“Ah, but don’t all impending marriages begin with scowls and glares?”
“You would know,” Hart muttered.
Not that Hart’s brother and man-of—friend,heard him. They were too busy toasting their pale attempt at a joke.
“I can’t really see to my impending marriage while I’m dancing attendance on your bloody in-laws,” Hart said crossly. “Speaking of, how is your wife this evening?”
Both men froze.
Kilmartin made a disapproving sound. “Not above-board, Hart.”
“No. No. It’s fine.” Tremaine smiled. “My wife is actually improving more and more every day. She is much recovered from her delivery and resting happily and peacefully at home with our beautiful babes, which…”—Tremaine consulted his timepiece and didn’t bother with discretion—“I intend to do, after a very brief appearance.”
“You’ll have me dancing attendance on the McQuoids, chumming up to those blathering fools like I did earlier this evening—which, by the way, with your late arrival you missed, but everyone of importance saw?”
“I felt badly—”
“No, you didn’t,” Kilmartin interjected, enjoying himself immensely.
“But I feel less so now. You were going to be hopping from event to event in search of your ducal broodmare; why not work on our family’s image while you are at it?”
As if the reason scandal surrounded Hart’s name was because of something he had done.
His brother was fortunate indeed that Tremaine loved him—and also that Hart didn’t draw his bloody cork right here in the middle of Lord and Lady Winfield’s ballroom.
“You’re a master of juggling duties. Finding a wife and actually speaking to or dancing with a McQuoid accomplishes both your goals.”
Dancing with a McQuoid. He didn’t even bother a glance at the family, but found the only tolerable one.
As the orchestra’s strains reached a slow finish, Hart strode from his brother and man-of-affairs and headed for Fleur; Kilmartin’s hushed whisper followed behind.
“…Enraged at having to be here…found out Whitehaven’s attempting to form an alliance with the McQuoids,” Kilmartin incorrectly explained. “Now you’ve required him to dance with the lady.”
When Hart reached Fleur, Fleur was reading what appeared to be her fan.
He stood over her and waited for her to look up.
Naturally, she didn’t.
Given he had caught her frown as he sent her entourage scattering on his way up, she definitely knew he was there.
“Where did the Markham goon go?” he asked by way of greeting.
She glanced up. “Oh, hello, Your Grace. I did not see you there.”
“Liar.”
“Lord Markham is eminently charming and quite dashing.”
“Am I not charming?” Good God, how did such a boyish question even exist in his very cool head?
“Of course you are,” she said patronizingly. “Given your engaging behavior now, how could I possibly say different?”
Hart wanted to flip a tray.
“We are dancing.” He dropped his voice lower.
“La.” Fleur snapped her fan open and gave it an artful flutter. “You turn a lady’s head.”
