What the Hart Wants (Headstrong Harts Book 1)

by Emily Royal

  Hart raised an eyebrow. “I thought we were here to discuss business, not pleasure,” he said. “And I wonder why a man of your rank would find it necessary to be accompanied by another. Or, indeed, why you’d not prefer to bank with Coutts, rather than me.”

  Ah, there it was, the trace of bitterness. Hart might disguise it well, but his lack of social status affected him.

  “Mr. Hart, I’m here in my capacity as a businessman, not a duke,” Fraser said.

  Hart blinked. “In my experience, the two are one and the same when it comes to the need for a loan.”

  “Not necessarily,” Fraser said. “Most businessmen will do everything in their power to honor the terms of the loan. A gentleman is more likely to declare his aversion to dealing with anything so vulgar as money, then use that as his justification for defaulting.”

  Hart’s mouth twitched, and for a brief moment, Fraser saw the ghost of a smile before it vanished. Then he gestured toward a chair in front of the mahogany desk, which dominated the room.

  “Please, sit. Both of you. Would you like some wine?”

  Fraser shook his head. “I’ve no taste for it. I prefer whisky.”

  Hart rolled his eyes. “Is that not rather restricted, given the variety of wines that exist?” He poured a glass and handed it to Pelham.

  “Not all whiskies taste the same,” Fraser said. “I daresay there are more varieties in Scotland than there are wines in the whole of France.

  “Forgive me,” Hart said, “but I fail to understand how a simple grain in Scotland could exhibit as wide a variety in taste as the many different grapes to be found in France. You cannot expect me to lend to a business I don’t understand.”

  “Then I must enhance your understanding,” Fraser said. “There’s a market ready and waiting, and with the new freedoms, I can now legitimately serve that market.”

  “The men of my acquaintance prefer port or brandy,” Hart said. “You may believe you can sell your product to the moneyed of London, but first, you must sell the concept to me. What’s so special about the grain?”

  “The grain is only part of the process,” Fraser said. “There are three further elements which can be used to render the taste unique.”

  “And they are?”

  “Peat, water, and wood, Mr. Hart. The more peat, the smokier the flavor.”

  Hart wrinkled his nose. “I can’t say that sounds appealing.”

  “The peat is an acquired taste,” Fraser said. “A true Scot will always appreciate the taste of his homeland. The weak-bellied prefer a less peaty flavor, so, of course, I have adapted the quantities to ensure the liquor is better suited to an Englishman’s tastes.”

  Hart set his mouth into a hard line. “So, you believe in compromising your integrity for material gain?”

  Was the man deliberately trying to goad him?

  Pelham lifted the wineglass to his lips, a smile in his eyes. Fraser wasn’t going to get any help from his friend. If he wanted to win Hart over, he’d have to do it single-handed.

  “I believe whisky the finest liquor in the world,” Fraser said, “but if I’m to educate the world on its merits, I must first cater to their palates. I liken it to a governess who, when presented with a new charge, gives him the simplest mathematical conundrum, to avoid overtaxing his underdeveloped brain.”

  Pelham spluttered beside him, then set his glass aside. Fraser smiled to himself.

  First battle to me, Mr. Hart.

  Hart folded his arms and leaned forward. “Why should I lend you money, Your Grace?”

  “Your rates are competitive,” Fraser said.

  “Is that all?”

  “You also understand business.”

  “You could say that of the partners at Coutts.”

  Fraser nodded. “But it’s you I’ve come to see.”

  “You do realize my rates are competitive because I am more selective when it comes to lending,” Hart said. “Most other bankers, when they see a high-risk investment, will add a premium to the interest they charge. But I’m not in the business of taking undue risks when it comes to a loan. Have you considered searching for a partner instead?”

  Fraser shook his head. “MacGregor’s is a family business.”

  “A partnership would reduce the risk,” Hart said, “whereas a loan increases the risk, due to the fixed cost of servicing it.”

  “How so?”

