Ah, you mean, who she gave her virtue to. The Devil delighted in reminding Hart that both these heinous things were true.
Avenging Fleur had previously distracted him from his own emotions. Now, with no enemy left to blame, Hart was forced to face the jealousy festering in him—raw and unbearable.
He’d given up on sleep around five o’clock in the morning and taken his mount for an early ride.
The feel of the stallion’s hooves drumming on the earth and the sharp rush of wind in Hart’s face hadn’t helped.
For once, there had been no distraction found in the form of his ledgers and reports—and certainly no thought of his progressing courtship of Lady Angela.
How could he spare a thought for the colorless lady when a spirited beauty like Fleur had affixed herself inside his head? Even when the chit was not about, she owned Hart’s thoughts.
“…It wasn’t just a kiss, Henry…”
Another man had availed himself of her sweet mouth.
“…It wasn’t just a kiss, Henry…”
Someone else had seated himself between her shapely thighs.
“…It wasn’t just a kiss, Henry…”
Another had filled his hands with her full breasts. Thrummed her nipples. Tasted them.
“It wasn’t just a kiss, Henry…”
“It wasn’t just a kiss, Henry…”
Hart slapped his hands over his ears again and again.
Why? Why in hell should he be so consumed by her? It had nothing to do withfriendship. As he’d determined from the very start of that preposterous suggestion at Rundell’s, there was nothing friendly between them. Not when sexual tension glowed. Not when he wanted to lay her bare, bring his body over hers, and possess her over and over and over. Again and again. Until he drove the memory of her lover’s touch from her body. Purged thoughts of that man from her mind.
“…He did not force me…Yes, I was caught up in a whirlwind, but it was my choice, and I enjoyed all of it…”
But no, the Devil in his head delighted in pointing out. By the lady’s admission, she hadn’t enjoyed all of it.
“…I could have done without that part…”
The consummation, that most important part, the fiend had fumbled.
Of a certainty, if Hart had been Fleur’s first lover, she would have touched the moon and grabbed a few stars upon her eventual, gradual descent to earth.
Pain flared. His head pounded with relentless pressure.
But it hadn’t been Hart; rather, some stranger out there.
He cared—far more than he dared admit, even to himself.
Toomuch—it scared him to realize just how deeply he felt.
Hart stopped in his tracks. With a roar, he punched his fist against the Toile de Jouy wallpaper where a prancing gentleman seduced a lady at a lake. The crystals dangling from their gold sconces jingled.
Sweating, shaking, he stared crazily at the happy couple embroidered within the material.
What was happening to him? Why was he losing control?
Hart’s eyes slid shut. He didn’t recognize himself—first with confusion, then with a harsh realization. Fear wound tight in his chest, raw and overwhelming.
Shouldn’t he bedisgustedwith Fleur? Her attendance at Rutland’s masquerade, where she lost her virtue, seemed proof of the late duke’s warnings. The late duke’s voice rang loudly in his head. Instead, he wanted to tear down every man until he reached the one behind her dreamy, far-off expression.
