Kill me. Please, kill me. Anything. Anyone. Arran’s eyes slid shut.Me. All these years, she was right in front of me…
And it’d been Campbell who saw her standing there.
Not any of the McQuoids or Smiths. Sharp, irrepressible anguish ripped through him.
Cassia’s brow pulled with concern. “The lady promised to meet me in the kitchens earlier, but failed to arrive for our appointment.”
Murmurs of concern rolled like a wave over the table.
It was too damned much. He’d not hear them pining over Lucy. Worrying after her. Not when Arran himself was tearing apart with the same bloody sentiments.
“Lucy… Miss LeBeau left.” Arran didn’t recognize his own fractured baritone.
“Left?”
That question came from the McQuoids like the echoing chorus of a query shouted into the rugged, steeped cliffs of Glencoe.
Campbell sat stiffly upright. “What do you mean she left?” The frosty undercurrent of a threat in his question better suited an affronted betrothed.
The other gentleman’s thinly contained fury bespoke a closeness to and with Lucy that Arran had dismissed when he’d sent her away.
Arran’s fingers reflexively fisted his glass so tight, he swiftly set it down before he snapped the crystal.
Ultimately, the decision should have fallen to Campbell. It’d not been Arran’s call to make. Another mistake realized too late.
Campbell snapped, “I asked you a damned question, Arran.”
The countess made a sound of worry. “Campbell, please have a care. You are still recover—”
Campbell slammed a fist down so hard his porcelain place setting jumped.
Gasps filled the dining room.
Arran ran a palm over his mouth. “I sent her away,” he said hoarsely.
Cacophony ensued.
There came shouting from every direction at Arran. He sat motionless, taking their fury as his due. There was something he and they could collectively agree on, a shared loathing for Arran.
Peppered in were tears. Lots of tears. All which brought him back to Lucy’s sorrow.
Arran’s father set his newspaper down with a ferocity only matched by his quest to find the mystery gingerbread baker. “Enough!” A bright flush filled his cheeks. He gave a look to the servants.
They took the silent cue and filed out.
Everyone stopped with their mouths hanging open.
The earl wasn’t near done.
“Get out,” the earl ordered, firing out commands like Wellington himself. “You. You.” He pointed to Oleander and Quillon. “You.” Andromena was next. Fleur followed suit. “You.”
The wide-eyed twins got up and left.
After they’d gone, the earl assessed the remaining family. “Does anyone wish to leave?”
Arran inclined his head.
His father snorted. “Not you, lad.” He glanced at his two sons-in-laws. “Anyone else?”