  “Let me explain the risk,” Hart said, his mouth twitching into a smile, “in the manner of a governess teaching her charge about financing a business.”

  Despite his discomfort, Fraser found himself holding begrudging respect for the man.

  “Let’s say you forecast a profit of two thousand pounds,” Hart said, “and you’re servicing a loan at the cost of eight hundred a year, your final return is twelve hundred. But what if you exaggerated your product’s popularity, and your business profits are only half what you expect, at one thousand? You still need to service the loan of eight hundred, and you’re left with only two hundred. That’s one-sixth, Molineux. Your profits halve, but your return shrinks by a greater degree.”

  “And what if the profits are higher than forecasted?” Fraser challenged.

  “Most businessmen overestimate their abilities,” Hart said. He closed his eyes, then opened them and rose to his feet. “Forgive me, Your Grace, but I shall not be offering you finance. I wish you well in finding another backer.”

  “Hart, old boy, you’ll not reconsider?” Pelham asked.

  Hart frowned. “If I’m able to find a client willing to provide the funds, I can broker a deal,” he said. “For a fee, naturally.”

  “Naturally,” Fraser echoed. Hart glanced at the clock. “Forgive me, I have another appointment,” he said.

  Fraser reached inside his jacket pocket, pulled out a flask, and set it on the desk.

  Hart made no move to pick it up. “What is that?”

  “It’s a sample of my whisky,” Fraser said. “Only three years old, but I believe it’s of sufficient smoothness to be comparable to the liquor I intend to sell once the distillery is running at full capacity.”

  “Three years,” Hart said. “I take it that means it was brewed outwith the law?”

  “Before the Excise Act came into force, yes,” Fraser replied. “Therefore, not only is it a symbol of goodwill, it’s also a mark of my trust.”

  “What do you intend me to do with it?”

  “I’d prefer you to drink it,” Fraser said. “I won’t take offense if you give it to your cook for use in a syllabub. Though, grant me leave to feel somewhat peeved if you gave it to your butler to clean your brass with.”

  Hart uncorked the flask and sniffed the contents. “Not altogether unpleasant,” he said. It smells too good to be used on my brass.” He smiled. “Perhaps I’ll reserve it for the silverware.”

  He held his hand out. Fraser took it, and for a moment, the two men stared at each other as Hart increased the pressure. Then he released Fraser’s hand and called for the footman who ushered them out of the building.

  As they stepped out onto the Strand, Fraser let out a curse.

  “Damn the man!”

  Pelham laughed. “He likes you, Molineux.”

  “How can you tell?”

  “Because you’re still standing. Come on, I think we deserve a drink.”

  Halfway down the street, Fraser turned to look at the building they’d just exited, and he discerned the silhouette of a man in the window of the office.

  If that was how Dexter Hart treated the people he liked, then God help his enemies.

  Chapter Six

  Lilah tossed a piece of bread into the water. A line of birds veered toward her in the manner of a marching army—one large, white general leading the patrol, followed by four soldiers.

  A terrier appeared and yapped at the birds. The adult swan hissed and reared out of the water, flapping its wings.

  A voice called out, and the dog scampered toward a rotund lady dr
essed in dark purple silk, and Lilah recognized Lady de Bron.

  She had, since Lilah’s arrival in London, taken delight in snubbing her entire family. Now that Lilah was embarking on her first Season, she’d given her the cut direct at three parties. To women like Lady de Bron, birth was everything, no matter how wealthy Dexter might be.

  But from what Dexter had said only last week, Lord de Bron was in financial straits, with multiple creditors foreclosing. The man had come to Dex cap in hand, begging for a loan, at which point, her brother had said he’d taken as much delight in evicting the lord from his offices as the lady had taken in insulting Lilah.

  Dex may be stern and unforgiving, but at times he proved he wasn’t a complete arse. His desire for retribution for wrongdoing toward all members of his family, at least, meant that the ton’s bullies were reluctant to insult him publicly.

