“I am not going anywhere.” She jabbed her finger at the floor. “I have as much right to be here.” The crystals and bows on her reticule bounced in support of their mistress. Who knew when she could find her way back here?
“What is the meaning of this?”
Everyone fell silent.
Even Fleur.
And that was a rarity.
But then, this man commanded a room. His stark black garments over-emphasized the gentleman’s long, narrow face. With his refined features, he had the look of a bald Socrates bust that her father kept in his office. He evinced authority over this place. And could be none other than Mr. Rundell.
The younger Mr. Bridge did the explaining. “The lady will not leave, Mr. Rundell.”
His identity confirmed, Fleur affected the same smile she had bestowed on Mr. Bridge earlier.
“Mr. Rundell,” she took a graceful step closer. “My name is—”
“The shop is closed.”
His standoffish tones stopped Fleur in her tracks. Charm would get her nowhere with this surly fellow.
“It does not look closed.” Fleur looked around. “In fact, your staff has just filled the cases.”
“It is closed to you.”
Mr. Rundell glanced beyond her shoulder. She followed his stare.
A pair of bigger clerks converged on either side of her. He thought to throw her out, did he?
She gave a glare as good as her smile.
They wisely fell back. Fleur turned her focus back to the churlish proprietor. “I truly do not require much time. Why, I do not even require that we meet on your shop floors. If you would be so good as to grant me an audience in your off—”
“No.”
That was it, a blunt no and nothing more. Oh, she had quite enough of him. “With your foul temper and treatment of customers, it is a wonder you are successful.”
“I’m successful because I’m the best. Get. Out. Or I will have you hauled out.”
He stomped over, no doubt to pick her up and toss her out himself.
Fleur backed away. “I am not going anywhere,” she said, pointing at the gleaming mahogany floor as she went. “Do you hear me. Any—” A hand closed around her arm with surprising strength.
Drawing back, Fleur gave a handsy clerk several wallops about his ears in rapid succession.
“Lady Fleur.”
She stilled.
She knew that voice. Too well, in fact. Knowing it at all would be too much.
The Duke of Hartwell.
Her heart sank and sank and sank, as did her arm at her side.
“I should have known you were the reason they were delaying me, my lady,” he said.
“You,” she seethed.
