What the Hart Wants (Headstrong Harts Book 1)

by Emily Royal

  He shrugged. “I’m fond of poetry, and though I consider Burns the only poet worth reading, I’ll make an exception for you, Miss Hart. The sponsorship of a duke cannot harm your chances of success.”

  “I’ve no wish to gain recognition by foul means.”

  “I can help you to secure an audience,” he said. “Recognition would arise from the quality of your work. You could always choose a male nom de plume if you feel your sex is a barrier.”

  “I don’t know…”

  “At least consider it, Miss Hart,” he said. “The offer is there and will stand indefinitely, but I shall take no offense if you decline.” He smiled. “I must admit, I’d relish reading poetry as light relief from the effluent, which fills some of the newspapers.”

  “Such as?”

  “Have you heard of Jeremiah Smith?” he asked.

  “N-no.”

  Realistically, Lilah was telling the truth. How could she have heard of Jeremiah Smith if he and she were the same person?

  “He writes for the City Chronicle,” he said. “His last article was a shallow attempt at wit, likening the line of Molineuxs to the ancient Pharaohs who inbred their way into insanity. What I first thought was going to be a series of remarkable critiques on our patriarchal society has turned into cheap sensationalism. You should read his work. It’s a prime example of how not to write.”

  Before Lilah could answer, a couple approached them. The Honorable Sarah Francis was on her sixth Season, an impressive record, but not one to be proud of. Her father, Viscount Francis, was rumored to have exhausted his funds in his attempts to get her off his hands.

  “Molineux! How pleasant to see you!”

  Lilah’s companion stopped. “I don’t believe I’ve had the pleasure, Mr.…”

  “Viscount Francis,” the man said. “We were introduced at Whites. May I present my daughter, the Honorable Sarah Francis?”

  The lady inclined her head and held out her hand. Fraser took it and bowed.

  “Charmed.”

  “As am I,” she replied.

  “Forgive me, Miss Francis, I have an appointment,” he said, “but perhaps we may meet again.”

  “I do hope so.” Her voice bore a note of desperation identical to her father’s.

  Fraser released her hand and steered Lilah back along the path. After about ten paces, she heard a snort of laughter.

  “What’s the matter?” she asked.

  “It never ceases to amuse me to observe how certain individuals simper over the hands of those they believe will be useful to them,” he said. “The pleasure is magnified one hundredfold when I find myself the direct recipient of a desperate viscount’s simpering, and that of his horse-faced daughter.”

  “Viscount Francis has some influence,” Lilah said. “You’d find his friendship to your advantage.”

  He chuckled. “You’re as ridiculous as they are, lass, if you believe me foolish enough to fall for such insincerity. What do the people of London see when they look at me? Half of them would spit in the face of the Scotsman, and the other half would prostrate themselves at the feet of the duke.”

  “And which do you prefer?”

  He stopped walking and lifted her hand to his lips. A thrill coursed through her as his hot breath caressed her skin.

  “Neither,” he said. “I’d rather endure the frank rudeness of a wee terrier.”

  “You think to insult me?”

  His mouth curled into a smile, and a spark of danger shone in his eyes.

  “Of course not, lass,” he said. “But I’ll wager you’d prefer the raw honesty of a Highlander over the insincerity of a fop.”

  He took her wrist and caressed her skin with his thumb in a light, tender gesture, which sent a firebolt of need through her.

  “Shall I be honest, Miss Hart?” He lowered his voice. “I think ye’re a woman in need of pleasure.”

  “Nonsense!” she said, her voice tight. “The pursuit of pleasure is the origin of the evils of society.”

  “Strange words for a young woman,” he said. “Do you really think that life is there to be denied? Why should we merely exist when we can live instead?”

  “What do you mean?”

  “I think ye know what I mean, lass.”

  He drew her close, and his eyes darkened. Her heart fluttered at the hunger in his expression.

  She parted her lips in anticipation and tipped her head up. She only had to move a little closer…

  “Delilah!”

  Dorothea’s voice broke the spell, and she withdrew from his grasp.