  Lilah smiled to herself. Dex was right in his view of the world. The aristocracy was losing its grip on power, and in the not too distant future, a new age would dawn—an age of commerce and industry where a man’s ability to earn a living for himself and foster occupations among the working class would garner greater respect than his ability to recite his ancestral line back more than ten generations.

  Which was why Dex and Sir Thomas were friends. Sir Thomas was the first member of society to publicly welcome an acquaintance with Lilah and her family. And he shared her views on the need for the system of the aristocracy to be replaced by a world based on merit.

  Dexter would welcome Sir Thomas as a brother-in-law. And he was the least repugnant of all the young men she’d been obliged to spend time with at all these tedious parties and soirees Dex had taken her to.

  He’d be a safe husband. Safe and respectable.

  But was a life worth living if there were no risks to be taken? Passion could only be achieved through risk and adventure, and Sir Thomas would never ignite the kind of passion that shatters hearts and moves the heavens. Not like…

  As she watched the swans disappear along the Serpentine, the skin on the back of her neck prickled with anticipation, and the scent of wood and spices filled the air.

  “They’re not unlike the eagles at home,” a deep voice spoke from behind. Ignoring the thrill which rippled across her skin, she turned around.

  He towered over her, framed by the light of the setting sun, and for a moment, his hair formed a golden halo around his face.

  He gestured toward the retreating swans. “Beautiful creatures, but their beauty hides such savagery.”

  “Swans are nothing like eagles, Your Grace,” Lilah said. “An eagle hunts its prey. The swan was protecting herself and her young from a terrier.”

  “And, as we both know, the terrier can be a feisty wee soul, who strikes fear into the heart of even the strongest opponent…” he smiled, his eyes glittering with amusement, “…even if she’s a head smaller than the man she spars with.”

  She opened her mouth to reply, and he raised a hand.

  “Shall we declare a truce, Miss Hart?” he asked. “I’ve no wish to fight you, stimulating though that may be. I am in need of friends.”

  “A duke should have no trouble in securing friendship here,” she said.

  “That rather depends on how discerning he is in his choice of friends,” he replied. “Perhaps you adopt a similar level of discernment, lass, for you seem to be alone this morning.”

  “I’m here with my family,” she said.

  “Then why can’t I see them?”

  “Sometimes, I’m in need of solitude. I often find the company of others a little overwhelming.”

  “Then, I shall take my leave.”

  “No!” she cried. He raised his eyebrows, and she swallowed her embarrassment. “At least, don’t go on my account,” she said. “I was about to leave. I’ve been standing here too long, and it’s getting cold.”

  He held out his arm. “I would be honored to accompany you until you rejoin your family. And you have my word that I will take no offense if you find my company overly oppressive or overly stimulating.”

  Unable to fight the compulsion to touch him again, she took his arm.

  “That’s better,” he said. “Tell me, Miss Hart, what’s a young woman such as yourself doing in a public place unchaperoned?”

  “I care little for such matters,” she said.

  “You should care,” he said. “Think of your reputation.”

  He might pretend to be different, but deep down, he was like the rest of them, obsessed with reputation and social status. But at least it lessened her guilt over the defamatory statements she made about the Molineux family in her Essays in Patriarchy.

  “Why must a woman be made to value her reputation so much?” she asked.

  “Because, like it or not, and I happen to like it not, in order to survive in the world, we must abide by its rules to some extent. A ruined reputation can destroy a woman’s life.”

  She snorted. “I don’t care what the preening peahens of society think of me.”

  He let out a laugh. “That much is clear, lass. But consider those around you. It’s a sad fact that a woman’s ruination damages the lives of her loved ones, especially her sisters. No doubt, your brother would agree.”

  “Dorothea’s reputation is quite safe, I assure you,” Lilah said.

  “And your other sister?”

  Her stomach tightened. How did he know about Daisy? She turned away, her cheeks warming.

