Hart slammed his hands against Kilmartin’s chest.
And it didn’t matter that Kilmartin complied, or that Hart was being just as irrational as the composed man accused.
Bloody spoiling for a fight, Hart shoved him repeatedly. Through his onslaught, Kilmartin held stubbornly planted.
Kilmartin’s gaze moved to a point beyond Hart’s shoulder.
Wheeling away, Hart battled down a flood of irrational rage, his heart pounding hard. Fleur stood five paces off, looking hesitant, unnerved, and unquestionably guilty. She moved her stare between the two men before settling on Hart.
Tugging at his lapels, Hart stepped past Kilmartin.
“Ah, Lady Fleur. Wonder that you should be here now. We were just speaking of you.”
Fleur dampened her mouth, which only reminded Hart that another man had savored that plump flesh. “Were you?” She slanted a glance at Kilmartin.
Looking to Kilmartin for support, was she?
And from the corner of his eye, Hart saw him give it to Fleur in the form of a slight shake of his head.
Hart’s focus tightened. “Leave us.”
A pale Fleur bowed her head. “My apologies. I will—”
“Not you,” Hart said frostily.
Beside him, Kilmartin closed his eyes. “Do not be a bloody arse,” his man-of-affairs muttered.
An arse, was he?
Then the unthinkable occurred. Kilmartin shared a soft, silent look with Fleur, a brief tie that made Hart feel utterly alone—on the outside of what was occurring between them. Watching them, Hart’s fury became an agonizing, self-consuming fire, incinerating him entirely, repeated without end.
And then, with a deferential bow for Fleur alone, Kilmartin strode from the hall.
The minute they were alone, Fleur spoke in her soft, tender tones. To him? “Henry…”
His name. It was too bloody much.
“Where have you been, madam?”
The lady’s mouth moved. She cast a glance back in the direction she—her and Kilmartin?—had come.
“I…the Portrait Hall.”
That brought him up short. The Portrait Hall? He had been referring to her absence.
His brow furrowed.
Soft fingers brushed his sleeve, jolting him.
“Henry,” she began softly. “I would—”
Hart cut her off. “Iwould rather we not air your dirty laundry here, madam.” Sweeping his arm out, he motioned ahead. “Why don’t we return to the Portrait Hall?”
Chapter 20
“In secret we met. In silence I grieve. That thy heart could forget. Thy spirit deceive.”
Lord Byron
