She was the good time he spoke of.
It was crude—and yet an uncomfortable ache settled between her thighs.
With careful movements, Meghan parted the shrub-like bush. Holding her breath, she peered through the crack she’d made through the branches.
A fresh wave of grief washed over her.
Two voluptuous, indecently clad masqueraders—one the duke’s earlier dance partner, the other a crimson clad belly dancer. By the gauzy material of her low-waisted pants, with coins affixed, Meghan recognized the lady’s scandalous ensemble from a book she’d snatched from her younger cousins aftertheyhad filched it from Cousin Arran’s travel trunk.
She didn’t love Hartwell, but seeing him flaunt not one woman, but two—
Meghan shook her head slightly. She had no right to feel hurt. What she did this night was no different.
“In need of diversion this close to your wedding, eh, Hartwell?”
He knew of her impending nuptials to the Duke of Hartwell. Everyone did. Hartwell was, after all, London’s most sought-after bachelor.
Her husband-to-be snorted. “Unlike my brother, Tremaine, who married forlove,”—Meghan winced—“I’m beholden to no woman.”
She inched forward through the brush and squinted for a better look at August’s response.
“And what of your delightful bride to be?” She wanted to kick August. Nay, she would for this one. “Is your bride to be here seeking her pleasures elsewhere too?”
“My God.” Hartwell laughed. “I forgot how plebeian you are. As if my duchess, who’ll carry my heir, will be afforded the same freedoms as I.”
Meghan sat, a voyeur in a cruel exchange she was at the center of but not part of.
A fresh chill settled deep in her marrow. Hers was not a love match. It was a partnership—nothing more.
His peevish lover stomped her slippered foot. “I don’t want to talk about your bride-to-be, Hartwell.”
“Zair ees too mooch talk-een.” The duke’s French paramour slinked over to August and slipped her arm through his. Leaning against the earl, she rubbed her other palm along his leather lapel. “Vhy don’t vee een-veet Lord Cool-ross too jo-een oor feun, oui?”
Meghan’s stomach twisted at the sight of that woman’s hand on him. Not Hartwell, butCool-ross. Her throat worked painfully.
“En une autre occasion, je pourrais te faire plaisir, ma belle,” August said coolly.On another occasion, I might indulge you, sweet.He curved a hand sharp under the buxom beauty’s buttocks and gave her several lusty strokes.
And here Meghan believed the French lessons her mum insisted upon were unnecessary.
A fresh surge of pain sank vicious teeth into Meghan’s already battered heart.
“Mais pas en présence de ce pitoyable individu qui se prend pour un homme.”But not with this pitiful excuse for manhood present.
August smacked the beauty’s ample bottom, eliciting a delighted squeal, bringing Meghan’s eyes sliding shut.
“Why don’t we all join in?” the English beauty purred. “With two bucks butting heads, think how interesting it will be for all.”
Meghan balled her bare hands; her nails shredded up her palms.
August released the woman quick and nudged his chin the duke’s way. “Hélas, chérie, je préférerais me couper le pénis plutôt que de le laisser approcher de Hartwell.” The French rolled off his tongue smooth, and merciless. “Peut-être plus tard.”
Alas, chérie, I’d rather cut my own cock off than let it near Hartwell… Perhaps later.
Perhaps later?
Pain sank fresh teeth into her heart.
“Nor do I have an interest in sharing with Culross,” Hartwell said equally cold. “Nor do I require him.”
