Chapter 5
The slap of Meghan’s slippers echoed against the padded carpet of the corridor.
Panicked breath tore from her chest in shallow pulls. Her lungs ached. Her heart thundered so violently she was certain it would betray her to all of Lord and Lady Rutland’s guests.
He hadn’t always been a monster.
Once, August wore an easy smile for Meghan, bantered, and regaled her with clever yarns.
Well, not for her. During her sister’s courtship, Meghan had been a beneficiary—an afterthought.
The air felt too thick, too close, as though the house itself conspired to slow her escape.
She pushed herself faster.
From the moment he’d walked through their front door, bearing Meghan’s sister in his arms after a fall outside, the McQuoid ladies were smitten as kittens.
A broken heart changed a person.
Meghan knew that better than anyone.
A sharp, gnawing pain pulsed behind her breastbone.
What foolishness had driven her here this night?
Desperation.
Stupidity.
Love.
“Alas, fortunately for both of us, whether or not we like one another is irrelevant…”
Oh, how he would have laughed in her face had she done what she set out to do.
This was the price she paid for her transgressions.
“You’d love it if I told you how I want to strip you bare, lay you down, and bury myself between your sweet thighs…”
Heat lingered in that intimate place; an ache wholly at odds with the fear driving her forward. She clenched her hands into fists, nails biting into her palms, as though pain might scour the sensation from her body.
It did not.
The earl’s taunts came louder in Meghan’s mind, and she wanted to clamp her hands over her ears and scream them away.
“I might be able to work myself up to it…”
Meghan’s heavy skirts slapped at her legs, whipping her as she deserved.
“All it would take would be for you to lift your skirts and allow me to slip a hand between your legs… I’ll show you what you really want, and what I offer in return.”
Her pulse pounded at her wrist, at the very place August kissed, caressed, and nipped. Her breath hitched in remembrance.
Oh, God.
She wore August’s mark.
She would march down her wedding aisle bearing his love bite.
Her wedding…
Meghan gagged and fought the rising tide of nausea.
In her mind, she’d never fully let herself believe it would truly come to be. She saw now that she’d been going through the motions all along, believing something would happen between her and August—that he would realize his love for her and spirit her away as he’d done Linnie.
But August? He would never be hers. She’d assumed he recognized her as clearly as she recognized him. But he hadn’t. The minute he realized she was a McQuoid, his hatred had swallowed up his desire for her. He had been intentional in his cruelty.
Tears burned at the back of her throat. Maybe he resented Meghan; maybe he believed she had been tricking him.
Fate had allowed her but one moment—and she had blundered it completely.
And now, there was no way out.
A fresh wave of panic tightened her throat. Meghan reached the end of the longest corridor she had ever known—and ran headfirst into a wall.
All the air left her in a noiseless oof; the force of Meghan’s collision sent her flying backward. She hit the floor hard. Pain exploded through her—an excruciating ache radiating up her buttocks and shooting up her spine.
She was dazed, much as she had been the day her brother Brone had urged her to jump from a tree she’d climbed and been too frightened to descend. He had sworn he would catch her.
He had not.
Obviously.
Blinking wildly, Meghan gave her head a small shake and tried to clear the cobwebs.
When she did, her heart sank to the floor with her.
The Duke of Hartwell—an exceedingly displeased Duke of Hartwell—stood over her, staring down the length of his six-foot, broad, well-built frame.
She stared blankly up at him. Maybe he did not recognize her. Did he recognize her from the gallopade? Surely not—when he looked through her all the other times.
“Let’s go,” he bit out tersely.
Hanging her head, Meghan struggled to her feet. There was no assistance forthcoming from her betrothed. “Your Grace, I understand how this must a—”
“Not a word.” He peeled his lip back in a sneer. “Fix your mask, madam.”
Her shaking fingers flew up in swift compliance. As she struggled to right her covering, his eyes burned with such contempt she felt inches tall.
“Now,” he clipped out and started down the hallway.
Swallowing hard, Meghan stood on trembling legs. She stared unblinkingly after his retreating form.
Hartwell didn’t even bother to see if she followed. He summoned her like a dog. His title alone commanded respect. As such, he expected obedience from his duchess.
He would demand Meghan’s full obedience—and then go find happiness outside their household and pleasure from other women. She had heard him say as much herself.
The young girl and romantic she once was raised her voice in silent protest. Even if he still intends to marry you, is this what you want for yourself?
She wanted to say: to hell with marrying the miserable, hard-hearted peer.
