Chapter 16
“The dew of compassion is a tear.”
~Lord Byron
As a duke, even as a ducal heir, Hart had always been strategic about whom he kept close.
Unlike the rogues and rakes, he was meticulous in his choice of lovers.
Only the most skilled paramours and jaded widows were considered, and each underwent a medical exam.
He never risked disease from careless partners.
He used French letters. Because his brother was illegitimate, Hart had witnessed first-hand the cruelty those unfortunate souls endured. To prevent this, he always withdrew before spilling seed in his lovers. He had resolved that no child of his would suffer that fate.
When he interacted with respectable young ladies, Hart followed different but equally stringent requirements.
Except for the ton events, he had no dealings with them.
He put the same effort into avoiding syphilis as he did into avoiding the parson’s trap.
As a result, when it came to unmarried misses, he knew next to nothing.
What he did know was this: when a young lady said, ‘I did something terrible, and if it is discovered, I will be ruined,’ it wasn’t about what it implied, but about what it truly meant.
There were tales and stories as old as London itself, of debutantes and impressionable ladies who lost their virtue, name, respectability, and everything to some reprobate.
As a duke, he made it Kilmartin’s duty to report on the fallen to avoid their families. Hart received this instruction at ten from his father.
Hart still required Kilmartin to gather these reports, but not for cruelty. A duke could not risk his lineage or power by associating with immoral women, so Hart treated reports on disgraced daughters as pragmatically as rental income.
And yet, there was nothing casual about the dazzling, spirited, effervescent Fleur, and her light’s glow lessened, along with the implicit suggestion of her ruin.
The balmy spring evening suddenly felt smothered by an intense, heavy heat. Sweat glazed his skin; his chest constricted under the weight.
But this was Fleur—innocent, always-smiling, vibrant, clever Fleur. For someone like her, ‘something terrible’ could mean anything. It could be as minor as getting left alone at her family’s estate, like her elder sister, or as simple as boarding the wrong ship, like her other sister.
She was a McQuoid, after all.
Ruination meant something different for a McQuoid lass than for a typical young lady.
Either way, he didn’t want to hear her confession. He simply couldn’t—or wouldn’t—consider that she’d done something unthinkable.
“…It was just a kiss…Nor are you the first gentleman I’ve shared an embrace with—…”
But it wasn’t about what he wanted. It was about what she needed.
Hart rubbed the back of his suddenly very tight neck.
“Did you hear me, Henry?” she quietly prodded him. “Or are you still having difficulty with your hearing. If so, you really are overdue for a visit from the Tremaine family surgeon.”
The teasing lilt in her speech penetrated the dark place he found himself in.
His head clearer, he found her siren’s lips curved into a smile.
“I hear you just fine, Fleur. I wasn’t sure what you wanted me to say.”
Her slender features trembled, then crumbled completely.
His heart pounded erratically, an uneasy rhythm echoing terror.
“You know I’m new to this friendship business, Fleur,” Hart said. “I’m not used to these talks, and my experience with innocent young ladies is lacking—by design,” he explained.
Her lower lip quivered.
Bloody hell. “What I mean is I’m figuring this out and will make mistakes.” He dragged his hand through his hair.
Christ. Had he acknowledged he had made a mistake?
“Oomph.” Fleur launched herself at him. He just managed to catch her and keep them both from tumbling over.
She lay her cheek upon his chest. “I believe, Henry, you are the best friend I’ve ever had.”
His heart beat harder.
He grunted. “That is not saying much about your friends, I regret to inform you.”
“Can you believe how much alike we are?”
He knew they were nothing alike, but if he said so, she’d either cry or talk him into tomorrow about their similarities.
“Oh?”
“Neither of us has any real friends whom we chose ourselves. Our families and servants weren’t chosen by us. They will fight a Redcap for us, but we didn’t find each other through family. You and I, Henry, actually found each other.”
No one spoke to him as she did. Unnerved, he wanted to say she’d chosen him, and he had just followed to keep her from crying. It was too late to argue; they were too deep into being chums.
Through some bizarre logic, Fleur’s words made sense.
“What is a Red Cap?”
“Not a red cap. A Redcap.”
“I’m certain we are saying the same thing.”
“Well, of course you are; you’re a duke who thinks he knows everything,” she said, giving Hart a deliberately confusing smile. “A Redcap is a malevolent, murderous goblin.”
One of her Scottish folk stories, no doubt.
