Chapter 12 #2
Markham had demanded her attention.
Hart swallowed down the rest of his drink.
Conveniently, he did so the precise moment that same efficient servant came carrying a drink to Tremaine.
Hart slammed his flute down and cut in front of his brother for his third. Or was it his fourth? But who was counting. Certainly not him.
“Has my big brother been this cross all night, Kilmartin?”
“On the contrary,” Kilmartin said, folding his arms at his chest, his flute dangled between his fingers. “This was the first smile I saw from him the whole night.”
“Ah, but don’t all impending marriages begin with scowls and glares?”
“You would know,” Hart muttered.
Not that Hart’s brother and man-of—friend, heard him. They were too busy toasting their pale attempt at a joke.
“I can’t really see to my impending marriage while I’m dancing attendance on your bloody in-laws,” Hart said crossly. “Speaking of, how is your wife this evening?”
Both men froze.
Kilmartin made a disapproving sound. “Not above-board, Hart.”
“No. No. It’s fine.” Tremaine smiled. “My wife is actually improving more and more every day. She is much recovered from her delivery and resting happily and peacefully at home with our beautiful babes, which…”—Tremaine consulted his timepiece and didn’t bother with discretion—“I intend to do, after a very brief appearance.”
“You’ll have me dancing attendance on the McQuoids, chumming up to those blathering fools like I did earlier this evening—which, by the way, with your late arrival you missed, but everyone of importance saw?”
“I felt badly—”
“No, you didn’t,” Kilmartin interjected, enjoying himself immensely.
“But I feel less so now. You were going to be hopping from event to event in search of your ducal broodmare; why not work on our family’s image while you are at it?”
As if the reason scandal surrounded Hart’s name was because of something he had done.
His brother was fortunate indeed that Tremaine loved him—and also that Hart didn’t draw his bloody cork right here in the middle of Lord and Lady Winfield’s ballroom.
“You’re a master of juggling duties. Finding a wife and actually speaking to or dancing with a McQuoid accomplishes both your goals.”
Dancing with a McQuoid. He didn’t even bother a glance at the family, but found the only tolerable one.
As the orchestra’s strains reached a slow finish, Hart strode from his brother and man-of-affairs and headed for Fleur; Kilmartin’s hushed whisper followed behind.
“…Enraged at having to be here…found out Whitehaven’s attempting to form an alliance with the McQuoids,” Kilmartin incorrectly explained. “Now you’ve required him to dance with the lady.”
When Hart reached Fleur, Fleur was reading what appeared to be her fan.
He stood over her and waited for her to look up.
Naturally, she didn’t.
Given he had caught her frown as he sent her entourage scattering on his way up, she definitely knew he was there.
“Where did the Markham goon go?” he asked by way of greeting.
She glanced up. “Oh, hello, Your Grace. I did not see you there.”
“Liar.”
“Lord Markham is eminently charming and quite dashing.”
“Am I not charming?” Good God, how did such a boyish question even exist in his very cool head?
“Of course you are,” she said patronizingly. “Given your engaging behavior now, how could I possibly say different?”
Hart wanted to flip a tray.
“We are dancing.” He dropped his voice lower.
“La.” Fleur snapped her fan open and gave it an artful flutter. “You turn a lady’s head.”
“For the families.”
“Very well.” She handled that silly frippery with the same efficiency and ruthlessness of a marksman.
Which only reminded him of Markham.
“Later.” Fleur brought her fan closed in a single, graceful snap. “Perhaps.”
Perhaps?
He was going to bloody snap.
“This set belongs to Lord Bradburn.”
Hart followed her winsome eyes to the gentleman who had arrived to claim her. “No, it’s not.”
“It is.”
The younger gentleman moved his head back and forth at their volleys.
“Why don’t we ask him?”
“Lord Bradburn,” Fleur said softly, coming to her feet, “you needn’t let him run you off.”
The younger chap said, “I believe I was mistaken.” He lied, and poorly. Bowing swiftly, he bolted.
Her previously soft eyes flashed fury. “You scared off Lord Bradburn.”
“You’re welcome.”
Fleur sputtered. “I’m…?”
“Do you truly want to marry a man who will surrender you so easily?”
That closed her mouth.
Hart stretched a hand out. “We are dancing,” he said flatly.
