She hated how big he was. He made her feel small. Not small.Delicate. Fleur wasn’t used to feeling delicate. Another had made her feel this way, but when he had done so, he’d filled her ears with poetry and praise.
“I suppose I might ask the same of you. Given how many glances I caught you stealing at the same clock, you would also rather be somewhere else.”
It was a bold guess on her part. She hadn’t seen him do a single thing.
“I do not have to sneak about. I am a duke.”
Fleur snorted. “Lest anyone could ever forget.”
His smile, as a rule, was the hardest part of him—as if even in mirth, he resented being made to show the actual human emotion of amusement. He bestowed one of them now on Fleur.
She gave him her best scowl. “I still have not forgiven you for ruining my fun that night.”
One of his goons had found her in the library, buried her in a cloak, and rushed her off. As such, one could say—and she did, at least to herself—Hartwell was the reason Fleur had no idea whom she had given her virtue to.
He gaveherhis coldest grin. “Ididkeep your confidence.”
Yes, he had not sung to her parents about her, Meghan, and Linnie’s scandalous escapade.
“Fair enough.” She hated it when he was right.
The duke settled his gaze on the other guests. “To your earlier question, there are any number of things I would rather be doing instead of being part of this farce.”
Fascinating. “I am intrigued.” He had loosened his plate armor. “What are these things of which you speak?”
“Visiting the Tremaine crypt. Beinglaidin the Tremaine crypt.”
A bolt of laughter exploded from her lips; she buried it fast behind her fingers.
“Good God, you have managed to put all eyes on us with your unseemly guffaw.” His heavy-lidded gaze only emphasized his displeasure.
Even the distaste he currently directed at her came in the big form.
Oh, he wanted to re-don his armor. She thought not.
“Your Grace, has the cow come home?”
Hartwell dropped one of his big square shoulders against the marble mantel, hanging himself like a shadow over her. “What was that?”
She really did not know. Fleur liked big-built men. She admired the gentlemen who stood a head above the crowd and who packed muscle from their rounds at Gentleman Jackson’s and morning rides in Hyde Park. Those gentlemanly endeavors weren’t the ones to credit to Hartwell’s physique. He was a colossal man. Not fat. More like he had achieved the ultimate level of ducal refinement while his physique stayed stuck in the Dark Ages. The Duke of Hartwell was not classically handsome—far, far from it. There was a rough-hewn attractiveness to his nobly squared features that further cemented his face from those of warriors of old.
Her heart beat strangely. Another man had made her feel this way. Through her skirts, the ring burned hot. Her lips did too. Because now she knew what it felt like to be folded in a built man’s arms, properly kissed…and more.
From his perch above her nose, Hartwell caught her staring. “Lady Fleur?”
She found her head and voice—thankfully at the same time. “I am trying to determine if two Sundays have come together? Or pigs flown? We have foundsomethingto agree over, Your Grace.”
“Are you saying you would prefer being buried in the Tremaine crypt to attending this dinner party?”
“I would prefer being inanycrypt to attending this or any of the planned events between our families.”
The slight twitch at the corners of his significantly chiseled lips gave the fellow away—there was the humor she’d had a taste of at Linnie’s wedding breakfast…and Lord Chilton’s. A soft pang struck at the remembrance.
“It occurs to me you are positioned near my brother,” he remarked.
A man as astute and perceptive as Hart would notice. Not that Fleur had placed herself here for that reason. She wouldnever.
She canted her head. “Is that an observation, or are you wanting me to comment on where my alliances lie?”
