And not just any child—Henry.
A wrenching pain pierced Fleur’s heart. She pictured a young Henry trapped under that monster’s thumb and starved of any affection. What hope had he ever stood? The fact that Henry had secured Jeremy’s safety from that same fate proved Henry possessed the heart his predecessor lacked. But who had been there for Henry?
No one.
He had been…and still was all alone.
She wanted to climb inside the canvas and pluck Henry free, and bring him back to the McQuoids—to Fleur—where he could know the same warmth and love Jeremy had with the McQuoids.
Jeremy had the McQuoids.
And Henry…
Fleur drew closer to the portrait towering above her. Stretching up, she traced the cold canvas of his black leather buckled shoes. “You had no one,” she whispered, her voice aching.
How many times could a heart break? In how many different ways could it be shattered?
If Henry married Lady Angela, he would merely continue the cycle of empty, power-forged unions established by the Dukes ofHartwell before him. But it shouldn’t be that way—not for him; not foranyone.
Kilmartin’s guidance rang in her head more clearly; Fleur felt the bands of self-misery and regret lessen.
She wanted Henry’s love, and whether or not he wanted hers in return, she would do what McQuoids always did when it came to matters of the heart—she would fight for him.
Chapter 19
“The heart will break, but broken live on.”
Childe Harold’s Pilgrimage
~Lord Byron
Members of the Ton never refused an invitation from a duke, especially the Duke of Hartwell. High Society knew better than to slight Hart.
That was all of High Society, but fortwo.
It wasn’t concern over his image that roiled through him—it was something more intense, more personal, that made his emotions surge and twist inside.
This night, with the intimate affair Hart agreed to host at the McQuoids’ behest, two invitees were missing; their absences were all the more notable as they had been dining partners.
Kilmartin—Lord Cassian, Hart’s loyal man-of-affairs.
He was charming…
And Fleur…
With his words, he spoke to my soul…
Under his purposeful strides, Hart’s heels landed angrily upon the thin ivory carpeted corridor as he walked. Since yesterday, when she’d wept in his arms, Hart had been swallowed up with thoughts of her. The memory of her anguish had torn him to pieces inside. Sleep had escaped him. Instead, he had marched to his chambers, torturing himself with thoughts of Fleur and her lover.
He had tortured himself by reliving her breathless admissions…
“…I had never been kissed. Not by a stable-hand, nor a village lad and his kiss, it was like nothing I’ve ever known…He kissed me like I was the air he needed in his lungs…”
And then he had imagined Fleur in that other man’s embrace. A blistering something that promised to tear him asunder for the fact that it had been real and not just imaginings.
His blood simmering hot in his veins, Hart picked up his stride.
He had dedicated himself to being Fleur’sfriend, to helping her and finding the gentleman who had taken her virtue.