  Her brother and sister stood before them. Dexter’s brow was furrowed as his gaze passed from Lilah to her companion. Thea’s appraisal, though just as searching, was considerably less critical.

  “Delilah, perhaps you’d care to explain yourself,” Dexter said. His voice held an edge of steel, and he moved closer, his body casting a shadow across the path.

  Lilah turned to her companion. “Your Grace, may I present my brother and sister, Mr. Dexter Hart and Miss Dorothea Hart? Dexter, Dorothea, this is Fraser MacGregor, thirteenth Duke Molineux.”

  “Yes, I know who he is,” Dexter said, “and I want to know why you’re in his company, unchaperoned.”

  “Forgive me, Mr. Hart,” Fraser said. “I happened upon your sister a short while ago and offered to accompany her until she rejoined her family.”

  “You know him, Dex?” Lilah asked.

  Dexter’s eyes narrowed.

  Fraser exchanged a glance with Dexter, then smiled. “Mr. Pelham was kind enough to introduce us shortly after I arrived in London.”

  “Have you been long in London, Your Grace?” Thea asked.

  “Almost a month.”

  “And what do you think of it? How does it fare in comparison to Edinburgh? Your accent is Scottish, yes?”

  “I’ve never been to Edinburgh, Miss Hart. I’m afraid I’d be considered something of the savage, for I prefer the wildness of the Highlands to the confines of a city.”

  Thea smiled. “Do you dislike London?”

  “Not all of it,” he replied. “I have found much to admire here.”

  His gaze settled on Lilah, and warmth bloomed in her cheeks. His mouth twitched, and her lips tingled with the thought of his kiss. As if he read her thoughts, his tongue flicked out and caressed his lower lip.

  “I’ve heard much of the friendships you’ve been making while in London, Your Grace,” Dexter said, “some of them considerably more—intimate—than others.”

  “Dexter!” Thea admonished, before casting a glance at Lilah.

  “Forgive me, Molineux,” Dexter said. “I was intimately acquainted with Mrs. Whitford at one time. When you see her next, do give her my best wishes.”

  Dexter’s words doused the warmth in Lilah’s heart.

  Mrs. Whitford. The harlot who Lord Granville had humiliated her with.

  “Dexter, please!” Thea rolled her eyes. “It’s not seemly to talk of a harlot, not when the duke may be looking for a wife.

  Fraser laughed good-naturedly. “I assure you, Miss Hart, I have no desire to find a wife in London.”

  Stricken with shame for desires which were not returned, Lilah pulled her arm free.

  “A man must enjoy himself,” Dexter said.

  “True, but the whole sorry business of courtship is not an activity which holds any interest for me,” Fraser replied. “I have a considerable amount of work to do to restore Clayton House to make it habitable.”

  “You intend to settle in London?” Dorothea asked.

  “My heart is in the Highlands, Miss Hart,” he replied, “but while I’m expanding my business, I must accept that London is the center of the commercial world.”

  “Is there much work needed?”

  “I believe so,” he said. “The structure of the main house is not altogether sound, and the furnishings have succumbed to the elements. Some of the outbuildings are in want of attention.”

  “I hear the
aviary is in need of repair,” Thea said, glancing at Lilah.

  “Work is already underway,” he said.

  “And what of the inmates?” Despite herself, Lilah couldn’t help asking.

  His gaze settled on her. “Rest assured, Miss Delilah, the birds are being tended to. I’ve been informed that to simply free them would be to sign their death warrant.”

  “Of course.”

  “But,” he continued, “if they have been enjoying the company of a visitor these past two years, I would not wish to see them deprived of further visits.”

  He winked at Lilah, and she looked away. Not only did he delight in relating tales of his conquests of doxies, now he wished to ridicule her in front of her family!

  “Would you mock me, sir?” she asked.

  “On the contrary, Miss Hart,” he replied. “You’ve done well to tend to the birds these past months, and I’d consider it an honor if you continued. I’m sure they’d be pleased to see a friendly face.”

  Dexter snorted. “You’re not seriously saying that birds are intelligent enough to possess a working memory or that they have feelings?”

