Chapter 3
Meghan fled through Lord and Lady Rutland’s sweeping Georgian townhouse. The wild patter of her beaded slippers along the carpeted corridor joined the tinkling crystals dangling from her gown and mask.
The rasp of her labored breaths filled her ears, muffling the fast-fading revelry she left behind.
She kept running to the place all peers possessed in their grand townhouses—a place that, at this time of year and hour, was sure to be empty.
Meghan reached the northernmost point of the marquess’s and marchioness’s residence and let herself into the brick-enclosed orangery.
The tall, arched windows to the south and the glass ceiling overhead were draped in oilcloth. Between that, the solid north wall retained heat, and a welcome warmth flooded the space from a wood-fired stove at the center of the room.
Her hands still trembling, Meghan drew the door shut behind her and leaned against it. Her eyes slid closed.
The sweet citrus scent of oranges and lemons transported her to a place where summer was suspended in time. Unlike the balm of a Midsummer Day, this warmth failed to calm Meghan.
She had nearly been caught by her betrothed.
In fact, it was very possible he had recognized her.
Even now, the Duke of Hartwell could be scouring Lord and Lady Rutland’s townhouse for his errant bride-to-be.
If the duke had gleaned her and August’s identities, he would never forgive her. The men were avowed enemies.
She waited for panic to set in, for her pulse to pick up. But dread did not come.
What hurt her to the core was seeing Hartwell with the clingy, voluptuous woman who was no doubt his lover. In that moment, Meghan had been confronted—clear as day—with what she had allowed her family to grind her down into accepting: an empty, unfeeling, loveless union.
Adding insult to injury, she had been forced into a good, hard look at her future while in the arms of the man she loved.
She stared bleakly at the vibrant green bushes and trees spilling into every corner of the room.
The fragrant air contained a sickly sweetness. The warmth left her palms sticky.
Meghan snatched her gloves free so her fingers could breathe. It did nothing. The heavy weight of heat closed in on her—suffocating.
Desperate to be free of them, she whipped her gloves at a lemon tree. The glittering pearl and crystal articles landed upon the branches. They hung like the bright ornaments adorning the annual Christmastide tree each holiday season.
A horrific scene played out in her mind. Of the duke calling it off. She imagined a broken betrothal. The damage that would do to her unmarried sister and cousin. In being linked to a jilted Meghan, why even her unwed male kin would be limited in their marital options.
The duke would fare just fine. He’d emerge unscathed, coveted by every unmarried lady across the land.
A bitter smile twisted her lips.
How little freedom she found herself with.
Whereas Hartwell? He’d worn a thin disguise, entertained a lover—shockingly two, but she would not be permitted to end their match for his faithlessness.
Irony struck hard.
She more than half-wished he would.
But he wouldn’t. She’d listened at the keyhole of enough doors while he spoke with her and his family about the “merger.” He and his brother, Captain Tremaine, were desperate to strengthen their alliance to the McQuoids.
But if Meghan were caught, this was the sort of unforgivable transgression no scandal sheet would relinquish and no generous duke—who had already lowered his standards by courting Meghan to cement their families’ connections—would forgive. Alliances would shatter.
He was free to philander while their wedding fast approached, but Meghan could not even attend the same affair and dance with another man.
A bitter smile twisted her lips.
Restless, needing to move, Meghan paced.
There was something very wrong with her.
She had just discovered her betrothed with a woman who was clearly his lover.
Given that, she should be nurturing a broken heart and running weeping back to the comfort of her family’s residence.
Instead, a far different emotion battered at her.
She had been in the only place she had ever wanted to be—in August’s arms.
For the first time, he had seen her.
He had held her close—not to the tame quadrilles they had danced last year—but to something far more intimate.
He had openly flirted with her—scandalously.
Click.
Her body went taut. Her skin prickled beneath the probing intensity of a stare.
Oh, God. Hartwell.
He had recognized her. She had feared he might but trusted her carefully crafted disguise. That was why he had stared so intently.
He seemed to wait for Meghan to reveal herself.
Meghan’s eyes slid shut.
No. A man of his power and position would expect nothing less than an explanation.
The soft tap of a low-heeled leather boot drew nearer, confirming his approach.
Nausea roiled in her gut and she pressed her palms against her lower belly.
Then the air went still.
He had brought champagne.
