“I shan’t call you Hart, on account of you do not have one,” she said.
The poor chit’s intended insult failed. One couldn’t be offended by a fact.
She tossed her curls and instantly summoned images of those sun-kissed coils bouncing while he had his way with her. His body responded in due accord.
Undoubtedly not the reaction she sought, but one shewouldsee if she cast a glance at Hart’s lap. He silently dared her to. Willed it.
Defiantly, she stared on ahead.
“…Ten guineas…to your left, sir. Do I see twelve guineas…”
Hart dipped his lips near her ear and whispered, “Take heart, you can set your sights on a different triumph for the day.”
“I came here forDon Juan,” Fleur said, with a saint’s calm.
“…Twelve guineas now…”
“Tsk. Tsk. Such disrespect for the great Scottish poet. With your penchant for love and romance, I should thinkIvanhoea great consolation.”
This time, Hart got a reaction. But not the one he expected—or wanted.
Fleur shook her head sadly. “You have no idea what it is like to be a woman.”
A muscle bunched at the corner of his jaw. “Am I to feel bad for you?”
Her eyes narrowed to thin, dangerous slits. That trace of rage burned even brighter.
He’d gotten his reaction.
She was going to kill him.
Or try to.
Somehow, Fleur collected herself.
Rarely impressed, Hart—frustratedly—discovered an unwelcome appreciation for Lady Fleur McQuoid.
“I neither want nor need your pity. I’m merely educating you about something you know nothing about. What it is like being a woman,” she spoke quietly. “I saved my pin money. Money I’m incapable of earning myself. I amassed what to me constitutes a fortune. I came here with everything I have. Whereas you, by chance of birth, find yourself richer than Croesus and”—she painted the air with her dainty palm—“sweep in with all your power and wealth and…and…”
Hart winged an eyebrow. “Bid on an itemIdesire?”
“You can buy anything.” Fleur stamped her ankle-length boot. “Find another item to desire.”
He couldn’t summon the unsparing laugh he ought. Where was the hide of an ox that Tremaine and their friends were always chortling about? The abrupt absence of it in the face of this woman’s sad eyes made him want tosnortlike a bloody, enraged bull.
“If you expect to use tears to get what you want…” His nostrils flared. “Save them for some fool who responds to such tokens. As I said, I did you a favor earlier, but know better than to expect any thanks from a McQuoid.”
Hartalsoknew not to be swayed by any woman—even one as delectable and entrancing as Fleur McQuoid.
Chapter 4
“Fools are my theme, let satire be my song.”
Lord Byron
London, England
Heart of the London Season
