Hart barely managed to collect his wits before the attendees turned in search of the commotion.
The quick-thinking Winterly pounded his gavel at the rostrum. “What am I bid?”
Me. I’m the blasted commotion.
His pulse pounded fiercely.
The bloody hell I am.
It washer. The vexing, shamefully playful Lady Fleur McQuoid.
Hart gave her a hard stare that would send even a pea-brain fleeing.
Fleur smiled. “I know your staff and family are loyal.”
She had no idea the trouble she was going to find herself.
“I advise you to stop trying to bait me.” Any further. “It won’t work.”
“I’mmerely trying to point out how ridiculous it is you think my family would sendmeto smooth things over between our families, or that they could force me to go, when you were clever enough to notice the last person I wanted to be joined by was you, you infuriating clodpole,” she growled.
The lady’s fearlessness should repel. It didn’t. It evoked something profound inside him.
It also called to Mr. Winterly in the middle of bidding.
The auctioneer, previously impeccable in his callings, stumbled. His countenance grew faintly dazed.
Hart followed the addled fellow’s stare.
The little hoyden beside Hart fluttered her curled, sweeping lashes.
The stupid fellow had noted that which Hart had only just noticed—Lady Fleur was a “La Belle Dame sans Merci.”
“Five pence for Lot 25A Charles Maturin’sMelmoth the Wanderer. Any advance-Last-Call-at-five-pence,”Mr. Winterly said, not even pausing to catch a breath between seeing the bid and closing it. “Sold, to the lady in the back.” He banged the gavel.
The enamored auctioneer had responded as the lady no doubt intended—he brought the auction to a quick end.
The beautiful minx knew the effect she had on men, and that made Hart want to snarl.
Winterly swiftly moved on to announce the next lot.
“Fluttering those lovely lashes of yours to get what you want, you saucy flirt,” he muttered.
“And what exactly is it you think I wanted?” she asked, amused.
“Congratulations,” he said, not meaning it. “You won your desired title.”
If there were a God, someone would come collect the lady. Hartwell glanced briefly at the back door. In vain.
“Are you looking for someone or thinking I will leave?”
Hoping she’d take herself off. The lady was giving him a bloody headache.
“Both.” Both being tied to her leaving was neither here nor there.
“That is rude, Hartwell,” she said, folding her arms and chastening him like a child. “Not surprising. But rude.”
Lady Fleur gave him a smile that said she was hardly offended.