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.
