Chapter 22
“My soul is dark – Oh! quickly string / The harp I yet can brook to hear; / And let thy gentle fingers fling / Its melting murmurs o’er mine ear.”
My Soul Is Dark
~Lord Byron
The following morning, Fleur received a visit from her cousin Linnie, Jeremy, and Lord Cassian. The two gentlemen—one a longtime friend and fourth brother, the other Henry’s man of affairs—came to Fleur with an offer to help. They urged her to trust them.
Fleur sat off to the side as they animatedly hatched a plan.
As she listened, she had been skeptical—at best. But on account of her being heartbroken, the life-draining, soul-crushing type, she agreed to trust them.
She loved Henry so much that even with every hurtful charge he’d hurled, she wanted him anyway.
It didn’t matter that Henry had broken her heart. The accusations. She loved him—and love, as all McQuoids knew, was illogical.
Because she knew him. She knew his heart, even if he was determined to prove he didn’t have one.
Back when she was a girl, Arran arrived from one sea voyage with a parrot. Much to the Countess of Abington’s horror—but not surprise—all her children took turns teaching Sir Cursely all manner of inventive words and phrases.
Henry was much like that vibrant green and red, black-beaked bird, uttering years of his father’s deplorable teachings. He would have loathed the comparison.
And maybe she wasn’t the same as her kin, because she had enough logic to understand why Henry had behaved the way he did.
He didn’t have many reasons to trust that anyone cared about him.
Not when the people who should have loved him most—his parents—failed him.
The world saw the austere, foreboding duke.
Fleur saw a big, cuddly bear with a burr stuck in its paw. He would hate that analogy, too.
And Henry had been correct when he said the timing was convenient, as he had called it.
As such, though still skeptical, Fleur agreed to do as Jeremy, Kilmartin, and Linnie advised.
A written invitation and a flower shop’s worth of flowers arrived from Lord Cassian, requesting to escort Fleur to the theatre the next night. Her parents granted permission at once, assuming Fleur had found her heart.
All Fleur’s neighbors in Mayfair saw Lord Cassian’s carriage arrive at the McQuoids residence—as had been the plan.
And then, a growing crowd watched as flowers streamed in.
Then, when Lord Cassian arrived to escort Fleur to the theatre, with Lord and Lady Tremaine acting as chaperones, they saw that, too.
An uproar had been the intended effect. A stir was exactly what they created.
London’s leading diamond, who had yet to encourage courtship, had chosen Lord Cassian Kilmartin—shipping captain, man-of-affairs, second son, rogue of the first order.
Naturally, this made sense to Polite Society: Lady Fleur was a McQuoid, and McQuoids married only for love.
That two of the ladies had conveniently landed a duke or future duke was neither here nor there.
Between Lord Cassian lifting Fleur into the carriage—with many watching nearby—and helping her down at the theatre, word had already spread throughout London. His lingering kiss on her wrist set off more sighs in the waiting crowd.
Everyone knew: Lady Fleur McQuoid, the Season’s prize, would not be available on the Marriage Mart for long. Lady Fleur had made her choice.
The crowd was taken.
Fleur hated every moment of it.
As for Lord Cassian, the puckish rogue swallowed it whole, relishing every aspect of their performance.
When they entered Theatre Royal at Drury Lane, arm in arm, every patron in all three tiers of crimson boxes—and the crowded standing area—swung their attention to the handsome couple.
It seemed the entire ton had squeezed into the theatre. Now they waited, breaths held, at the literal edge of their seats. They watched as Lord Cassian escorted Fleur in a slow, grand, beautiful entrée.
Some described the way Fleur and Lord Cassian moved together as gliding. Their mastery of movement would later be compared to a dance.
Envious sighs washed over the crowd. The men longed to be Lord Cassian. All the ladies—from debutantes to dowagers—wanted to be Fleur.
After all, it was a truth universally acknowledged that seafaring second sons were bachelors until they died—unless they fell madly in love, and when they did…
Well, when they did, those rogues wore the same possessive, scorching look Lord Cassian did as he watched Fleur.
The debonair rogue kept Fleur’s fingers tucked into his sleeve, her palm hidden from view. It was as if he warned: Ye who approach will be separated from his hand. In truth, Lord Cassian said nothing to anyone; all his whispered words belonged to Fleur.
And meanwhile, his whispered words were the thing that kept Fleur tethered to this place and his and Jeremy’s plan—stories about Henry.
One after another. Ones from their days as young lads.
And later, when Henry had the idea for a shipping venture, to indulge Jeremy’s love for the sea, and to also help keep Jeremy away from the late duke.
“…On the way to Melton Mowbray, a little girl’s cries came up near River Wreake,” he was saying. “Granted, Tremaine and I assumed it was a child’s game, with all the laughter, it was hard to believe it was anything else. Naturally, Hart knew differently because Hart naturally knows all,”
Lord Cassian paused his telling to give a slow wink, which everyone watching would take as flirtatious—which they did.
That skillful flutter set off dreamy sighs, while all Fleur wanted was to pinch him and urge him on. He did so, but only made her love Henry more.
“A trio of irksome lads had tossed a small, mangy puppy into the river. Hart, being Hart, rescuer of those in need of defending, dove in—boots and all—and rescued the pup. The minute he climbed himself out of the water, he was covered in mud, holding an armful of animal, and giving a big old ducal set-down to the fiends.”
Fleur sighed her first real sigh in the presence of Lord Cassian. “That lass will remember that moment for years to come.”
“Oh, absolutely,” Lord Cassian concurred.
They reached Linnie and Jeremy’s box and waited for the couple to enter.
