“Do you?”
“The drying up a single tear has more/ Of honest fame, than shedding seas of gore. And I’ll have you know something about you makes me a watering pot.” Fleur knew the reason why.
“I was not thinking that.”
“No?”
“No.” Hart wiped the pad of his clad fingers along her cheeks. “…If I laugh at any mortal thing, ’Tis that I may not weep.”
Fleur opened her eyes and stared out at the star-studded London sky.
She had believed him cold. Unfeeling. She had expected he would bid a fortune on that coveted copy ofDon Juanand did so without any true connection to the work. Whereas Fleur longed for it because she and her Mystery Gentleman had discussed the brilliance of the work; he had quoted those verses from memory, and she had been unable to because her family didn’t own a copy and she had only secured it once from the lending library.
Now, he’d gone and not only quoted Lord Byron, but Byron’sDon Juan, with such reverence, choosing verses that made her tears things of beauty and not shame.
A crushing strain wrapped around her ribcage.
Why couldn’t it have been him?
With a brush of his knuckles along her chin, Hart brought her gaze up. His eyes over her glinted with concern.
“What is it?” he asked quietly.
He proclaimed himself her friend, but would he say so if she told him?
Fleur punished her inner cheek with her teeth.
She stilled. Whatwouldhe say?
Fleur hadn’t shared her secret from Lord and Lady Rutland’s Masquerade with anyone, not her sisters or her maid, Mary, who was a mix of sister, best friend, and mother. Not her cousins, who were like sisters.
No one.
But with Henry…it made logical sense to confide in him. He despised her family and believed her kin useless, so he certainly wouldn’t bring her trouble to them. He was also honorable and gentlemanly enough that he would never break her confidence.
At best, he could listen, let her rest on his shoulder, and even help her find the identity of the man from the masquerade.
Her heart picked up a hopeful beat.
At worst…
A chill snaked through her.
At worst, he would have his every ugly opinion of Fleur confirmed.
Henry would go back to looking down on her, and she would consider herself silly for having ever thought him a friend and a fool for having believed herself in love with the big, arrogant, condescending Duke of Hartwell.
Either way, she saw him as a friend, wanted him as a partner and husband, and by telling him about what transpired at Lord and Lady Rutland’s, she stood to ensure that, after this, he was neither.
It would be for the best.
A sad smile curved her lips. “You are right, you know,” she said softly.
“Obviously and always, but you know my head won’t tolerate not hearing you say what it is exactly I am right about.”
His attempt at humor teased away some of her sorrow. Why must he be so witty?
It also made it easier to open up to Henry and tell him everything.