Everything had gone swimmingly—until Tremaine went and fell in love with his bird-witted bride.
Had Hart ever foreseen that Tremaine would grow soft and expect Hart to extend support and an appearance to the unseemly family, he would not have allowed the association during Tremaine’s Eton years.
Not for the first or even thousandth time, Hart nearly knelt to Heaven at having been spared a permanent union to one of those wildlings. But a duke only bent the knee to his king on this early plane.
The youngest McQuoid lads, who were at university, flicked peas like they were boys in the schoolrooms.
Theladiesraised their voices to make themselves heard down the length of the table. Like tavern wenches trying to get a customer’s attention.
Except for the countess, the family’s laughter was unchecked, ladies and gentlemen alike snorting like pigs. Hart pictured them, faces flushed from claret andgood cheer, bent not over porcelain but troughs.
They were nothing less than ghastly.
Amidst it all, there was Lady Fleur.
She had made a fool of him. Baited him with regular occurrence.
And he hadn’t desired a woman this fiercely since the courtesan at Rutland’s masquerade.
The only unfortunate piece was that the chit had been born a McQuoid and had a “Lady” attached to her name. With her fiery disposition, bold tongue, and even bolder laugh, she would have made him a perfect mistress.
The little termagant surely noticed his misery, trapped between her eldest sister, the talkative Duchess of Aragon, and Lady Alexandra, the Viscountess Crichton, who alternated between endless praise and weather talk.
When Lady Fleur snatched her name card and assured him he had diverting partners, he should have known the shrew meant the exact opposite.
And his father, the late duke, who had delivered the most important edification—dukes bed spitfires. They don’t marry them. That had been the duke’s mistake.
What did one do with a hellion like Lady Fleur? She was the last woman he’d want to wed.
With her wild laughter from the bottom of the table, she had enjoyed herself more than anyone.
Yet, even as his distaste festered, his thoughts returned to Lady Fleur.
Throwing bloody Byron in his face, had she?
Tremaine’s sister-in-law was as mercenary as all women everywhere. Not that such a detail was any kind of surprise to Hartwell.
Women wanted what they wanted and would do whatever it took to get it too.
In the case of the Duchess of Hartwell, she had wanted two things: her lover and favored son.
Every woman in Hartwell’s life wanted his title, and no fewer than five had tried to trap him.
“…with his charm, dashing looks, and poetic brilliance, he compels a lady. Only you with your inflated sense of self-worth could you possibly believe I would waste my wiles on you.”
Lady Fleur, with all her insolence and barbed repartee, had no interest in being his duchess—unlike her pathetic cousin. Which was good. The Tremaine crypt would be an unbothered ride in an empty Hyde Park to any union with the McQuoids.
The tart-mouthed shrew.
Bedding her was something he’d enjoy immensely. He’d like to seat himself between her thighs and drive himself inside her slender body. He would show her a different kind of charm he possessed, and in spades. With his size, he would likely break her in two.
She would give as good as she got.
As she glanced his way—aware of his misery with his companions—he envisioned everything he wanted to do to her.
As the first course of turtle soup was set before the guests, Hart had stripped Lady Fleur free of that lilac barège silk gown, with all its ridiculous flounces and fancy lace drippings, she wore. Even as he had watched the lady take her first sip from her silver spoon, in his mind, he had set her on the edge of the dining table. By the time the liveried footmen had cleared the empty bowls, Hart already had her skirts up and himself positioned between her nubile thighs. Salmon with caper sauce came next. At that point, Hart had already brought himself and the insolent chit two climaxes.
She had stolen a look down the table, and he knew what she saw—his dark expression.
