Chapter 10 #2
“Your love for him is so great you sneaked into a masquerade and fell into my arms?”
She paled, but she did not give him the fight he craved—a fight he didn’t understand what it was even over.
He curled his lip into a sneer.
“It must be difficult knowing you’ll never be a duchess.”
His charge had the desired effect.
Angry color flared in her cheeks.
“What?”
“I know how much you wanted that title.”
Meghan sprang forward on the balls of her feet.
“You know nothing,” she spat.
“I believe the word you used was overjoyed, was it not?”
She gasped and staggered back.
“You listened in on my conversation with Andromena!”
“All things considered, given my other offenses this day, that seems a rather minor transgression.”
He shrugged.
“How disappointing for you to lose that venerated title. But you seemed not entirely unbothered at the prospect of having the lesser one as my wife.”
Something passed over her face—something unidentifiable.
“Is it that any husband will do?”
“Given my ruin, I can no longer afford to be particular,” she gritted out.
He narrowed his eyes.
“Tell me, Meghan—how does it feel to be the only McQuoid not to have a love match?”
Meghan’s hand shot out.
Crack.
The force of her slap sent August’s head flying back. The sound lingered in the air.
A numb tingling radiated where she’d struck him.
Her chest heaved with every sharp inhalation. Indignant fury painted her cheeks red, but her eyes bled hurt.
Something tightened in his chest, hard and sudden.
August flexed his jaw experimentally, testing the level of his pain—and her offense.
“Impressive.”
He expected more of her rage.
He received her stoic strength.
“Return me to my family.”
“Do you mean Hartwell?”
Ice slithered through him.
“Hartwell won’t have me,” she said.
As if she would still marry the bloody prig if he would have her.
That—and the sad quality of her voice—set his teeth on edge.
Hartwell might. Meghan was his brother’s sister-in-law.
A fresh wave of annoyance tethered itself to his chest.
He mentally noted the need to extend their time at sea.
“You will be returned in due time,” he said, tugging his shirt free from the waistband of his trousers.
“When?”
He gritted his teeth.
So eager to be rid of him, was she?
“After there are certainties about your wedding to Hartwell.”
Bloody Hartwell.
“In the event the whole world doesn’t know by now?” she asked on another bitter laugh. “There was a church full of guests, August,” she called as he headed for the bath.
He shucked his shirt as he went.
“Trust me, they—”
Culross shoved his trousers down.
“—know.”
Meghan’s words ended on a breathy little squeak.
Hiding a smile, he stepped into the still-warm water.
While he bathed, he felt Meghan’s eyes on him.
Soaping an arm, he angled a glance.
The lady remained in the same place she had been. Her hair hung beautifully wild about her waist. Shadows played along her eyes and the sharp planes of her cheeks.
Culross switched to wash his other arm when she spoke.
“The duke will never marry me now.”
This again.
He stopped mid-motion.
“Oh, please,” he clipped out. “Do you think Hartwell was ever truly going to love you?”
“You are a bastard,” she said quietly.
“In every way but name, yes.”
The floorboards groaned.
“Do not think to leave, Meghan. I have men stationed out—”
The rest of his warning died.
Meghan had sat on the edge of the bed with her hands curled in her lap, forlorn in a way he had never seen her.
At the sight of her, something twisted tight in his stomach.
What did you expect? You robbed her of everything she accused you of taking.
It was all in the name of his mission.
That was all that mattered.
All that had ever mattered.
So why then did the sight of her sitting there tear something inside him he hadn’t known could be torn?
Each drip, drip, drip of water as he moved punctuated the heaviness surrounding her.
Her voice rose softly in the quiet. “I thought you were going to marry me.”
Culross went very still.
The words landed somewhere beneath his ribs.
There was something in her tone—something he couldn’t place and didn’t like.
“I thought—” She stared down at her fingers.
“You thought what, Meghan?” he urged quietly.
Her silence stretched so long he believed she would not answer.
She lifted pain-filled eyes to his; the weight of her suffering sucked the breathable air from the room. “You didn’t think to marry me.”
There was an odd quality to her voice.
“I…” The thought had never occurred to him—until now.
Culross searched her face. “Is that a question, Meghan?”
Was that something she would have…entertained? Wanted even?
Was it something he would have wanted? Being tangled with that family through her… That was why he had not ever considered…
The saddest little smile formed on her lips.
For each minuscule movement of her mouth, another weight settled onto his chest.
Culross despised the feeling.
He waited for an answer.
One that never came.
A muscle ticked in his jaw.
Self-loathing struck hard.
He despised all this…feeling nonsense. It clouded his judgment. Playing at gentleman, being the honorable sort, had left him weak. It had cost him an alliance. Worse, it had cost Culross his dignity and pride.
Tomorrow he would begin again. Boundaries would go up. He would not play Caesar to Meghan’s Cleopatra. Culross would sever whatever power he had allowed Meghan McQuoid-Smith in this moment.
Her tears didn’t matter to him.
And yet, as he finished his toilet and dressed, he was forced to confront a truth—
Her tears mattered more than they should.