Chapter 23
“In itself a thought, a slumbering thought is capable of years; and curdles a long life into one hour.”
The Dream
~Lord Byron
Being a duke brought with it an unceasing amount of responsibilities.
Take this evening. Nearly all the people in attendance were taking in Rossini’s muse, bel canto Isabella Colbran, and the lead Tenor of the French Opera for nearly three decades now, étienne Lainez, in his commanding role of General Licinius.
Those who were not devotees of the art occupied their night scrutinizing who was wearing what and which lord was with which mistress, and so on and so on.
Not Hart. Hart was thoroughly preoccupied with business affairs, specifically the sudden resignation of his man of affairs. It had left Hart with all manner of things to contemplate.
Namely, being Kilmartin, rogue among rogues, sinner among saints, had made a public declaration for Fleur.
Flowers. A lot of them. To be exact, Kilmartin bought out every rose, carnation, tulip, posy, narcissus, and hyacinth, and in every shade.
Some two dozen vendors at Covent Garden Market, with their stalls stripped bare, marched throughout the day to the lady’s house.
At least, that was what Hart had read in a special edition of The Tattler, and the only reason the Duke of Hartwell would debase himself reading a gossip rag was that it had to do with his man-of-affairs, former man-of-affairs.
He was going to make Kilmartin swallow his teeth. All of them.
“O nume tutelar delle infelici,
Soccorri un’alma oppressa dal dolore.”
O guardian deity of the unhappy, Aid a soul crushed by sorrow.
Hart curled his fingers onto the arms of his crimson upholstered seat.
As if Fleur wanted thousands of bloody flowers.
She would want one that bore true meaning.
He stilled.
“The pink topaz represents love and affection.”
“Wouldn’t that make it the ideal stone?”
“Yes, it would…for a man who believes in love and affection, which you do not. It wouldn’t be fair to the young lady, giving her something you don’t feel or mean.”
Ah, Christ. Something dangerously close to sorrow pulsed in his chest, unmistakably near his heart….
“Fra queste sacre mura,
Porto un inferno nel mio petto.”
Within these sacred walls, I carry a living hell within my breast.
At his side, Lady Angela murmured. “Do you enjoy the theatre, Your Grace?”
“No.”
I enjoy everything when I’m with F…
As Fleur reclined, Kilmartin hovered closer.
“Ah! Che sarà di me? Ah!”
What shall become of me?
It was to be expected. The other man had been anything but discreet in his admiration for the lady.
“Se cedo all’amore, son perduta.”
If I surrender to love, I am lost.
Unable to take in any more, he looked openly at his brother and sister-in-law.
The ridiculously besotted couple who were so lost in each other, they didn’t see Hart sitting there, all alone—but for the exception of the Duke and Duchess of Talbert, who were up to their own machinations behind him, and Lady Angela.
Seated next to Tremaine’s theatre box—a bloody box Hart helped his brother obtain—Oh, it was a flawless view, all right. Hart had direct line access to Fleur and her infuriatingly good-looking companion behind her.
He willed Tremaine and Linnie to look so he could burn them to ashes with a glare.
Hart had dedicated his life to his younger brother, and this was the bloody thanks he got.
Not that he’d expected anything in return.
But he, at the absolute minimum, hadn’t expected his brother would bloody betray him, and in this spectacularly public way.
Granted, Kilmartin was Tremaine’s quartermaster and the men had gone to war together—literally and figuratively—but that didn’t mean Hart and Kilmartin weren’t bonded in the same…
Polite business affairs didn’t trump comrades in arms.
Finally, Tremaine looked over. He said something to Linnie. The couple turned and smiled; Tremaine inclined his head. Linnie gave a jaunty wave.
And Hart was forgotten, left staring at Fleur and Kilmartin.
Kilmartin hadn’t stopped chatting her ears off. Instead of watching the show, he whispered at her nape, in a way Hart knew—because they had gone wenching enough—was deliberate.
The lean-around.
It even had a blasted name of its own.
Kilmartin would come up behind his lovers, lean down enough to avail himself of a better view of the crevice between her breasts, and whisper in a way that forced her to look up.
But goddamn it, this was Fleur.
And Fleur, whom just two days earlier, Hart had left her with stricken eyes and pale cheeks, was smiling and laughing—for the other man.
But Hart had come to know her. He saw the lines of fatigue at the corners of her eyes. They didn’t lessen her beauty; they bespoke her power, and signified the life she was carrying in her and the bloody fear she carried and—
He closed his eyes.
She was so damned afraid, or she had been. She had come to Hart, and he had rejected her. He hadn’t just rejected her; he’d cut her off at the knees. Then, he kept hacking away like an avenging angel—driven by his own demons, and a jealousy he had never known.
And how quickly she went and found another…
The devil delighted in pointing out. Hart sat yearning for her while she smiled for Kilmartin.
What choice did she have?
What choice would any woman in her position have?
He realized he’d rather face the sickening truth of her happy marriage to Kilmartin than see her sell herself to a lech just to give her babe a name and security. Unlike Hart’s mother, who had…
“…Did you ever consider the mother you refer to as a whore found love from a man capable of loving her and not some empty ancestral title and the power it brought him?”
He felt a narrowing sensation, fear rising as it became harder to breathe.
“Your Grace?”
He ignored Lady Angela; his mind was trapped on that question.
What was the answer?
He didn’t know.
He didn’t even know his questions anymore—there were just too many.
Why shouldn’t she want the other man?
What if she didn’t lie to you…? What if the babe is…?
His mind veered from the question haunting him since she confessed her love.
Does it matter who the babe belongs to?
Certainly. It must…
He couldn’t be with a woman carrying illegitimate issue…
But…what did it matter if there was her…?
That question came as he caught a glimpse of Linnie and Tremaine leaving the box.
Hart stiffened. Would they leave Fleur alone with bloody Kilmartin? His nostrils flared. Did they not have a brain between the two of them? What of the lady’s reputation…?
Kilmartin brushed his knuckles along the back of Fleur’s arm.
It was that caress. The slight dusting, only Hart at his vantage point, the beautiful pair could see.
Searing white-hot rage ripped through his veins.
Nothing made sense.
The world was on fire.
He was.
Hart was lost, only knowing Fleur McQuoid had ruined him.