“Oh, sod off,” Hart said. “Both of you.”
“I was surprised you would lower yourself by wedding a mere baron’s daughter,” Kilmartin said, finishing off his drink.
“The de Ros title is the premier barony in England, with an inception of 1224—”
“Ah, the duke forgets the complete inception date: the Eve of Christmas, 1224.”
“Reassuring you know that detail.”
“I did pay attention to my studies.” Tremaine wagged his eyebrows. “I also only noted it because of how you hated the Yuletide season.”
His brother dropped his insouciant air. His expression contained the same somberness as when he spoke about Lady Tremaine’s nightmares from the sea. Hooking his hands under his seat, he dragged his chair the rest of the way.
Hart winced at the screech as he scraped the hell out of the polished floor.
He waited for Tremaine to make another appeal on behalf of the McQuoids.
“Hart, leaving off the lady’s names in favor of their esteemed papas hardly promises to offer you any kind of meaningful match.”
“It offers him exactly what he wants, Tremaine,” Kilmartin interjected.
“My responsibilities are to the line, little brother. The only meaningful match for me are the bride’s pedigree, that her virtue be intact, and she is capable of being faithful and bearing my future sons.”
His brother reconsidered Hart’s list.
Snide, mocking comments he expected did not come.
“It is a fine list,” Tremaine concurred. “You might want to add the Duke of Talbert.”
Not for one moment did Hart trust that helpfulness. He narrowed his eyes.
“You have all the finest pedigrees. I wonder how these nobles and their Diamond daughters will feel about a match between a man who is still pining over his betrothed’s defection.”
Kilmartin converted his laugh into a cough.
A muscle rolled along Hart’s jawline. “One formal dinner and a soiree.”
“Two formal dinners: one on Tremaine territory, one on the McQuoids; a soiree and a ball, and a visit to the theatre,” Tremaine countered.
“You’re cracked in the head.” Hart reduced his earlier offer. “Two formal dinners.”
“Two formal dinners, one ball, and a shared theatre box.”
“Bloody fine,” he muttered.
Grinning, his brother lifted his glass. “Deal.”
“And when this is done,” Hart said, “aside from business as it pertains to the shipping line, I am done with your in-laws.”
And what a happy day it would be when the McQuoids were well and truly out of his life, once and for all.
Chapter 6
“Hatred is the madness of the heart.”
~Lord Byron
After Fleur’s stolen night at Lord and Lady Rutland’s masquerade, thoughts of the stranger who’d broken down her defenses—not that she had put any up—haunted her. Every minute of every day she spent pondering his identity.