“Are you ordering me?”
“No.” Yes, he was. He absolutely was. But if he gave her the truth, the hoyden would put up a scene to make his jilting look like an ordinary event in Hyde Park.
“I don’t want to dance.”
“Given the ease with which you’re shedding suitors, I take it you have your heart reserved for someone.”
“Yes.”
His arm fell. “Yes.”
“Yes.” Fleur only half-heartedly attended to him. She was too busy scouring her stare about, searching for the someone she had reserved her heart for.
“Who is he?” he asked tightly.
“It is hard to say.”
He waited for her to explain whatever the hell that meant. Naturally, she wasn’t in any rush to do so.
“I thought we were friends, Lady Fleur.”
Fleur went motionless.
Hart followed her stare, expecting to see Markham and finding the Marquess of St. James instead. The gentleman was two or three inches past six feet, dark-haired, wealthy, powerful, and dogged by a scandal that dated back years to when his brother killed a young lord across a dueling field.
One scandalous family deserved another.
“St. James?” he gritted out.
Fleur blinked slowly, and hell, she might as well have been batting the long fringe of lashes. However the hell she moved them always had the same seductive effect.
Hart folded his arms at his chest. “Is he the one you’ve settled on?”
Finally, the lady stopped looking at the debonair marquess and looked at him.
“I won’t settle for a gentleman, Hart. He’ll be my soulmate.”
“Your…?”
Hart laughed.
This time, he was the bringer of stares, the cause of intrigued onlookers, and Fleur smiled all the way through it.
“I thought you would be offended at my finding talk of soulmates utterly laughable, Fleur?”
“Hardly. I feel bad for you. Plus, our smiling and laughing together is beneficial to our families.” Her lips curved into an even deeper smile, and she carried on with her search.
Hart didn’t hear her latter words, and he definitely didn’t want to notice that entrancing smile of hers, or think about Fleur focused on her soulmate while she spoke to him.
“Pity,” he said through strained lips. “Say what you mean. You pity me.”
She shifted her confused gaze to his enraged one.
“I would never use that word, Hart.” Her lips parted in a surprised little moue; her lush mouth turned it into an enormous one.
His mind circled to the same place it had spent the last three days—in Rundell’s with Fleur pressing her body against his and moaning.
A hot shock of desire raced through him. “Given our close friendship, I know that would upset you too much to use that word. Even if it is the most accurate way to describe it.”
His head was going to explode.
“Not that it’s how I feel,” she said. “I don’t. I was more indicating it is a formal definition.”
Hart no longer cared about that. “If we’re friends, doesn’t it seem natural to confide—”
“You wouldn’t confide in me,” she pointed out. Frustratingly and accurately.
“Ah, a petty woman.”
Her lips turned down. “I am not being petty. I am taking my cues from you. If you don’t feel comfortable sharing about your future bride with me, then that means we are friends, just not very good friends.”
A voice inside his head was shouting, “Give it a rest.” What do you care? You don’t need to know which scoundrel out there she’d labeled her soulmate.
He rubbed the back of his neck.
It didn’t help.
He followed her stare, entrenched across the ballroom where St. James conversed with his brother and sister-in-law, Lord and Lady Knight.
Hart angled his body, putting his shoulder between her and the obnoxiously conventionally good-looking fellow.
Fleur canted her head.
Her wide, innocently expressive eyes may as well have said, Oh, you’re still here.
“Just give me the chap’s blasted name.”
“Why do you care?” She sounded genuinely confused and something else, something he couldn’t identify or name.
The hell he would be turned inside out.
“I thought you should know why, Fleur,” he spoke quietly.
Her eyes widened a fraction. She shook her head.
“We are friends.” She called them that. As for Hart, he had kinder rivals.
He curved his mouth into a friendly smile and held his palm out for a second time. “Now dance with me.” Damn it.
Except that she ignored his hand a second time.
She kept them on display. Nor did it feel like they were on display, but rather the whole Town gawked solely at Hart.
And the longer they squared off, with her defiantly ignoring his hand, the wider the stares got, and a trembling deep inside took hold.
People knew better than to make Hart look like a fool.
This woman, her family, they made him fodder for gossip.
He was at her mercy, and he cursed her to hell for her power over him in this moment.