Chapter 7 #2
Hart reached the entrance hall, and a footman was already off to collect his cloak—when he landed himself one step farther away from illustrious company.
“Sneaking out early, Hart?”
Hart searched for the audacious chit and found her lurking in the shadows. She couldn’t be bothered to stand, stayed partially hidden behind garish pink hangings, and demanded he come to her.
“On the contrary, the affair has since concluded, as is evidenced by each of our presence here.”
“It isn’t over. The normal humans are having a rollicking good time.”
“Which makes you one of the abnormal ones?” On that, they could agree.
“I’m merely hiding.”
He smiled. “Like a child.”
She smiled back. “Like a woman who isn’t afforded the luxury of being able to excuse myself and attend whatever event I would rather be at.”
“Ah, another common ground found. We both found the company intolerable.”
“On the contrary, I quite enjoyed my company,” she said.
“So much so, you are avoiding your family.”
“I referred to Lords Archdale and Kerr.”
He flattened his lips into a hard line. Of course she had. The little traitor.
“Lord Archdale and Lord Kerr had the luxury of adjourning for billiards and port. I did not.”
Why was he not surprised she drank port and played billiards? Or was it that she was eager for more time with those blackguards?
“For someone who had insisted her table companions were a poor lot, you appeared to have a deuced good time with one of them, Lord Alec Archdale.”
Lady Fleur batted her long, thick lashes. “How good of you to notice.”
“How could I not?” He flicked a reproving stare over her. “Your garish laugh demanded the room’s attention.” Just as it had at Chilton’s auction. A welcome rush of anger worked through him; it blunted his lust.
Lady Fleur hopped to her feet; her curls bounced, her ruffles and bustle joined in the silly dance of regrettable fashion choices.
“By your sour disposition, you did not enjoy your company this evening, Your Grace.”
“You know I did not,” he said coolly.
“Ah, Myrtle and my sister-in-law. Myrtle talked incessantly and too fast to determine what exactly she was saying, and Lady Alexandra discussed the unseasonably warm weather we’ve been enjoying.”
He meant the lot on the whole—he wasn’t such a bastard to say as much.
As for her sister and sister-in-law, she had those two nailed, to a T.
“I’ve concluded you are the only tolerable McQuoid.”
The bit of baggage dropped the only curtsy she was capable of—an insolent one. “I concur.”
Modest she was not.
“My brothers are the greatest offenders, utterly intolerable.”
They had struck a new common ground—disparagement of her unseemly lot.
“My brothers, since they were lads, held belching contests and competed to see who could pass the loudest gas.”
All normal boy behavior. “I can see how, as a lady, you would find that type of behavior intolerable,” he said.
“Thank you.”
Discussing normal boy behavior candidly with a young lady, on the other hand, was not.
The lone freckle that disappeared when she scrunched her nose. “But my discontent stems from the fact that they insist theirs is ‘lads only’ behavior.”
“God, you are horrifying.” He didn’t repress his shudder. The only thing she was missing was a pair of horns atop the big blonde curls piled high on her head. He squinted. In fact, maybe they were actually under there.
“Looking for horns?” she asked.
“Yes.”
She smiled like he had called her the prettiest girl in court.
Good God. Hart had greatly underestimated how awful the McQuoid family was.
After being with Fleur, who openly spoke about belching and flatulence, he found himself belatedly appreciating the earlier normal discourse her McQuoid kin had managed. To think he had almost married into this family.
“If it is any consolation, you were not the only one dissatisfied with your table partner. Lord Kerr was as displeased with me.”
Kerr might not have enjoyed the lady’s discourse, but the rake had certainly enjoyed his view of her plump breasts.
The shrew didn’t need any encouragement from him. Prattling on to an uninterested party was a McQuoid trait—as she had demonstrated throughout Baron Chilton’s auction.
Off that freckle went again as she wrinkled her nose and disappeared the brown speck…as if the lady was bothered by the prospect of that scarred monster not enjoying her company.
Fleur continued. “Lord Archdale, on the other hand, proved a clever dinner companion.”
“And that upsets you?” he asked.
“On the contrary. It just reminds me that Lord Kerr found me offensive.”
He gritted his teeth to keep from shaking her and silence her infernal rattling. No man wanted the female in one’s company running on about another man, and certainly not that half-handsome, half-hideous sailor.
“What do you care? You don’t even like them.” Hart wanted to bang his fists.
“No one wants to be disliked.”
God spare him from the logic of females.
For that matter, what was Hart even doing carrying on a conversation about the McQuoids seating arrangements and Fleur’s hurt feelings?
“With all your lamentations over Culross’s men,” he mocked, “I am fast rethinking your loyalty, Lady Fleur.”
“Is that a warning?”
“I wouldn’t waste my breath, given you’re incapable of heeding one. Mine was an observation.”
Fleur looked beyond him.
He followed her stare over to a harried-looking footman bearing his cloak.
About bloody time.
Hart bowed more out of habit than out of any real respect.
There came no answering curtsy, just a minx’s smile. “Ah, we’ll do no more roving, so late into the night.”
“Quoting Byron,” he said, shrugging into his cloak. “How predictable.”
“I’m not quoting Lord Byron. I’m quoting the lyric he used from a beloved Scottish song, ‘The Jolly Beggar.’”
“Of course you are,” he muttered.
She launched into a discordant, slightly pitchy song that did her no favors.
“There was a jolly beggarman.
Came tripping o’er the plain
He came unto a farmer’s door
A lodging for to gain…
The farmer’s daughter she came down
And viewed him cheek and chin
She says “He is a handsome man
I pray you take him in…”
“Thank you for that rousing performance,” he cut in, sparing her from the next lyrics. Sparing himself. He was sparing himself.
Fleur beamed her enormous smile and gave her fingers a little waggle. “Fear not, Your Grace. We have but one dinner, one ball, and a trip to the theatre. Then we will be free of one another.”
Hart was counting down the minutes.