Chapter 13
“Now hatred is by far the longest pleasure; Men love in haste, but they detest at leisure.”
~Lord Byron
When she was a girl, Fleur scaled an old, soaring oak to follow her elder siblings.
She climbed with the speed and agility of a cat—she still could and, on occasion, did.
About six feet high, she lost her footing and fell to the thick bed of mud below.
Screaming the whole way, Fleur discovered something peculiar about time: a few seconds passed in a blink, but an eternity’s worth of thoughts and movements could fit within a flash.
In this instant, with Hart’s hand held commandingly out, and Cassia and Nathan’s guests watching, time’s march followed that otherworldly continuum.
Fleur didn’t want to dance for a host of reasons: Her head was befogged. Her stomach unsettled. She didn’t know whether she wanted to laugh or cry, just that she had the compulsion to do both, and that she couldn’t understand why.
And Hart made it all too easy to decline.
With his features carved into an expression of tolerant indulgence, he conveyed to the world that his and hers was a friendly game and a secret.
He set the narrative, controlled it, and manipulated it to his favor.
Later, she would acknowledge it was as much for Fleur as for him.
But there was one reason she placed her palm in his and allowed him to escort her onto the dancefloor.
The vulnerability that she alone could see glittering in his eyes. She had a glimpse of who this proud, powerful man was beneath his hard exterior, and she wanted to know what else he kept buried, and why he hid who he was, even from himself.
Well, that, and the fact that she wanted to go with him.
Stupid, stupid girl.
Henry settled a powerful hand at her waist. His hold carried the possessiveness of a man who didn’t ask but claimed. The primality of it clashed with his unflinching ducal demeanor. The contrast rendered her breathless—and, worse, shamefully hungry.
The set began with a sparkling explosion of music.
Fleur used to laugh at her stodgy parents and their friends for calling the waltz forbidden. She had vowed never to be so prim when she was their age.
Now, as Henry guided her in sweeping, dizzying circles, she understood.
Fleur’s eyes slid briefly shut.
Did he feel the way his touch made her tremble? Could he know, since they parted at Rundell and Bridge’s, she had dreamed and thought only of his embrace? Not another man’s. His.
“You stubborn minx,” he spoke quietly; his soft, tender tones turned his admonishment into an endearment. “I thought you intended to say no.”
Had he thought? Or feared?
She had fast learned the layers and levels of vulnerability to this man.
“I wanted to,” she confessed, as he swept her through another turn.
A tense line appeared between his eyes.
Fleur clarified. “On account of your playing captain of the dance floor.”
He moved his gaze over her face.
“Then, why say yes?”
A profound tenderness took hold in her chest. That he trusted her enough to ask a question that left him exposed?
“I wanted to dance with you more than I wanted to vex you,” Fleur confided.
Henry gave no outward reaction, and the lack of it left her feeling vulnerable and exposed.
If she waited for his rescue, Fleur expected it would take until the Lord came again.
The frost of his speech erased the warmth in her heart. “Markham?”
“What?” she blurted.
“A connection to the Earl of Whitehaven and Marquess of Westerborough will provide the McQuoids access to Westhaven Shipyards.”
“And?” she said with a calm that defied her thundering pulse.
This is why Henry had wanted to dance with her so badly, and why he wanted to know the identity of her potential husband—because of how it pertained to shipping.
“With your family’s affinity for loftier titles, Whitehaven seems the logical match for you,” he commented. “Is it his age you have a problem with?”
He rationalized her options in a matter-of-fact way. It cut like a knife.
A thick fog descended over her head, and she hated the compounded confusion.
“The only problem I have, Your Grace, is with you and how miserable you are determined to make me,” she said through gritted teeth. “For that matter, who I marry and who I love is none of your affair. I wish you the best of luck with your list of broodmares.”
They stopped abruptly in the middle of the dance floor, rescued by the timely end of the waltz. Chests heaving, their heated gazes fastened.
Wordlessly, Hart offered his elbow.
Just as silently, Fleur took it, for she had to; to rebuff him would create a real scandal.
He escorted Fleur to her chair, bowed, and left with her still standing, and it was all she could do to keep from crying.
As it should happen, after Henry’s cold exit, Fleur made a discovery. She shouldn’t have pestered Henry for answers about his future duchess.
All she needed to do was wait and watch, as every guest in Cassia’s ballroom did, as Henry, with commanding strides and clear intent and purpose, cut a path across the ballroom to…
Lady Angela. The daughter of a late duke, whose brother had since inherited the Talbert duchy.
Not a simpering, wilting beauty, but a mature, graceful woman. And, surely not by coincidence, the former betrothed of Fleur’s brother-in-law, Nathan, the Marquess of Winfield.
A lump formed in Fleur’s throat.
She wanted to look away from him and couldn’t. She remained as captivated as the rest of the ton by the regal pair who had captured the ton’s attention.
There couldn’t be a finer match for him in all the world.
Fleur swallowed uncomfortably.
“…The McQuoids are vulgar and crude…”
While the strikingly handsome Duke and Duchess of Talbert performed introductions between the elegant lady in gold silk and enormous diamonds, not a soul moved.
No whisper was spoken. No one needed to hear a word.
Everyone knew—a shot had been declared: this lady is my potential Duchess of Hartwell; come no closer.
Fleur wanted to find an exception in Henry’s selection.
Why should he so easily find his match while Fleur had not even the name of the man she had given herself to? But she knew it wasn’t that. She knew it had nothing to do with her, and everything to do with…with…
Moisture slicked her skin. The orchestra’s song drifted further away.
Fleur grasped around for purchase.
Her legs gave out from under her.