Was she all right?
Fleur couldn’t be further from “all right” than had she hopped to another planet.
She had fallen in love with Henry, the Duke of Hartwell. He had always considered her beneath him, and he was right. By Polite Society’s standards, and by the entire world’s standards. It was why he had selected Lady Angela from his list to marry.
And Fleur would be best served forgetting that and him and the perfect pair together, and focus on finding a gentleman who had made her feel special, if even for just a stolen hour at Lord and Lady Rutland’s.
It was far easier to accept that Henry could not love Fleur when he was disparaging and cruel.
A tear fell.
“Fleur?” Henry’s voice bore a panicky quality, one that proved that, despite his bearish temper most times, he did care.
Then he was grasping for her, and it was too much, because if she fell into his arms as she wanted and wept at all the mistakes she had made that ensured what had previously been unlikely was now impossible.
He folded her close, and it felt so very good to be in his enormous arms, surrounded by his warmth. For in his embrace, she felt safe.
That only made her cry more.
He smoothed a palm over the small of her back, making soothing sounds.
But when he spoke, he sounded as desperate as Fleur. “What is it, love?”
Love?
His arm spasmed around her. “Has someone hurt you?” He didn’t give her leave to answer. “Give me his name,” he commanded.
“N-No!” She buried her face in his sleeve.
You did…
I hurt myself…
I ruined everything…everything…
“N-No one d-did.” Because in truth, no one had. Every misery to befall her was Fleur’s own fault.
A low, rumbling groan came from his chest and ripped through Fleur.
Sobbing until she might break, Fleur gripped his shoulders, but then she recalled another woman had just placed her fingers upon them; a lady who would have the right to do so. Fleur pounded her fists against his chest over and over.
And he allowed her to vent her anguish, taking each blow as if they were his due.
And her pain was because of him, but not because of anything he had done.
The man responsible for her suffering held her, conferring comfort, and in doing so simultaneously made the pain inside sharper.
She wept for her loss. She wept with bitter, insupportable jealousy for the Duke of Talbert’s sister, Lady Angela.
And worse, Fleur, who had prided herself on living a life without regrets, wondered if she had done everything that night differently, if there could have been not just a friendship but an actual future with Henry.
At long last, her sobs became tears and then ultimately faded into the occasional watery hiccough.
Hart repositioned his hold upon her; he angled her against the curve of his right shoulder. He held her to him.
“I know what you are thinking,” she said, her words muffled in the soft wool of his handsome black jacket. “About me crying.”
He lowered his cheek against the crown of her head.
