there was Lady Fleur.
She had made a fool of him. Baited him with regular occurrence.
And he hadn’t desired a woman this fiercely since the courtesan at Rutland’s masquerade.
The only unfortunate piece was that the chit had been born a McQuoid and had a “Lady” attached to her name. With her fiery disposition, bold tongue, and even bolder laugh, she would have made him a perfect mistress.
The little termagant surely noticed his misery, trapped between her eldest sister, the talkative Duchess of Aragon, and Lady Alexandra, the Viscountess Crichton, who alternated between endless praise and weather talk.
When Lady Fleur snatched her name card and assured him he had diverting partners, he should have known the shrew meant the exact opposite.
And his father, the late duke, who had delivered the most important edification—dukes bed spitfires. They don’t marry them. That had been the duke’s mistake.
What did one do with a hellion like Lady Fleur? She was the last woman he’d want to wed.
With her wild laughter from the bottom of the table, she had enjoyed herself more than anyone.
Yet, even as his distaste festered, his thoughts returned to Lady Fleur.
Throwing bloody Byron in his face, had she?
Tremaine’s sister-in-law was as mercenary as all women everywhere. Not that such a detail was any kind of surprise to Hartwell.
Women wanted what they wanted and would do whatever it took to get it too.
In the case of the Duchess of Hartwell, she had wanted two things: her lover and favored son.
Every woman in Hartwell’s life wanted his title, and no fewer than five had tried to trap him.
“…with his charm, dashing looks, and poetic brilliance, he compels a lady. Only you with your inflated sense of self-worth could you possibly believe I would waste my wiles on you.”
Lady Fleur, with all her insolence and barbed repartee, had no interest in being his duchess—unlike her pathetic cousin. Which was good. The Tremaine crypt would be an unbothered ride in an empty Hyde Park to any union with the McQuoids.
The tart-mouthed shrew.
Bedding her was something he’d enjoy immensely. He’d like to seat himself between her thighs and drive himself inside her slender body. He would show her a different kind of charm he possessed, and in spades. With his size, he would likely break her in two.
She would give as good as she got.
As she glanced his way—aware of his misery with his companions—he envisioned everything he wanted to do to her.
As the first course of turtle soup was set before the guests, Hart had stripped Lady Fleur free of that lilac barège silk gown, with all its ridiculous flounces and fancy lace drippings, she wore.
Even as he had watched the lady take her first sip from her silver spoon, in his mind, he had set her on the edge of the dining table.
By the time the liveried footmen had cleared the empty bowls, Hart already had her skirts up and himself positioned between her nubile thighs.
Salmon with caper sauce came next. At that point, Hart had already brought himself and the insolent chit two climaxes.
She had stolen a look down the table, and he knew what she saw—his dark expression.
Or he knew what Lady Fleur, with her telling wide smile, thought she saw—Hart’s annoyance with his dining partners.
The she-devil was nowhere near as clever as she thought.
She saw Hartwell, the duke. The stuffed shirt. She didn’t see him reduced to his basest level. She had no idea she was nothing but a country mouse and he a mighty eagle-owl in the shadows, about to capture and crush if he so desired, and desire he did.
Lady Fleur could not begin to fathom his debauched thoughts or the level of depravity he was capable of. Or the good fucking he was giving her in his mind.
Hart was enough in touch with himself to know what he craved.
As a rule, he didn’t deny himself. He kept a mistress and would continue to do so after he married, and wouldn’t feel a trace of guilt.
The respectable lady he took as his bride would shriek and cry if he bedded her the way he did his paramours.
The same effort he put into finding his future duchess was the same effort he put into finding his future mistress.
Nor did he feel shame, guilt, or surprise over his attraction to Tremaine’s sister-in-law. The difference between dukes and commoners? A duke didn’t confuse a physical urge for something more. Hart could separate lust from deeper emotions—a skill his brother had never learned.
After their shameful display, Hart had two questions: would they behave the same way at the dinner party he must host for them, and how soon could he escape their presence?
His exasperation was directed at all of them—not just Lady Fleur.
“You cannot possibly be leaving already.”
Never would Hart have believed Tremaine would betray him in this way.
Not bothering to hide his annoyance, Hart turned and waited.
His brother met him in a corridor lined with gilded McQuoid portraits—gentlemen from a century ago, unfashionably dressed in Scottish regalia.
“I have put in my performance, little brother. I have other affairs to attend.”
“If you rush off—”
Hart removed the Niello chain from his fob. “I have exceeded my time here by two minutes.” He held the lion-framed timepiece aloft.
Tremaine ignored the gilded clock in favor of a look around. “Granted, they are not the customary company you keep,” he said in hushed tones. “They are, for the most part, a good lot.”
“The only reason I agreed to a union for either of us with this family was for you and our business. The McQuoids are vulgar and crude.” Hart stuffed his watch back into his pocket. “And those are not the worst grievances against them.” Meghan McQuoid-Smith had nearly made a cuckold of him.
“Leaving at the exact time rules dictate suggests yours was an obligatory appearance.”
“It points to my obligations, commitments that far extend dancing attendance on the McQuoids,” he said, brutally honest.
His brother’s mouth drew tight at the corners. “Forgive me, I forgot you have the matter of finding a proper, biddable bride.”
“Proper and biddable. Not whorish and unseemly, yes.”
Dull color filled Tremaine’s cheeks. “You are heartless.”
Ah, so his little brother’s earlier statement had been intended as an insult. “You speak as though being in control of one’s emotions is a negative attribute,” he said coolly. “Need I remind you that weakness is the very reason you are performing like a trick pony for this abominable family?”
Tremaine took an angry step forward; his nostrils flared. He regained control of himself. “I thank you for putting in an appearance this night,” he said stiffly. “I will leave you to your more illustrious company.”
Tremaine bent a bow.
Finally, with heavy steps, both brothers headed in opposite directions—Tremaine for his in-laws and Hart for the exit, each bearing the weight of the evening.
Hart couldn’t be bothered with regrets. Life in and of itself was transactional, a temporary arrangement. There had been no tears shed at his sire’s passing. The late duke had crafted him in his own image and spared his son the pain of feeling anything.
What he mourned was the weak man Tremaine turned out to be. What a disappointment.