  Lilah sighed. Dexter may be a shrewd businessman, but he sometimes displayed a shocking lack of insight.

  “I wouldn’t dismiss such a theory so readily, Mr. Hart,” Fraser said. “Every sentient being has the ability to form a genuine attachment with another. Take swans—they mate for life, do they not? Such loyalty to another creature shows they have risen above the sentiments of the savage.”

  “Unlike a bachelor,” Dexter said. He pulled out his pocket watch. “Forgive us, Molineux. Much as I’d relish the continuation of this conversation, we have a dinner appointment. Delilah, it’s time to go home.”

  Lilah frowned at her brother. Why did a man always seek to give a woman instruction? But perhaps it was for the best that she leave. Fraser’s presence was beginning to unsettle her. In a few short moments, her feelings had gone from the thrill of having him near her to indignation in the knowledge that he’d taken a mistress in London—and finally settling on disappointment, that, at most, he viewed Lilah as nothing more than a diversion.

  Chapter Seven

  Fraser watched Miss Hart walk away on her brother’s arm.

  An intriguing young woman, but he couldn’t make her out. At first, she’d seemed determined to hate him due to his lineage, but he’d recognized the signs of female attraction. And now, once more, the evidence was before him, in her reaction to the mention of Emma Whitford.

  Was she jealous? She had no need. Fraser had parted with his mistress shortly after encountering Miss Hart. But he smiled at the notion that she believed she had a rival.

  Her eyes had flashed when her sister mentioned marriage!

  Fraser might have declared he had no intention of marrying, but that was out of a desire to be excluded from the circus that was the marriage mart. There was little joy in parading a young woman around London under the watchful eyes of chaperones and ambitious parents. And the rituals didn’t stop with a proposal. In most cases, both parties were forced to sign a contract detailing the full exchange of goods, as if the bride and the groom were mere commodities.

  If Fraser were to cleave himself to a woman, he would take her—claim her as his ancestors did, and to hell with the niceties. And no simpering miss would do. He needed a feisty hellion capable of handling herself and to provide him with stimulation, not to mention excellent bed sport. It wouldn’t do to shackle himself to a debutante whose mama had instructed her to lay back, spread her legs, and close her eyes until the ordeal was over. His perfect mate would be a willing participant, with her eyes and body open and ready for him, eager to learn how to pleasure him as thoroughly as he pleasured her.

  “Your Grace?”

  He started in guilt at the voice, as if he were a wayward adolescent caught fisting himself in the woods, and he moved his hands instinctively to conceal the bulge in his breeches.

  Ahead of him, a woman sat on a bench, a sketchbook on her lap. The sunlight illuminated blonde tresses, which her bonnet could not completely conceal, and her eyes shone like pale sapphires.

  “I thought I recognized you,” she said.

  “Mrs. Pelham.” He approached her and bowed and waved away her attempt to stand. “No, don’t trouble yourself. I’ve no wish to interrupt you.”

  “The interruption of a good friend is not unwelcome.”

  “You’re too kind.”

  She swept a line across the page with her pencil. “On the contrary,” she said, “I’ve experienced enough of the world to distinguish a good man from an evil one.”

  “It’s not always easy in a society dominated by artifice.”

  “It’s true that a poor character can have the appearance of goodness,” she said. “All of us wish to portray ourselves in a flattering light. Take this drawing, for instance.” She gestured toward her sketchbook. On the page were a number of drawings of the men and women who frequented Hyde Park. One figure stood out from the rest—an oversized woman with an ostentatiously decorated hat. The line of her dress was accentuated by curves implying great rolls of flesh. A bulbous nose completed the caricature. Beside her was a small, rotund terrier. On closer inspection, the dog’s face bore an uncanny resemblance to its mistress.

  Fraser suppressed a laugh. “You’ve not given Lady de Bron the appearance of goodness.”

  “I draw likenesses as I see them.” She smiled and flicked through the pages until she settled on one.

