Or, as her current case had it, she returned to her uncomfortable wooden chair at the farthest back row in the farthest corner of the baron’s enormous library. Fleur tilted herneck back, farther back, andall the way back, until she made the long climb to her visitor.
She didn’t even bother to hide her endless sigh.
Of all the rotten luck. It was always with this man.
The Duke of Hartwell.
The first exchange between the Duke of Hartwell and any McQuoid—that wasn’t his sister-in-law, Lady Linnie Tremaine, ne McQuoid-Smith—would be with Fleur.
After the Great Jilting, as it had come to be called and referred to in papers and in private, it fell to Fleur to smooth things over.
He flashed a crooked smile that surely did wild things to women’s hearts.
It must because even Fleur, who was unimpressed by the swell-headed duke, felther hearthop into a strange rhythm.
Hartwell lowered his voice. “Lest we gather the crowd’s attention, might I suggest you insert a curtsy.”
“I cannot very well curtsy while seated, Your Grace.”
“That was my point, Lady Fleur.”
He arched a dark brow.
Meghan’s former betrothed must have practiced that lift in the schoolroom.
“I am grateful for the reminder, Your Grace,” she said, coming to her feet.
He executed a bow.
She gave a graceful curtsy—and waited for him to go.
Which, of course, he did not.
This was where polite conversation was required. She wasn’t even bad at it when she wanted to be. She just didn’t want to make it here, now—or maybe ever—with this particular gentleman.
And he knew it, too.
“Your Grace,” she said, all polite deference. “It is very good to see you in public.”
He gave another of his infamous eyebrow arches. “And why ever would I not?”
Fleur opened her mouth to speak, but no words came out, because the ones she had been about to say weren’t at all going to help in the whole “smooth things over” effort.
My cousin broke it off with you, then married your family’s enemy.
All that notwithstanding, she smiled. “I meant it is lovely to see you here.”
Fleur gave thanks she was going to get off freely with only a minimal amount of awkwardness at their ex—
“Are you waiting for me to leave, Lady Fleur?”
Hoping. Wishing. Praying.
“Not at all, Your Grace,” she assured.
Neither did she issue an invitation. So, of course, being a duke who could summon a pineapple and have it bedecked in chocolate drips for a midnight snack if he so craved, Hartwell availed himself of a chair.
Welp. He was sitting.
