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.”
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,formerman-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?”
