Fleur sighed. She would never recover.
She did, however, enough to remember her curtsy, albeit belatedly. “Forgive me, my lord—”
“And she—the soft, yet fierce—hath knelt to me? A plea for mercy on such soul as I? Who is thy queen who I should kneel for?”
If Hart’s gaze climbed any higher, he’d keel over backwards.
“My lord, it is our utmost honor to welcome you home to England; allow me to present you to the Duke of Hartwell…and Lady Fleur McQuoid.” Lady Chilton spoke the last as any proud mama would.
Hart bowed.
Byron did only for Fleur. “To what does your day’s sorrow belong, my lady? Spare them, and let them belong to only me.”
Her heart quivered. “Ah, but how can I giveth when the great art of life is sensation, to feel that we exist, even in pain.”
“What a lot of twaddle,” Hart uttered under his breath, in a very un-duke like way.
Lord Chilton coughed to cover up some of the duke’s mumbling. Not that Lord Byron paid Hartwell any heed. “If I may account for the lady’s disappointment. Lady Fleur put up an impressive bid amount on your copy ofDon Juanand regretfully lost to His Grace.”
Now that earned Hartwell a look from Lord Byron. And not in any way remotely favorable.
“You are a romantic, Lady Fleur?” the dashing poet asked, but looked at Hartwell.
All the room attended them. A pin dropping would have thundered like a shot.
“What is sacred, my lord?” Fleur said softly. “Of what is the spirit made? What is worth living for and what is worth dying for? The answer to each is the same. Only love.”
The great poet said nothing for a long while. He slid an assessing glance up and down Fleur’s person, and then nodded his approval.
The room erupted into loud whispers.
In a display of impudence only Lord Byron could get away with, he slapped Hart between the shoulder blades. “What say you, of myDon Juan? To have joy, one must share it,” Byron said dryly. “Isn’t that right, Hartwell?”
Fleur clasped her hands to her chest. He would defend—
“Rest assured, Lord Byron,” Hartwell coolly advised, “the title will be so enjoyed.”Just not by this woman.
He should have just said it, the wretch.
In an interesting turn of events, Hart, who as a rule did the bothering and remained unbothered, appeared dangerously close to separating Lord Byron’s beautiful head from his just as beautiful body. It was a crime not to be conceived.
Any person under the sun would have melted into nothing at havingtheLord Byron stare disapprovingly as he did now. Hart remained as intractable as steel.
Later, Fleur thought she might have been impressed by that detail. Being amidst Byron’s audience, there was only Byron.
For reasons that could not be named or clear, even to her, Fleur found herself rushing to Hart’s defense. “Fear not, worry not, my lord. Though my heart has broken, it will live on.”
She succeeded. Byron made her his focus, a fact of which Hart appeared in no way appreciative. In fairness, Lord Byronhadturned a shoulder and gave him the cut direct, so she understood why.
“Lady Fleur, shy of stealing my own book from this selfish fellow and delivering it to your gentle hands, I cast my regrets and a promise to deliver a smile for you.”
She clasped her hands together, and this time truly looked at a gentleman from under her lashes. “Lord Byron, I recall all the verses of myDon Juan, but the memory of you here now will carry me to the time when I’m no longer spry enough to fight a duke for one of your masterpieces.”
Lord Byron leaned in and peered close at her face. “There will never be such a time, my willow leaf. You will remain forever young and vibrant as a rose.”
Either Lord Chilton had let a bad-tempered dog in his library or Hart was growling like one.
Finally, the greatest poet of their time paid the other peasants around him consideration.