A tiny dark projectile flew past.
A raisin, launched by Arran’s youngest brother, struck Fleur squarely in the forehead.
Fleur let out an indignant shriek. “What in blazes was that for?”
“How do you think she’s feeling?” Quillon waved his fork toward her. “Her betrothed is up in bed, drifting in and out of consciousness.”
A chunk of Cook’s toasted bread soared across the table, thrown from the unlikeliest culprit.
“You cannot say that, Quillon,” the Marchioness of Winfield scolded, giving the young man a pointed look.
Apparently, the title of older sister superseded that of marchioness. Quillon immediately returned fire.
The table erupted into chaos—food flying, siblings shouting, half the family escalating the battle while the other half tried to stop it.
Lucy wanted to slide under the table and disappear.
And Arran looked as though he wished the same.
His broad shoulders, framed in sapphire wool, went taut enough to snap. His eyes found hers. The raw, unguarded emotion in them threatened to split her in two.
Guilt. So much of it poured from his gaze.
Of course he would feel guilty. An honorable man like Arran, who erroneously believed he shared a heated embrace with his cousin’s wife-to-be, would carry a mountain of shame?
But his guilt? It was unfounded.
Lucy’s, however, would never leave her.
Nor should it.
She had to tell him. Now. Immediately.
Yesterday.
A certainty was that the moment she revealed the truth, he would hate her.
How could he not? A man betrayed by so many could never forgive what she had done. Tears prickled hot in her eyes.
“Oh, please, do not worry,” the Duchess of Aragon said gently, while the table remained at war. Her warmth made more tears slip free down Lucy’s cheek. “He truly will be all right.” She looked to her mother, the countess, and shouted to make herself heard over the raucous table. “Isn’t that right, Mother? Campbell will be just fine?”
Lucy made the mistake of looking up. Her gaze collided with Arran’s. His expression was pale, drawn.
The duchess began raising her voice and then stopped. She turned to her husband and spoke furiously, gesticulating as she did.
A sharp whistle cut through the noise.
Silence rippled across the room as the Earl of Abington rose. Collecting the marble-headed cane at his side, he gave it three sharp thumps on the wood floor. “That will be quite enough.”
Even the highest-ranking offenders—the duke, the marquis, the earl—appeared properly contrite.
The gentleman puffed out his chest. “Now, may we please, all of us, just focus on why Cook failed to make more of this gingerbread.”
With an exasperated sigh, the countess at last cracked under the chicanery at the table and sank her face in her palms.
And Lucy certainly could see why.
Confounded, Lucy cocked her head at an angle.
