Her cousin Meghan had recently confided in her about the duke.
“He ordered me to sit on his lap…like a child…and spoke to me like one too…”
Now Fleur understood how the other woman had felt, and her relief in avoiding marriage to the Duke of Hartwell.
Very aware Hartwell had deemed her unworthy to speak with any longer, and deemed the items list in his hands the only thing worthy of his attention, Fleur was also very aware she had no intention of letting him have the last word.
“We are at the farthest back corner in the room, with half a dozen rows between us and the nearest bidders, Hartwell. They are all at the edge of their chairs in anticipation of the auction and have no idea”—thank God—“you and I are even present.”
“My dear,” he said, pulling his gaze from his pamphlet, “I am the Duke of Hartwell.”
Spoken like a true swell-headed duke. Not that—given his taciturnity—hewantedto speak to her.
“Not here, Hartwell.” Fleur took great delight in informing him. “Here, you are surrounded by scholars and bibliomaniacs.” She discreetly pointed to the front row. “First seat on the far left. Do you recognize the handsome gentleman?”
“If you are asking whether I recognize the gentleman or note his appearance, I can do neither.”
Shocking. “That is Mr. Heber. Mr. Richard Heber, to be precise. He is outrageously wealthy and once said, ‘No gentleman can be without three copies of a book: one for show, one for use, and one for borrowers.’” Fleur kept on down the row. “Next to him is none other than—”
“I recognize the 2nd Earl of Spencer.”
“I forgot you recognize all peers.” Hartwell neither denied it nor detected her snark. “Beside Lord Spencer and flanked by the 5th Duke of Marlborough, whom you most certainly recognize is a mere mister.” Sarcasm proved to be a waste on this one. She carried on. “Mr. Thomas Phillips. He is the illegitimate child of a textile…” Her words trailed off at the hard stare he trained on her.
“And how is that pertinent to your explanation?”
He had the look of her pup, Lord Pink Nose, from long ago, who ran off, returned, and needed Fleur to pick burrs from the pads of his big paws.
No doubt, he believed she was rambling.
“I do not supposeany, Your Grace. When Mr. Phillips attended Rugby School in Warwickshire at the age of thirteen, and he began collecting books. By 1811, there was a notable change in his collecting.”
The duke no longer appeared angry. Shockingly, the Duke of Hartwell seemed interested.
“Enlighten me.”
Correction…
Fleur had the Duke of Hartwell’s undivided attention.
And she, who was drowned out by the noise of her big family, did not dislike finding herself the center of someone’s focus.
She would take it where she could get it—moody Duke of Hartwell included.
“Previously, Mr. Phillips only collected Gothic chapbooks. When he was just sixteen, he began to expand his library to titles Iexpectyou would approve of, Hartwell.”
“Just what type of books do you think I read?”
“Debrett’s,” she said, without thinking. For it didn’t really require much contemplation on her part.
He smiled.
Fascinating. She hadn’t expected he could take himself anything but seriously.
Well over a foot taller than Fleur, he leaned down and made her see his eyes up close.
Not that he made her, but they were close, and she looked. They were a deep brown. Ordinary but not. Familiar and compelling, they distracted her from what she had been saying, and…
“Phillips began acquiringDebrett’s?”
