“I don’t,” the niece interjected. “I meant every word.”

“Hush, you appalling gel!” Her aunt hustled her out. Plump little Lady Dorothea, gathering up shawls and various bits and pieces, lingered a moment and threw him a mischievous smile over the division between the boxes. “Will we see you at our ball, your grace? Next Wednesday, Berkeley Square?”

Cheek must run in the family. She was old enough to be his grandmother. As if he would honor the blasted Rutherfords by attending their blasted ball.

“Dorothea!” Lady Salter snapped from the door. The little aunt winked at him and hurried out. The door closed behind her. The box was empty.

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.