As if he could ever forget.
In a breathtaking display of spirit, Fleur whipped her cloak behind her, shoved her shoulders back, and glared, even more impressive in her silent fury than her ornery fire of before.
A soft, velvety flush spanned her daring neckline. His gaze locked on her full generous breasts, which strained against the neckline of her silly gown.
Animal-like hunger sent blood surging to Hart’s cock.
Debutantes didn’t possess the full-figured lushness of Lady Fleur McQuoid. A siren. An Aphrodite. Venus. She was all three, possessed of a form built for bedding. And there, Hart corrected a misjudgment he had made months at Chilton’s auction. Her breasts were far more ponderous than he had credited that day.
“I am not happy with y—”
“Not a word,” he said tightly. “Not a single bloody word.”
He drew a breath in slow through his nose, furious at his despairing animal awareness of her.
Finally, she seemed to sense the very real danger just lurking under the surface—she went quiet.
A silent McQuoid. Imagine that.
“I have had about all I can take of you, you overbearing shrew.”
The lady’s mouth trembled with fury. Hart damned himself thrice-fold to hell for appreciating her full crimson lips. Torn between kissing the entrancing minx bloody senseless and turning his full fury on her, he exercised restraint.
“Time and time again,” Hart said coldly, “you go out of your way to make a mockery of me, my name, my title.”
You do that all on your own…
Was the response he anticipated from the sharp-tongued chit. Her continued silence unnerved him.
Hart took slow, measured steps to reach her. “I am a gentleman, Fleur.” He stopped less than a pace away; using his height to his advantage; knowing she must look up to meet his gaze: knowing even more how much she would despise that. God, she would prove contrary even in this.
Hart clasped his fingers about the delicate point of her jaw. He angled her head, forcing her to look, and instantly regretted his own rashness.
The long, sultry fringe of her lashes shaded her eyes, casting a mysterious, inviting shadow.
“Be warned,” he said, for himself as much as her. “I have taken all I’m willing to take. I have tolerated you showing up, wreaking havoc, and chaos around me and on me. All that ends today.”
“Or what?” A laugh trembled in her voice. “You’ll have me thrown in Newgate? Shipped to the penal colonies?”
His neck heated—his entire body went hot. No one challenged Hart. No one except this woman.
“Iwreak havoc on you?”
Then, now, and always.
To that point—God help him—Fleur planted her lace-gloved hands on the soft curve of gently rounded hips. Her body’s posture at odds with words she spoke with a quiet calm. “You believe the sun and all the planets revolves around you. You have this inflated sense that every space you step into, you own. Lord Rutland’s masquerade. Chilton’s. Rundell’s.” Her eyes glittered. “You don’t care who was there before you. A man with your conceit cannot even conceive that your presence is anything but a gift, so you stay when your company is not desired—”
“Not desired?” His lips twitched.
“Yes,” She kept schooling him in those governess tones of hers. “As in unwanted. Not welcome. Unsought.”
He narrowed his eyes. “I regret to break you of your illusions, Fleur, but my company is in fact well-sought—”
“Not by me!” she cried, shattering the illusion of calm Hart had bought into. “Not by me.”
He drew back.
“Everywhere I go, you are there interfering, Hart, causing problems for me—”