What the Hart Wants - Fiona Davenport Page 0,14

doorway, as a clock struck three. The man shook Pelham’s hand, but his attention was on Fraser.

He was tall, though not as tall as Fraser, and he filled the doorframe with a commanding presence as if he’d long-since established that the world existed to serve him. His hair was cut shorter than fashionable, in a severe style that negated any softness that might be found in his features. Black as night, it seemed to absorb the light. Deep-set, clear blue eyes regarded Fraser with a cold expression. He lowered his gaze, then lifted it slowly, as if sizing Fraser up, inch by inch. Then he lifted a corner of his upper lip as if to convey that he’d scrutinized Fraser and found him wanting.

Hart’s coloring might differ from his sister, but Fraser recognized the same spirit, hidden beneath the man’s cold exterior—and expression around the mouth which, in a man, would be considered resolute and determined, but in a woman, stubborn.

“Hart, old boy,” Pelham said. “May I introduce you to Duke Molineux?”

The newcomer remained still, his eyes narrowing.

“A pleasure, Mr. Hart,” Fraser said.

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.