“I had a feeling this is where I might find you, my treasure.”
Meghan’s legs trembled.
My treasure…
They had always bantered.
That’s all this was, but now with a flare of cruelty that hadn’t been there before.
She lifted her chin. “You were looking for me, my lord highwayman?”
The gold slashes of his eyebrows dipped beneath his domino. “The better question is are you waiting for another, sweetheart?”
“Hartwell,” she said, her chest gripped tight at even his name intruding here. “I should be expecting him.”
A dangerous energy simmered beneath the earl’s tensed physique. “Aye, the Tremaines like to take what is mine.” He wore a savage smile.
What is mine…?
Which meant he felt possessive.
Like the flutter of butterfly wings, warmth fanned across her chest. She searched his partially revealed face. “You are jealous,” she said with breathless realization.
She caught her mistake too late.
A flicker of distaste rippled along August’s hardened features. “There isn’t a man I’m jealous of, or even one woman on earth to merit such feelings on my part.”
They both knew that wasn’t true.
There was another woman. He was too proud to speak that truth aloud. The closest he’d come was his mention of being poached.
My sister.
Clutching her throat, Meghan tried to swallow the lump that had suddenly appeared.
He turned abruptly and strode away with purpose.
“Wait!” Panicked desperation lent her voice a lower husky quality. “Please.”
When he turned back, his hard smile and even harder eyes mocked her.
He’d forced Meghan to reveal her hand.
“Do better, sweet.” His tone was a warning.
Meghan let her arms fall quickly.
He expected more from her than a slight plea.
A man of his pride and power would.
Fuming at his exertion of control over her, Meghan curled her fingers into fists.
His cold eyes mocked her.
Words sending him to the Devil sat on the tip of her tongue. She opened her mouth to tell him precisely what he could do with his vaingloriousness, but different words intruded. Those from a book her dear Hampshire neighbor Miss Cassandra Austen’s sister had anonymously published.
“…vanity, not love, has been my folly…. Pleased with the preference of one, and offended by the neglect of the other…” But unlike Miss Elizabeth Bennet who hadn’t known herself, Meghan very much knew her heart and its desires.
August quirked an eyebrow, saying more with that arch than words ever could. Venture with caution. It is your turn. What will you do?
Her notorious Scottish pride fell fast, a distant second to the man before her.
She let her fingers unfurl.
Meghan dampened her lips. His burning stare locked on that distracted gesture. She stopped, unwilling to show him any uncertainty.
“I wanted it to be you,” she said softly.
“I know.” His stoic demeanor caved to pure male satisfaction. “Why would you want a dullard like Hartwell when you can have me?”
For a night’s diversion? A secret courtship? More…?
He was a man who knew his worth. And why shouldn’t he? Dashing, roguish, charming, witty, clever—and too handsome for her own good.
Her lips twitched in a reluctant smile. “Have you always been this arrogant, my lord?”
“Confident,” he corrected smoothly. “I am confident in my abilities.” The hot gaze he dragged over Meghan branded each place it touched. “In everything I do.” He paused. “Now it is time for you to discover why, sweet.”
He stalked toward her.
Her heart stopped as he drew closer.
How pathetic she was—wanting him so desperately, loving him so much, when he had once bowed for her sister.
But he had desired her this night. She had felt his length pressed against her back, her name tangled with the warmth of his harshly drawn breaths.
And she felt it again, as he pulled her hard against him; her breasts crushed against the broad muscled wall of his chest.
August curved an arm possessively around her waist, drawing her closer. His shaft pulsed against her belly.
Meghan’s breath caught.
“That is for you, sweet,” he said huskily, his voice raspier than she recalled. “If you are good.” He smoothed himself in small circles over the flat of her belly.
A moan slipped mortifyingly free.
His lips curled in a wolfish smile. August leaned down and placed his lips beside the shell of her ear. “Will you be good for me?” he whispered, giving her nose a light tweak. That playful gesture at odds with the burn of his gaze.
“You know I’m not good, August,” she said, her voice so thick she didn’t recognize it as her own. How many times had he caught her peeking at his cards or sliding his billiards ball away?
His nostrils flared, and he drew in a swift, hissing breath.
He palmed her nape and angled her head.
Meghan’s pulse pounded in her ears.
It was about to happen—her first kiss.
She had dreamed of this moment.