Lady Chilton reached them with a smile. The enormous birthmark upon the lady’s face had earned her society’sindiscreet pity, and yet, up close, Fleur marveled at the woman’s unique beauty.
“My dearest Lady Fleur,” she greeted softly, with the warmth reserved for a dear friend that could not be feigned. “I do so love seeing young women at my auctions.”
“My lady,” Fleur sank into a curtsy. “It is a true honor to meet a fellow bibliophile and bluestocking.”
The lady’s thin eyebrows lifted. “Bluestocking?”
“One of His Grace’s preferred terms for a well-read lady,” Fleur explained.
“Is it?” The baroness finally paid the duke attention. He would hate that and hate even more that Fleur had put him on the spot. “Given a bibliophile’s appreciation for literature, I would not expect anyone here would find a woman reading anything except customary.” But being called out, he would hate the absolute most.
“How could I hold anything other than an abiding admiration and deep respect for those ladies possessed of a clever mind?”
“That really is the question, isn’t it?” Lady Chilton’s droll remark brought a splotchy color to Hart’s face.
He slid Fleur a sideways glance. If men were in the habit of giving grown women spankings, the dark glint in Hart’s eyes said she’d even now be over his knee.
Oh, dear. If he hadn’t hated Fleur before, this decided it.
Taking Fleur’s hands in her own, Lady Chilton dismissed Hart in favor of Fleur. “Oh, Lady Fleur. I am most sad you were unable to win Byron’s volume when your heart was so clearly set on attaining it.” Lady Chilton spoke to Fleur but looked at the Duke of Hartwell.
Fleur gave a sad smile. “Such is the way of the world. Men have the advantage over us, do they not?”
“I—”
Before Lady Chilton could complete her response, the room went eerily silent, and a melodious voice sounded at the entrance of the door and the room.
“Such a cynical remark from a lovely display of femininity, grace, and poise.”
Every single stunned gaze went to the vaunted figure; a man larger than life. One who brought sighs from ladies and gentlemen alike.
They called him Mad, Bad, and Dangerous to Know. But surely, magnificent should be included. Or otherworldly. Or magical. Or…
No. Not a single word would or could ever accurately describe the legend. The larger-than-life figure who walked with a calm deliberateness of a man in full control of himself—and his space.
Byron.
“Close your mouth else you’ll catch flies, chit,” Hart muttered from the side of his mouth.
If she could have done anything with her mouth, Fleur would have delighted in pointing out how rude Hart was to suggest their hostess had insects flying about.
But through a dizzying haze, Fleur could barely summon her name.
Fortunately, she didn’t have to.
As it turned out, Lord Byron had naturally stopped to greet Baroness Chilton—and now, Lord Chilton—who had swiftly joined his wife, while Fleur and Hartwell stood forgotten beside the trio.
Fleur spoke hushedly. “Hart?”
“What?” he said, as testy as a boy who had his treat snatched from him.
“If I swoon, don’t catch me.”
“Happy to oblige,” Hart muttered, tight-lipped.
She found her way out of the clouds, and sluiced Hart with a scowl the exact moment Lord Byron put his magnificent eyes upon Fleur, and then Fleur puthereyes on the poet and the dashing, dark curl across his brow.
“Such a sable scowl from such a starry face—a darkening cloud upon a brow of grace.”