This woman had him so turned upside down that he had almost missed his entire bloody reason for being here.
“Since there are no further bids…”
The hell she would.
“Two thousand guineas, twenty shillings.” Hart didn’t shout that outrageous bid. The rumble of his deep baritone did the work for him.
A fresh set of rustlings rolled around the library.
Winterly briefly lost his composure a second time. He swiftly collected himself. “Two thousand guineas, twenty shillings to His Grace, the Duke of H.”
A powerful quiet fell.
The stunned auctioneer looked to Baron and Baroness Chilton.
Trying to get another bid, were they?
Determined to put a definitive end to their greedy grab, Hart called a bid against himself. “Three thousand guineas, thirty shillings.”
The room broke into pandemonium.
The matter of the auction settled, he returned to bantering with the amusing chit beside him. He forgot what he had been about to say.
All the color had left Fleur’s cheeks, leaving them a stark white that highlighted several freckles and a previously unnoted beauty mark at the side of her right nostril.
“What have you done?” she uttered.
“Won.”
She somehow managed to both look like he’d kicked her dog andspokewith a barbed tone that would penetrate any other man’s skin.
“Be thankful I saved you from certain scandal,” he said collectedly.
The lady didn’t look appreciative—she looked ready to claw his eyes out.
“You. Stole. My. Lot.”
Ahh, so the real crux of her fury.
When he’d arrived, he had only intended to stay long enough to air his influence, win Byron’s collection for the mistress Hart was in the process of setting up, and take his leave.
Hart’s Anglo-Saxon-rooted frame had begun to protest his minimal Trafalgar chair at Chilton and Winterly’s openingremarks. Sparring with the spitfire proved compelling enough reason to stay and put up with some mild discomfort.
Hart shifted his weight and settled in for the long run.
“Is that truly the title you came to bid on?”
“Yes,” she hissed.
He should have figured.
“If I had known that, I would have paid double.”
“Paid d-double,” she choked.
“I didn’t take you for a sore loser,” he said. “Strike that. I absolutely did.”
“Sore loser?” Her face flamed so red it was a wonder the hellion didn’t catch fire. “Sore loser?”