“The children wanted to join a theatre troupe and were practicing when Hart interrupted. The pup was part of the performance. The pup was also an English water spaniel. Hart got a swift kick to the knee and a stern scolding from the lass, who ordered him off his own estate and told him not to return. And,” he said as he escorted her inside, “I’m fairly certain he hasn’t been allowed back since. ”
At the image conjured of towering, imposing Henry drenched in water and covered in mud getting a lecture from a wee lass, Fleur laughed.
“There it is,” He gave another one of those seductive winks. “More of that, darling.” He spread a palm towards her seat. “Here we are.”
Lord Cassian had been so kind, as had Jeremy; both were so friendly and supportive that she had no reason to doubt when they’d told her to place her trust in them.
Seated in Jeremy and Linnie’s theatre box, with Lord Cassian just behind her, Fleur now wondered if she had been misled. Perhaps Henry’s brother and best friend had truly coordinated with Henry all along, not to help her, but to maximize her suffering.
What else could she think?
What else could she conclude, seated directly beside Henry’s box, fully in view as he helped his companion into her seat?
Just like they had it all wrong in thinking Henry cared about her. He didn’t even like her.
She and Lord Cassian captured the crowd. Henry remained oblivious.
Lady Angela was speaking with Henry, and he was nodding, and it was so intimate—a respectable couple conversing in public, where they had a right to be because they were both of like respectability.
Things Fleur would never be.
Especially not while pregnant with the child he denied. Despite his conviction, he had still sent a letter that morning, promising a fortune to support her.
A substantial income of five thousand pounds per annum. For a child he didn’t believe was his. Because Henry was, if not honorable and good, even to a woman he believed was a schemer.
And he had signed it from a friend.
A friend?
Fleur had alternately laughed, cried, and screamed into her pillow. As even now, anger warred with grief; how was it possible to love him and hate him at the same time?
Tortured, Fleur forced herself to watch them. The future Duke and Duchess of Hartwell.
Her lungs began to fail.
Unlike Fleur and Lord Cassian, Hart sat right next to Lady Angela, like husband and wife, with the Duke and Duchess of Talbert behind.
Don’t look, she told herself.
Except that she was already looking.
Look away.
But she couldn’t.
They conversed easily; Henry, absorbed in the other woman’s words, would not have noticed Fleur—even if a fire had engulfed the entire theatre.
The slow, solemn andante of Spontini’s La Vestale hymn-like opening offset the lively tones and ushered in a fitting solemnity of the vestal virgin’s struggle between duty to the flame and her love of Licinius.
Why had they brought her here, except to make her suffer?
Her throat tightened; her lungs burned; her chest ached.
“Al cuore d’un amico fedele
Confida il tuo dolore segreto.
To the heart of a faithful friend. Entrust your hidden sorrow.
There came a soft brush of air against her cheek.
“Dear God, darling,” Lord Cassian said hushed against her ear. “We have not even reached the first aria.”
She knew what he was trying to do; she knew he sought to ease her sorrow and strengthen her resolve.
“Look at me, now, Lady Fleur,” he murmured.
Perché quel volto sì turbato?
Why is your face so troubled? /
You know, she silently railed at Licinius.
“You need to smile,” Lord Cassian murmured.
Instead of a smile, a sob built. “I cannot.” How could she when her heart was breaking?
“Perché sospiri in mezzo al trionfo?”
Why do you sigh amid triumph?
Her lower lip quivered. There was no triumph.
She stole another furtive glance. Henry no longer gazed upon Lady Angela but at the performance below. Not Fleur. But the stage. A victory. A small one.
“Se amicizia seconda il mio coraggio,
Io parlerò senza timore.
If friendship strengthens my courage,
I shall speak without fear.
“My dear,” Lord Cassian stretched his admonishment into a long, slow drawl. “The goal was ‘blissfully head-over-heels for me’, not ‘his company is so tedious, I’m going to cry’.”
This time, the devilish gentleman did the impossible.
Fleur laughed.
Their presence drew every eye, even those of the performers. Charming as ever, Lord Cassian acknowledged the attention with a wave and a shrug that clearly said, ‘Shoot us. We’re in love.’
“Much better,” Lord Cassian said when they were no longer front and center.
And he really was charming, and his grin was contagious, so that even dying inside, she managed a smile.
His rogue’s one widened. “Even better.”
“Roma ti acclama vincitore,
Eppur sembri oppresso dal fato.
Rome acclaims you victor, yet you seem crushed by fate.
Fleur couldn’t help herself. She stole a sideways peek at Henry’s box and wished she hadn’t. Her heart folded onto itself.
There was no purpose if Hart was so absorbed in the breathtaking Lady Angela and oblivious to Fleur seated in the box next to his.
“Se amicizia seconda il mio coraggio,
Io parlerò senza timore.
If friendship strengthens my courage, I shall speak without fear.
Fleur angled her neck, indicating to Lord Cassian that she needed him. “He doesn’t even know I’m alive,”
He scoffed. “Hart hasn’t taken his eyes from you.”
Fleur lifted her incredulous gaze.
“Trust me, darling.”
She felt a brush of warmth against her back.
She faintly registered Lord Cassian whispering into her ear, something about Linnie and Tremaine stepping out. Something about allowing Fleur and Lord Cassian a noticeable moment alone to attract Henry’s attention.
But the three of them had it wrong…
Fleur scrabbled with the inside of her cheek.
“I cannot do this,” she whispered.
“Nonsense. You’re a McQuoid. You can do anything.”
She had thought so.
But not this.
“Look at me, Fleur.”
That switch in voice, from charming soother to commanding captain, snapped her from her rapid descent. That tone no doubt served him and Jeremy well seaboard.
Fleur lifted wide eyes to Lord Cassian’s.
“There, that is better. Hart is here for a show.” His hard lips curved into a seductive smile. “Let us give him one.”