“Ah, but Bullstrode is the kind of man who would take your refusal as a kind of flirting from an indecisive female. I’m sure you’ve heard his views on the inability of females to know what is good for them.”

“I’ve heard! And I’m not indecisive. I loathe the man!” There was nothing helpless or fluttery about his mother now.

In a thoughtful voice he said, “I wouldn’t be surprised if Bullstrode decided to kidnap you and force a marriage—if he thought he had my blessing, that is.”

She shuddered again, this time genuinely. “Redmond! No! He doesn’t have your blessing . . . Does he?”

Hart pondered the contents of his teacup as if considering it.

She crumbled the rusk between her fingers. “You wouldn’t, would you? Dearest?”

He looked up. “I might—if you and that skinny godmother of yours don’t stop pestering me.”

A huff of laughter escaped her. “Skinny? Lady Salter? Oh, you are wicked. But Bullstrode, Redmond. You would never—”

“Are we finished here, Mother? Because I have work to do.” He gestured to the pile of papers on his desk.

She pouted. “Never any time for your nearest and dearest. Your father left all that sort of thing to his secretary.”

“I am not my father.” He rose and rang for his butler.

She hesitated, and fiddled with a handkerchief. “Do you go to the opera this evening, Redmond, dear?”

“No.”

“Oh.” She considered that. “What about next Thursday?”

“No.” He looked at her with narrowed eyes. “Is this another attempt to foist an eligible female on me?”

She gave an indignant little huff. “Of course not. You’ve made yourself perfectly clear. Though you must admit that the last girl we found for you—dear Lady Rose—was perfect.”

“And look how well that turned out.”

“Well, how were we to know the silly gel had contracted a secret marriage?”

“Good-bye, Mother and remember what I said. A word from me and Bullstrode will be yours.”

His mother applied a wisp of lace to her eye. “So harsh, so cruel to treat your poor mama so. I don’t know where you get it from. Your father was always so sweet to me.”

Hart’s father had lived a dog’s life, wrapped as he was around his wife’s little finger and driven to distraction by her imaginary ailments. Hart had no intention of going down that path.

The door opened and his butler appeared. “Her grace is leaving, Fleming. And have this delivered, will you?” He handed the butler his note to the Rutherford girl. “Good-bye, Mother.”

His mother sighed. “Unfeeling, unnatural boy. I’m not surprised some people in the ton call you Heartless.” She floated tragically from the room, a martyred exit overlaying a barely suppressed flounce.