  It was a simple portrait which had captured the essence of the subject in a few strokes. Wide, expressive eyes stared out from the page, challenging the observer into daring to criticize her. The brow was furrowed in concentration as if the subject wondered why the artist deemed her worthy of having her likeness drawn. The lips were parted slightly, and he closed his eyes at the memory of their sweet taste. Would they part for him again? The eyes spoke of a determined sadness as if she bore the troubles of the world on her shoulders.

  The portrait spoke of a woman doomed to perpetual dissatisfaction.

  Would she ever know contentment? Or pleasure?

  “I’ve never seen a truer likeness,” Fraser said. “You’ve captured her spirit perfectly.”

  “Delilah was an unwilling subject,” she replied, “but she agreed to sit for me, nonetheless.”

  “If I know Miss Hart, she’d be determined to deny herself the pleasure but would be willing at the blink of an eye to sit for your sake.”

  “You know my friend well.” She fixed him with a direct gaze. “She refused to accept the portrait as a gift, saying it would encourage vanity. I do wish she’d enjoy life more. She seems to believe pleasure is sinful.”

  “There’s nothing wrong with indulging in a little sin,” Fraser said.

  She laughed. “You’re a rogue, sir. No wonder Miss Hart finds you infuriating.”

  “She said as much?”

  “You must forgive her temper,” she said. “And forgive her aversion to your family name. The twelfth duke was an unkind husband, but I have forgiven him because he left me alone to indulge in his excesses, and his death brought about my freedom. His cruelty as a child is something Delilah cannot forgive or forget. I dare say she will, one day, but until then, I’d ask you to understand her. She’s the most formidable champion for those she esteems highly.”

  “That she may be,” he said, “but she shouldn’t feel the need to fight all the time.”

  “Perhaps she needs to be taught the meaning of pleasure.”

  She spoke the truth. Miss Delilah Hart needed a lesson in pleasure.

  And who better to instruct her than himself?

  Chapter Eight

  “I’m sorry, Miss Hart, I cannot publish these.”

  The editor of the City Chronicle held up a sheaf of papers, and Delilah snatched them from his hand.

  “Are they no good, Mr. Stock?”

  “The words flow well, but there’s no passion, no feeling. A poem is not an
essay, my dear.”

  “It’s all writing, isn’t it?”

  “I’ll admit that they require the action of putting pen to paper, but they are totally different. You wouldn’t compare the daubs of a child to a Gainsborough portrait, merely because they both use brushes and paint, would you?”

  “Are you likening my poems to a child’s daubs?”

  “Of course not.”

  She folded the papers and placed them in her reticule.

  “Is it because I’m a woman?” she asked.

  “If that were so, I wouldn’t be publishing your essays, would I? Many of our readers tell us how much they agree with Jeremiah Smith’s sentiments. He’s getting quite a following, and our agreement is that you write twelve essays in total. Perhaps you should maintain your focus on that.”

  “Jeremiah Smith can continue to write his essays,” she said. “I could use a different name for the poems.”

  “It’s out of the question, Miss Hart. Now, as my time is short, I wish to discuss your current essay. That is, after all, what I’m paying you to write.”

  She snapped her reticule shut. There was little point in advancing into a battle that was lost before it began.

  Mr. Stock picked up another sheet of paper and handed it to her.

  “The final version,” he said. “It goes to print tonight.”

  She glanced at the words on the page. The original words may have been hers, but the essay had been peppered with revisions, subtle alterations at strategic intervals to change the tone of the piece.

  “You’ve altered it more than I expected,” she said. “I’m not sure I’m happy with that.”

  “I’m not asking your opinion, Miss Hart, I’m showing you as a courtesy.”

  “But the language is somewhat inflammatory, Mr. Stock.” She gestured toward the middle of the page. “Take this line, for example, where you refer to tearing down the livelihoods of the downtrodden.” She pointed to the bottom of the page. “And here, you liken the aristocracy to the gods of old, languishing in the heavens while the world suffers. I made no reference to gods in my original work. And as for the final line—a true god would rise from the ashes of his home should it be destroyed. Those are not my words, Mr. Stock.”