Then the strangest thing happened.
The Duke of Hartwell’s ink-black lashes dipped, and he gave her a teasing wink.
“I need a better look. May I borrow your monocle, Your Grace?”
“I do not possess a quizzing glass.”
“Are you even a duke? Never mind, you needn’t answer that.” His title oozed from his very un-duke-like physique.
Fleur tipped her head. His very,veryun-duke-like physique. Of a certainty, she didn’t need a monocle to appreciate the way his biceps bulged in his wool jacket. It was normal to note such things, she told herself. Women noticed pretty things like flowers, and clouds in the sky, sunsets, and…well-built men.
She just hadn’t noticedthisparticular man before.
The duke’s presence here confirmed one thing. Fleur had a decided partiality for well-built gentlemen.
One who had been charming and swoon-worthy. And the other, who was, well,Hartwell.He was enigmatic in a way Fleur couldn’t put into words.
The duke leaned nearer, but he was like the Tower of London, and she was confident he couldn’t see the blush on her cheeks.
“What exactly do you need a closer look at it, my dear?”
Oh dear. Hehadcaught her staring. But truly, it was his fault for being built like a stallion, dark as one, and possessing all the advantages of a duke.
Fortunately, calling her “my dear” as her father did to Fleur’s mother had a welcome cooling effect. She recalled asking him for a quizzing glass.
“I was trying to have a better look at you as you seem…happy.”
“Looking for evidence of grief?”
She nodded.
His lips twitched in the exact opposite of a frown.
“ShouldI be sad?”
“Ideally, no.” Fleur leaned up, stretching her neck as far as her nape allowed.
Hartwell tapped a laugh line at the right corner of his eye and lifted a finger.
A long, gold chain fell across Fleur’s vision. She followed the twisting strain until she went cross-eyed.
The duke took the chain and dismissed his servant.
By the time she righted her vision and looked back, Lord Kilmartin, the duke’s man-of-affairs, had already retreated to the doorway, where he stood like a sentry, and Fleur held his gold quizzing glass in her gloved palm.
Fleur was still staring at the extravagant eyewear the duke had slipped into her palm with all the adroitness of a pickpocket when the gentleman explained, “You required a monocle, did you not?”
Just as she had suspected, he could have a pineapple drizzled in chocolate served on a plate before the auction even commenced.
Fleur managed to pull her gaze from the magic trick in her fingers. “And yougotme one just like…that?”
Hartwell shrugged. With all that casualness, he might have proffered his umbrella on this rainy day. She tried to make sense of the ease with which he commanded and the speed with which he had his wishes met.
“Are you going to use it, Fleur?”
Oh, the Devil.
Fleur realized too late that he’d not delivered a monocle; he had thrown her a gauntlet.
