“Should I call my man-of-affairs over to retrieve his eyepiece?”
Laughter choked his voice.
Good, she hoped hedidchoke on it. The big-head.
“That won’t be necessary, Your Grace.”
No one in this crowd would bother with her and Hartwell. To be safe, she checked the library for buzzing gossips. Everyone had already claimed their spots closer to the auctioneer’s podium and the velvet-draped table.
Fleur lifted the surprisingly heavy dodaddle.
He stopped her before the glass reached Fleur’s eye.
“I might suggest you kneel to find whatever it is you think you’ll see.” He justified his suggestion. “On account of your being a tiny slip of a thing.”
This was the moment he expected she would be outraged with him, referring to her as a thing—“a tiny slip” she could let pass, as it made her feel delicate. No lady would be offended at that.
Poor Hartwell. The illustrious duke made mistakes as well as any average human.
The fact that Fleurwasoutraged was neither here nor there.
Fleur wasn’t one unsettled by people. Fleurdidthe unsettling.
And with this driving thought in her mind, Fleur gripped the monocle and turned to face her eminent opponent. “Thank you, Your Grace,” she murmured in her most pleasing tones. “For the suggestion.”
In a bold standoff, she met his sardonic gaze with herinnocentone. The entire assembly could look at this point, and she wouldn’t care.
Not once did she break eye contact with Hartwell.
Not when she curled her glove-encased fingers at the sides of her skirts, just below her knees.
Not when she raised her taffeta skirts a fraction—and oh, how glad she was for the band of passementerie and crystal embellishments along the hem that tinkled and rustled—and ruffled him.
Nor when his gaze slipped to her knee on the thin upholstered padding…
But then something happened…
While Fleur carried on, in control of the situation, Hartwell’s gaze slid a fraction lower and just beyond Fleur to where she’d outrageously exposed her ankle.
This time, he couldn’t even muster the one-winged arch.Bothof his brows crept up.
She saw desire, hot and dark as volcanic ash, in Hartwell’s eyes.
Fleur heard the quick catch of his breath.
In this instant, Fleur had lost all control, but the duke had even less.
This wasn’t the manner of unsettling him she had intended, but now that she had done so in this naughty way, Fleur felt the glorifying satisfaction of being looked upon as a desirablewoman. She fought the urge to fan herself. She knew all too well what came from feeling this breathless way about a rogue.
Fleur brought the monocle up and studied him, then wished she hadn’t—for close as she was, she caught the faintest hint of growth at his rugged cheeks that said he had missed a shave. Breathless when she oughtn’t be, Fleur dampened her dry, parted lips.
Her eyes found his. The silky brown of Hartwell’s had grown a shade darker.
“Have a care in how you conduct yourself,” he said, his curled lip evincing his disgust. “At least in my presence, madam.”
At that mean ducal chastening, Fleur slid her legs to the side and let her slippered feet slide back to the floor. Her skirts settled in a soft, noisy whoosh around her.
Fleur suffered a brief, paralyzing moment of humiliation. Staring at the backs of many heads, she did not know whether she wanted to beat the duke about the ear with her reticule or slink under her seat and hide.
