There it was again, that word Hart loved to bandy about her face—afavor.
Without a doubt, slaying a duke was an offense punishable by death.
When it came toHart, the Duke of Hartwell, Fleur thought it might very well be worth the forfeiture. Fleur gave it consideration—a real serious consideration. Then, in short order, decided she very much enjoyed living, and Hart was the last person on the planet she would die for.
He believed he had come to her rescue like some valiant knight. Just as he prided himself on saving Fleur the night of Lord and Lady Rutland’s masquerade. Seated next to him as the auction continued, Fleur wavered between bawling like a babe and planting a knee between his ducal jewels.
“You claim to have lost your auction item, but still remain.” Hart’s low rumbling voice put her in mind of another—the key distinction being only one of them possessed a romantic spirit and naturally charmed, not infuriated.
“Is it your guilt that has you trying to get rid of me, Your Grace?”
“‘Your Grace’ now, am I?”
“You’re right, I shouldn’t show you that courtesy,” she muttered. “Charles Edward William Henry.”
“I thought it was William Henry Edward Charles?”
“You tell me; it’s your name.”
He grinned.
She was glad one of them was feeling pleased with themselves.
Why shouldn’t he? Hart had come the same way Fleur had, determined, confident, and hopeful.
No. A man like Hart wouldn’t believe his victory anything but certain. From the minute he stepped inside the bibliophile arena, he knew he’d carry the copy ofDon Juanout with him.
Shehad been the naïve fool. As if she could compete with any gentleman, forget Hartwell, who likely owned most of England’s acreage.
“We now come to Lot 601. A fine epic tale in six cantos and containing an epilogue,Ruslan and Ludmilaby Aleksandr Pushkin…”
Hart spoke quietly at her side. “Are you familiar with Pushkin?”
“Are you asking because you want to point out how inappropriate it is for a lady to be versed in theRussian poet and his romantic poems, or to suggest I bid as some sort of consolation? Let me save your time on both. One, I read what I damn well please and two, I’m not interested. Why don’tyoupurchase it?”
“Do I have five guinea—five bid!”
Fleur’s fingers trembled into fists and she tucked them against the side of her skirts. The hell she would let him see her misery. It’d only make him gloat even more.
“That’s not what I was going to ask,” Hart said.
Something must be wrong with her ears or head or both, because the Duke of Hartwell sounded…contrite.
“I am sorry, Fleur. I wish we hadn’t been competing for the same book.”
He was contrite. Hope popped its head up, as that sentiment was wont to do. She waited and then couldn’t stop herself. “Sorry enough to let me purchase the copy from you?”
“No.”
“…I have ten guineas—ten guineas bid!”
Fleur sat back in her Trafalgar seat.
“Do I hear twelve…? I have twelve from Lord H…”
Bidding took a surprisingly frenzied turn.
Fleur couldn’t resist looking at Hart. He remained focused on the auction. She forced herself to put aside her own hurt at the loss ofDon Juan. She had been so absorbed in her reasons for wanting, nay needing, Byron’s cantos that she had naively and selfishly failed to consider whyHarthad been so determined to have the title for himself. Was it a gift for another? Or was it, in fact, a title he intended to keep for himself but was too proud to admit. Either she could understand. Could forgive.
