Or he knew what Lady Fleur, with her telling wide smile, thought she saw—Hart’s annoyance with his dining partners.
The she-devil was nowhere near as clever as she thought.
She saw Hartwell, the duke. The stuffed shirt. She didn’t see him reduced to his basest level. She had no idea she was nothing but a country mouse and he a mighty eagle-owl in the shadows, about to capture and crush if he so desired, and desire he did.
Lady Fleur could notbeginto fathom his debauched thoughts or the level of depravity he was capable of. Or the good fucking he was giving her in his mind.
Hart was enough in touch with himself to know what he craved. As a rule, he didn’t deny himself. He kept a mistress andwould continue to do so after he married, and wouldn’t feel a trace of guilt. The respectable lady he took as his bride would shriek and cry if he bedded her the way he did his paramours. The same effort he put into finding his future duchess was the same effort he put into finding his future mistress.
Nor did he feel shame, guilt, or surprise over his attraction to Tremaine’s sister-in-law. The difference between dukes and commoners? A duke didn’t confuse a physical urge for somethingmore. Hart could separate lust from deeper emotions—a skill his brother had never learned.
After their shameful display, Hart had two questions: would they behave the same way at the dinner party he must host for them, and how soon could he escape their presence?
His exasperation was directed at all of them—not just Lady Fleur.
“You cannot possibly be leaving already.”
Never would Hart have believed Tremaine would betray him in this way.
Not bothering to hide his annoyance, Hart turned and waited.
His brother met him in a corridor lined with gilded McQuoid portraits—gentlemen from a century ago, unfashionably dressed in Scottish regalia.
“I have put in my performance, little brother. I have other affairs to attend.”
“If you rush off—”
Hart removed the Niello chain from his fob. “I have exceeded my time here by two minutes.” He held the lion-framed timepiece aloft.
Tremaine ignored the gilded clock in favor of a look around. “Granted, they are not the customary company you keep,” he said in hushed tones. “They are, for the most part, a good lot.”
“The only reason I agreed to a union for either of us with this family was for you and our business. The McQuoids are vulgar and crude.” Hart stuffed his watch back into his pocket. “And those are not the worst grievances against them.” Meghan McQuoid-Smith had nearly made a cuckold of him.
“Leaving at the exact time rules dictate suggests yours was an obligatory appearance.”
“It points to my obligations, commitments that far extend dancing attendance on the McQuoids,” he said, brutally honest.
His brother’s mouth drew tight at the corners. “Forgive me, I forgot you have the matter of finding a proper, biddable bride.”
“Proper and biddable. Not whorish and unseemly, yes.”
Dull color filled Tremaine’s cheeks. “You are heartless.”
Ah, so his little brother’s earlier statement had been intended as an insult. “You speak as though being in control of one’s emotions is a negative attribute,” he said coolly. “Need I remind you that weakness is the very reason you are performing like a trick pony for thisabominablefamily?”
Tremaine took an angry step forward; his nostrils flared. He regained control of himself. “I thank you for putting in an appearance this night,” he said stiffly. “I will leave you to your more illustrious company.”
Tremaine bent a bow.
Finally, with heavy steps, both brothers headed in opposite directions—Tremaine for his in-laws and Hart for the exit, each bearing the weight of the evening.
Hart couldn’t be bothered with regrets. Life in and of itself was transactional, a temporary arrangement. There had been no tears shed at his sire’s passing. The late duke had crafted him in his own image and spared his son the pain of feeling anything.
What he mourned was the weak man Tremaine turned out to be. What a disappointment.
Hart reached the entrance hall, and a footman was already off to collect his cloak—when he landed himself one step farther away from illustrious company.
“Sneaking out early, Hart?”
