Monty and his friends eyed Hart surreptitiously as he resumed his seat without comment. Aghast, outraged and secretly thrilled by the exchange that had taken place, they discussed it nonstop in ironically low voices until the final act was drawing to a close and Monty was recalled to the purpose of the evening: his opera dancer.
Hart sat brooding. He did not look at the stage. He did not participate in the discussion. The music and the talk passed over him unnoticed. And when Sinc and his friends went to the stage door to meet Monty’s opera dancer, Hart made his excuses and went home.
It was a fine night and he decided to walk. He had his sword stick with him, and frankly, if he encountered any robbers, he would welcome the exercise.
But no robbers obliged him.
No one had ever spoken to him like that.
Certainly no female ever had. Was she hoping to pique his interest by acting the opposite of almost every female he’d ever met? Throwing insults instead of gushing with compliments? Risky tactics, if so.
But they had worked, dammit. To a degree.
Arrogant? He was well aware of it. Nothing wrong with arrogance, as long as it was well placed—and in his case it was. Was he to creep around feigning humility? Pretending to be less than he was? Such disingenuousness was beneath him.
He marched on, brooding.
Ignorant? Of opera perhaps—he’d never cared much for music. As a boy he’d been dragged to the opera by his mother, supposedly for his education, but it hadn’t taken him long to realize her true purpose was otherwise. The presence of her young son was intended to keep the behavior of her various escorts in check. Mama craved masculine admiration, but didn’t care to follow through on the expectations she aroused in the breasts of her ardent admirers. Mama liked to keep men dangling.
Just as she did her son; the maternal tenderness she lavished on him in public was never in evidence at home or in private. Unless she was playacting for the sake of one of her schemes. They worked on Papa, but by the time he was fourteen, Hart knew better.
Lady Georgiana though . . . He’d watched her from the shadows, her face well lit by the chandeliers overhead. She’d shown no interest in the young men in the next box, nor in the rest of the glittering, overdressed audience. Her attention had been wholly given to the music—until Sinc’s friends had distracted her with their drunken comments.
Her anger seemed genuine.
Then again, she was a woman, and in his experience, women had a tendency to playact and fake things.
Her aunt had offered her to him as a bride. But if that little tirade was meant as some kind of enticement . . . He thought about it. No. She wasn’t flirting. She’d meant every word.
Who was she, really? Boyish equestrienne? Demure opera lover. Bold virago?
And why had he never noticed her before?
Her broken fan was in his pocket. He wasn’t sure why he’d picked it up, nor why he’d kept it. A completely useless item.
He reached Mayfair, and turned in to Brook Street.
A boor, was he? Daisies poked through some railings, spilling onto the footpath, bright in the gaslight. He slashed their heads off with his stick and strode on.
Dammit, he never let a woman have the last word.
He hadn’t even had the chance to talk about buying her blasted horse.
And somehow, infuriatingly, he was aroused.
* * *
* * *
“Never in all my life have I been so mortified by a young gel’s behavior, Georgiana, especially one in my charge! And in such a public place!”
George sat in the carriage and let Aunt Agatha’s tirade roll over her. She had no regrets for what she’d said . . . well, perhaps a few. She really hadn’t meant to upbraid the duke in quite such a manner. All she’d really wanted was for people to be quiet so she could listen to the music.
But the way he’d emerged from the shadowy corner of his box, that look in his eye—dripping with superiority. Standing there, looking down his long nose at her, so arrogant with that I-rule-the-world expression. It had annoyed her from the very first time she’d met him, when he’d become betrothed to Rose.
Thank God that hadn’t worked out. She might have been related to him by now.
As soon as he’d stepped forward she realized that he’d been watching her for some time. She’d felt a prickle of awareness, but had told herself that of course somebody would be looking at her, that at the opera everybody looked at everyone else. But the faint, disturbing prickle hadn’t gone away.
She was a little bit embarrassed that she’d broken her fan on that other man, but he’d kept talking on and on loudly after she’d asked them several times to be quiet. And the fan was a delicate one, easily broken, so it hadn’t actually hurt him. Just made him realize she was serious.
But when the duke had picked it up, his long fingers playing with the broken ribs as he eyed her in that knowing way . . . And then when he’d refused to give it back to her, sliding it into his pocket as though he had every right to keep it—and what would he want with a lady’s fan, let alone a broken one?—it was a move calculated to spark her temper. And then, to insult the performers . . .
When her temper rose, her tongue loosened. Perhaps she had gone a bit far, speaking like that to a man she barely knew, and in public, but it was true—men like the duke did assume the world was theirs to rule, that nobody else mattered. But other people did matter.
That faint, mocking smile, that knowing glint in his eye, that ironic lift of his eyebrow—just one brow—she couldn’t say why it was all so annoying, only that it was. And to call the glorious singing caterwauling . . .
He’d deserved it.
“Oh, Aggie, stop ranting at the gel,” Aunt Dottie interjected. “What’s done is done, and if you want my opinion, it won’t hurt those boys to have heard a few home truths.”
“Those boys? We’re talking about the duke, not those other ones—though she shouldn’t speak like that to any gentleman. And as for home truths—she mortally insulted him, or did you not hear it?”
“I heard every word. But that duke—handsome, brooding devil that he is. I do like a bit of arrogance when it’s deserved, and I suspect in his case it is. The man has potential, but it won’t hurt him to be taken down a peg or two.”
“Potential? He’s a duke!”
“Yes, dear, I noticed, but he’s also just a man, and a man, as dear George pointed out, who has no doubt been indulged and spoiled and pampered all his life. I’ve never had any time for that silly mother of his.”
“The duchess is a friend of mine,” Aunt Agatha said stiffly.