Fleur checked.
Pleased with his slightly stunned expression, she buried a smile.
A murmur fell over the crowd as Baron Chilton started his walk to the auctioneer’s podium. The bibliomaniacs all took to the edge of their seats, their whispered excitement reached a crescendo, then cut to a quick silence when the baron took his place.
“Gentlemen,” he began, his voice authoritative, compelling the room. “I would first begin by welcoming you to…”
“Hartwell?” Fleur whispered through the introductions portion.
The duke glanced down at her.
“It seems we are about to find what brought us here. Best of luck with your book.” She held out her fingers.
He stared at her gloved palm, and then at Fleur like she was the housecat who had dropped a mouse on his lap.
The small-feeling sensation crept in, but she refused him the pleasure. Fleur took his fingers, pumped them slightly, and focused her attention on what had brought her here—winning.
Orshe tried to. Even with their gloves and barriers between them, warmth radiated from where their hands touched.
Burned, Fleur snatched her fingers to her lap. She clenched and unclenched them to get rid of their tingling.
The auctioneer gaveled the room to order.
“Gentlemen, welcome! Please note the rules of the house: The highest bidder to be the buyer; if any dispute arises, the lot is to be put up again…”
As the handsome young gentleman, a man who bore a striking resemblance to Baron Chilton, proceeded to outline the auction rules Fleur’s mind was elsewhere.
It was on Hartwell.
“We begin the sale with the new releases. Lot 25…”
She wasn’t so much concerned with her physical awareness of the duke. Why would she be? In a world where dandies and fellows puffed themselves up with padding, the duke took care with his form, and she was a woman who appreciated a gentleman with a good physique. That could all be explained away.
The part that could not?
Fleur found herself somewhat enjoying his company today.
All right, more than somewhat. If she had to put a percentage upon it, she would say it was a bit over sixty percent. At least, that number held when he was not acting the total blockhead.
“…The Pirateby Walter Scott—”
Fleur and Hartwell’s backs climbed the exact same moment and they looked at one another.
“No,” he mouthed.
“Nor mine,” she whispered.
His eyes held hers with a gentle amusement.
“Do I hear three pounds?”
She nudged her knee against his. “That’s not the book I’m here for.”
“Three pounds!”
“Three pounds forThe Pirate. A fine provenance, gentlemen. Do I hear…?
Hartwell leaned lower. “Which is it, then?” he whispered.