  “Forgive me,” he said. “I see I’ve broached an unwelcome topic of conversation.”

  “But it’s clearly a topic which others are content to speak of. Might I ask who you were discussing my family with?”

  Now it was his turn to look uncomfortable. “I heard mention of it at Lady de Bron’s card party.”

  “Why on earth would you spend time with that woman?”

  “I had no idea how disagreeable she was until I spent an evening in her company.”

  “And what did she say about us?”

  “I’m not one to repeat gossip, Miss Hart.”

  “But you’ll allude to it and leave me wanting.”

  He smiled. “Very well, she said that your parents displayed a singular lack of imagination when naming you all. And she referred to a sister who disappeared in suspicious circumstances and a brother who is never seen and refuses to speak to his family.”

  “Devon prefers to live alone,” she said. “He dislikes company other than his closest acquaintances, but he does have friends. More than Dexter, at least.”

  “Then, perhaps Mr. Hart should widen his circle of friends.”

  “You’ll struggle to secure a friendship with Dex,” she said. “Even the best of men would find it difficult, for he trusts no one.”

  He placed his hand on his chest in a gesture of mock hurt. “You wound me, Miss Hart, if you think me not a good man.”

  “I said the best of men, Your Grace, not a good man.”

  “Then I’ll take comfort in knowing that while you do not consider me the best of men, at least you consider me to be a good one.”

  “I have yet to see evidence of that,” she retorted.

  His body shook with laughter. “I must say the ladies of my acquaintance in London are proving more of an intellectual challenge than I’d anticipated,” he said. “Mrs. Pelham, for example, has a little more character than the—what did you call them?—ah yes! Preening peahens.”

  “Anne is an exception,” Lilah said. “I’m astonished at how level-headed she is given what she endured at the hands of your predecessor.”

  “My predecessor?”

  “The twelfth duke was not kind. But given his ancestry, it was not unexpected.”

  He stiffened and lowered his arm.

  “I must strive to overcome your prejudice.”

  “Prejudice?” she snorted. “You’re a man with money and a title. What can you know of prejudice compared to a woman?”

  “Like yourself?” he asked. “My dear Miss Hart, c
onsider your privileges. You’ll never want for food, warmth, or shelter from the elements. When the time comes, your brother will choose a husband for you, and you’ll settle into the comfortable life of a society lady with a litter of children to occupy yourself with. What can you have to complain about regarding prejudice?”

  Indignation swelled within her at his assumption that her primary objective was to secure a husband.

  “I’ve no intention of shackling myself to the whims of a man for some time yet,” she said. “I’m interested in far more than the securing of a home and the procreation of children!”

  A passing couple stopped and stared.

  “Well, really!” the woman cried. The man with her steered her off the path as if afraid Lilah’s presence might taint her.

  Lilah glanced at her companion. Though he looked straight ahead, his eyes shone with mirth, and his lips were curled into a lop-sided smile.

  “So, Miss Hart, what do you wish to do, if procreation has no appeal?”

  “I shan’t tell you,” she said. “You’ll only laugh.”

  He stopped and turned to face her, and her body jolted at the intensity of his eyes.

  “You have my word. I won’t laugh.”

  “I want to write,” she said. “Poetry—words from the heart which express the soul. But nobody will read my poems, let alone publish them. It seems as if fiction is the province of men.”

  “I beg to differ,” he said. “What about Mrs. Radcliffe? I understand she’s a favorite among young ladies who dream of being rescued from abomination by a dashing hero.”

  “I have yet to find even one editor willing to consider my poems.”

  “Perhaps I can assist.”

  “How so?” she asked.

  “The trick in any business is to ascertain what the other party wants or needs. If they believe you can service that need, then they’ll do business with you. It’s a matter of discovering what that need is and finding a cost-efficient way to provide it.”

  “You mean bribery?”

  “Depending on your outlook, all business transactions are a form of bribery, Miss Hart. But I’d be happy to help in any way that I can.”

  “Why?”