Hart grazed his knuckles along her jaw. “Fleur?”
“I understand,” she said, staring defiantly—and mayhap more cowardly—at his cravat. “No quips. No jests. No insults—accidental or intentional. Do I have it all?”
“That isn’t what I was going to say.” He spoke with a gentleness she had believed him incapable of. “I wanted to…apologize. My behavior was reprehensible.”
The fact he hadn’t been calling her into question should make her feel better. Bizarrely, his apology proved worse.
“It was just a kiss, Henry.” Similar in ways, and yet so different than the other one she had shared. “Nor are you the first gentleman I’ve shared an embrace with.”
Henry had embraced Fleur as if she was both a cherished treasure and a drug he could not get enough of. But only her masked sweetheart, whom she had spent most of the ball with discussing literature, praised her wit and then quoted verse to extol her until her heart sang.
And yet, time had marched on from that night so fast, becoming more and more distant. Fleur found herself struggling to call forth that night. And she wanted to. But she didn’t have a face or a name, only a memory, which was why the man before her was the one who was somehow taking his place.
Lost in thought, Fleur was slow to notice the heavy quiet.
When she lifted a blank gaze, cold washed over her.
Muscles throbbed along Henry’s jawline. His eyes had narrowed to pinpricks. He wore the look of a man ready to do violence.
No. It’s disgust you see there.
Nausea roiled in her stomach.
Unlike another man, Henry had been horrified at Fleur being well-read. Of course he would be repulsed by her confession. What else would he think about her after she had admitted to having kissed before, let alone that she had lost her virtue against a shelf in Lord and Lady Rutland’s library?
Her shame was catching up—slow, inevitable, and crushing.
As she awaited his customary scorn, a fresh wave of tears threatened.
“I’ll be along shortly with Mr. Rundell,” he said quietly.
Fleur stared after his retreating frame. He could have summoned the entire staff and passersby outside with a single word or quick snap. But he gave her time to compose herself. No, he did more than that. He preserved her dignity.
He wasn’t willing to let things become strange between them. And she threatened to break the fragile bond they had just before.
“Henry?” she called.
He came to a halt and looked backward.
Fleur fisted the front of her skirts before she caught his stare on her troubled movements. She stopped herself. “I don’t want our relationship to change.”
His pause was eternal. “Don’t you mean our friendship?”
A loose grin played at his lips, and, with that, the pressure in her chest loosened. Her smile returned.
Hart gave a playful wink and headed into the silversmith’s workroom as if he owned the shop.
The moment he left, Fleur consulted the nearest mirror. She smoothed trembling hands over her face. With her swollen mouth and rosy-red cheeks, there could be absolutely no doubting what she had been doing out here with the Duke of Hartwell.
He was…protecting her. Warmth blossomed in her chest.
Some moments later, Henry returned with the crotchety proprietor.
As Henry and the lanky, sour-faced Mr. Rundell returned to his showroom floor, the silversmith kept a wary gaze on Fleur.
Through a blush that burned, she managed her best smile and waved.
His scowl eased—some.