He saw her smile and chatter as stalling—just as he had done. He wanted to stall, too, delaying the conversation about her feigned smiles and nervous talk.
“So, given I’m your friend, is there some Redcap I’m going to have to slay for you?”
He intended it as a jest.
No.
Even now, he believed voicing his fear—that Fleur wasn’t truly ruined—would make her laugh, and his anxiety would vanish. They’d both laugh, and Fleur would kick him for suspecting she could be seduced by a scoundrel.
That was how it was supposed to play out.
Instead, tears shimmered, her face pale and eyes pressed shut.
And he knew before she spoke it.
Because from the moment he came onto the terrace and found her crying in Kilmartin’s arms—Hart knew. Her shifts from laughter to tears were the clue: only a man could cause such sorrow in an innocent.
“There was a gentleman,” she breathed into the silence.
Hart’s hands curled into fists. There hadn’t been a gentleman—just a cad, a rake, a scoundrel.
Pain twisted inside him, sharp and oppressive, as dread clawed at his resolve.
Fleur continued, the unwanted story pouring out. “He was charming.”
Hart gritted his teeth.
“With his words, he spoke to my soul.”
Of course, he had. Every man used sweet, cunning words to seduce; it was practically a university lesson.
“He made me feel special and beautiful.”
Hart clenched his jaw.
Maybe because she was both special and breathtaking—flawless as the Regent Diamond and luminous as a rubellite tourmaline.
“And his kiss…”
Hart froze. He didn’t want or need these details. Another man’s mouth where his had been. It was too much.
“I had never been kissed before—not by a stable-hand or a village lad—and his kiss was unlike anything. He kissed me like he needed me to breathe…”
That’s what she was to Hart, yet another man had possessed that gift. First, second, last—it didn’t matter. Someone else had been there.
He must have made a sound, for Fleur became quiet. Only the demons in his head remained.
He was a different bastard than the one who’d taken her innocence, but a bastard still—he’d made Fleur feel ashamed, when it wasn’t her fault.
Hart managed a steady breath. “A kiss is not ruination, Fleur.” He spoke for both of them, trying to ease their torment.
Fleur knotted her hands and stared at her white knuckles.
A cold settled in his gut, icy and inexorable, the heaviness of despair pressing against his heart.
Do not say it…Do not say it…
But her red, cupid’s bow lips parted, and he knew before the admission came.
“It wasn’t just a kiss, Henry.”
His eyes slid shut.
Rage and panic warred inside him. The thought of her violation fired something primitive—a harsh growl issued from his chest as murderous intent surged through his veins.
The delicate brush of her fingertips along his sleeve brought his eyes open.
Hart stared at her open palm, frilly lace and all—the only thing making sense in this volatile moment.
But then, it recalled how sweet and innocent she was—still was—no matter what happened between her and that faceless demon. He inhaled. Hart would find the man’s name and destroy him. Yet, in doing so, he’d destroy himself. He’d see the man at events or clubs, knowing what happened.
“He did not force me,” she said quietly. “Yes, I was caught up in the moment, but it was my choice, and I enjoyed all of it.”
She was trying to kill him. Or maybe she was trying to get him to murder the fiend. If only Fleur knew, she didn’t have to try. The only way this nightmare telling ended was with the gentleman dead and ruined in all the ways a man could be ruined.
Fleur grimaced. “That is, all except for the…the part where…you know,”
Christ. He did know. And wished he didn’t.
“I could have done without that part.”
A man who’d taken a debutante’s innocence wouldn’t have taken his time as he should, as the lady’s tender state required.
Hart was going to be ill.
Fleur went silent; this one was more complete and whole, belonging to a woman who had finished her tale.
Restless, needing to move, but afraid he would snap if he did, Hart raked a fist through his hair.
She insisted they were friends, and the ease with which he spoke to her and she to him made her feel very much like one.
But he didn’t speak about anything more than surface-level things, moments, or emotions.
Or he hadn’t. Gentlemen didn’t waste time with all that.
Now, he realized that they didn’t know how.
Here and now, he sought to be the friend she’d declared him to be.
He let the quiet go on too long.
She folded her arms close in a sad, lonely-looking embrace. “You probably believe—”
Hart cut in. “What I believe is that there is a man out there in desperate need of killing.”
A tender smile teased the corners of her mouth. She thought he was jesting.
She had no idea of the unholy, blistering rage pumping through his veins, fast as venom spreads, and hot as fire.
“Why are you being so nice, Henry?”