His brother loved Linnie to the stars, but that meant nothing when it came to Meghan and Hartwell’s future.
To hell with the shipping alliance between their families.
So the war had ended and their opportunities at sea were shrinking?
They were of the bloody peerage, with fortunes given them on the luck of birth alone.
All that land, fortune, and familial heirlooms wasn’t enough.
In their quest for more, Meghan would be forced to surrender her happiness? It was never enough for men.
To hell with it all.
An airy lightness expanded within her.
The duke opened the door and paused.
Hartwell looked around. He found Meghan where he’d left her. His mouth turned down. “Madam?”
Tell him where he can go, Meghan… Send him back to his paramours and end this sham…
The candle’s glow played with a calculated flash in his eyes.
Cold came creeping back, filling all of her, until no light remained.
In the end, the need to protect her family proved a worry far greater than her own happiness.
Clutching at the sides of her skirts, Meghan lengthened her strides until her pace matched his. Her breath came uneven, her pulse skidded beneath her skin, and neither had anything to do with her efforts.
He wasn’t even being unreasonable, she told herself. Not entirely. Innocent ladies most certainly did not attend risqué masquerades—most definitely not without familial knowledge or accompaniment.
Maybe Hartwell’s response was one of hurt and wounded pride.
He was, after all, a man.
She could make this right. She had to.
“Hartwell,” she said softly.
He stopped quickly and took her by the arm. His grip was hard, possessive, but not so unforgiving as to leave marks. “Do you wish to announce not only my presence here, madam, but your own as well?”
Meghan thrust her chin out. “I fail to believe anyone here hasn’t recognized you for who you are—or the company you’ve kept this night, Your Grace.”
Gnawing resentment rose inside her. She couldn’t have bitten back the sharp retort if she’d wanted to—and she most certainly didn’t want to.
He grasped her wrist quickly.
Meghan gasped.
Heart racing, she glanced from where he held her fast to his face.
“You are to keep silent,” he said at last, his tone eerily pleasant. “If anyone identifies us, I speak.” The duke’s black mask heightened the burnished brown of his eyes. “Have I made myself clear?”
“Abund—”
Hartwell fixed her with a hard stare.
Meghan’s fingers gripped her dress more tightly. That’s right. Keep silent.
She mouthed her response in petty defiance. “Yes.”
His nostrils pinched inward. “We will talk later about our impending nuptials.”
Impending portended doom.
Except…what if he truly decided to break it off?
And yet, that traitorous relief of before reared its head once more. The noose about her neck, one she’d no idea how to loosen, eased.
As they descended the corridor, Hartwell’s silence grew colder.
The moment they arrived in an unmarked carriage, a waiting servant drew the door open.
The Duke of Hartwell gripped Meghan by the waist. His impressively large hands spanned her middle, firm and impersonal. There was no tenderness. No warmth. Not even the faintest hint of what she had once hoped might be, if not affection, then at least desire.
He deposited Meghan inside the expansive carriage, directly opposite—
“Andromena,” she said dumbly. “Fleur.” Her partners in intrigue.
He’d plucked them from their fun too. By their rosy cheeks and excited expressions, they were oblivious to the tension coating the air they four breathed.
“Oh, Meghan!” Andromena chose the exact moment His Grace entered the carriage to air her joy. “Wasn’t it the most wonderful night ever?”
Meghan’s nails bit sharp into her palms.
Silently, imploring her family to relent, Meghan held their eyes. She signaled a quiet “no” with her head.
“No?” Fleur drew her head back. “What do you mean no?”
Meghan didn’t have a chance to answer.
Fleur swung her attention Andromena’s way. “What does your sister mean by no?”
With every word they spoke, the more dire Meghan’s situation became.
“It is unfathomable!” Andromena cried out. “Unfathomable, I say. It is almost as though being betrothed ruins a lady of her fun.”
Meghan briefly closed her eyes.
Even the new snide, jaded Culross would have riposted with some teasing repartee for the girl. He’d not been able to help himself from doing so with Meghan.
The duke let the girl keep digging all three McQuoid ladies’ graves.
“I did not know you intended to meet Hartwell.” Her sunny-tempered sister wrinkled her brow. “I thought it was to be our grand secret, Meghan.”
Please, Lord, let the carriage floor open up so I can disappear and be crushed beneath the heavy wheels.
Miserable, Meghan’s eyes slid closed a second time. “It was.”
Fleur caught on. She whispered to Andromena.