They were attracting attention. He didn’t even care. Now, she was discomfited.
He freely admitted to enjoying the shoe being on the other wearer.
Winterly accurately assessed the volatile exchange at the back of the library. The gentleman glared at Hart and gaveled the room to attention.
Hart fastened a stare on the besotted fool that said: “Interfere at your own peril.”
The standoff ended in a flash.
“…Lot 246, if you please…”
Hart put the same harsh, implacable look on the outraged woman to his right.
Unlike the unnerved Winterly, Fleur had a bored air to her—or she tried to.
Fleur kept her focus on the auctioneer. Her eyes still glittered like lightning bolts.
The poor gentleman glanced swiftly down at his papers.“…This is another coveted work…”
“I forgot your penchant for seeking out scandals.”
“…A signed presentation of Ivanhoe by Sir Walter Scott…”
“Just asyouhave a fondness for throwing your title around to get what you want and scaring people,” she spoke quietly. “Ihave a fondness for doing as I please.”
The first part she intended as an insult rolled off him.
“This is a game to you,” she noted.
Surprised at how quickly she had set herself to rights, he curled a corner of his mouth to provoke a reaction. “I amnotenjoying it, if that is what you mean.”
Fleur kept her focus on the current bidding. “Actually, I meant exactly what I said.”
He wasn’t fooled by her fake interest.
“You find your defeat of me as nothing more than checkmate on a chessboard, Hartwell.”
“Hartwell was my father,” he gritted out.
The stubborn bit of baggage dug her heels in. “I refuse to call you Hart.”
“Fine. You may choose from Your Grace or I’ll even allow you Duke.”
He may as well have saved his breath.
“You have one of those king’s names: William or Henry or Edward. MaybeCharles.” Fleur stretched up and gave him a closer study. “Probably all four.”
Tension stabbed at his temples. Itwasall four, butnotin that order.
“Hartwell is yourtitle, as it was your father’s before you, as it was before his and so on,” she advised like his first bloody tutor decades earlier. “But now,youare Hartwell.”
The bloody gall of this wench. She advised Hart on his given name?
The throbbing in his head grew.
He wanted to throttle her. Worse—he wanted to, right here and now, toss the lady’s bright, airy skirts about her waist and show the saucy chit her place.
She flashed the dazzling smile that worked for gents like Winterly. Having her use those same wiles now on Hart only made his pressure-boil.
