Tell him where he can go, Meghan… Send him back to his paramours and end this sham…
The candle’s glow played with a calculated flash in his eyes.
Cold came creeping back, filling all of her, until no light remained.
In the end, the need to protect her family proved a worry far greater than her own happiness.
Clutching at the sides of her skirts, Meghan lengthened her strides until her pace matched his. Her breath came uneven, her pulse skidded beneath her skin, and neither had anything to do with her efforts.
He wasn’t even being unreasonable, she told herself. Not entirely. Innocent ladies most certainly did not attend risqué masquerades—most definitely not without familial knowledge or accompaniment.
Maybe Hartwell’s response was one of hurt and wounded pride.
He was, after all, a man.
She could make this right. She had to.
“Hartwell,” she said softly.
He stopped quickly and took her by the arm. His grip was hard, possessive, but not so unforgiving as to leave marks. “Do you wish to announce not only my presence here, madam, but your own as well?”
Meghan thrust her chin out. “I fail to believe anyone here hasn’t recognized you for who you are—or the company you’ve kept this night, Your Grace.”
Gnawing resentment rose inside her. She couldn’t have bitten back the sharp retort if she’d wanted to—and she most certainly didn’t want to.
He grasped her wrist quickly.
Meghan gasped.
Heart racing, she glanced from where he held her fast to his face.
“You are to keep silent,” he said at last, his tone eerily pleasant. “If anyone identifies us,Ispeak.” The duke’s black mask heightened the burnished brown of his eyes. “Have I made myself clear?”
“Abund—”
Hartwell fixed her with a hard stare.
Meghan’s fingers gripped her dress more tightly. That’s right.Keep silent.
She mouthed her response in petty defiance. “Yes.”
His nostrils pinched inward. “We will talk later about our impending nuptials.”
Impending portended doom.
Except…what if he truly decided to break it off?
And yet, that traitorous relief of before reared its head once more. The noose about her neck, one she’d no idea how to loosen, eased.
As they descended the corridor, Hartwell’s silence grew colder.
The moment they arrived in an unmarked carriage, a waiting servant drew the door open.
The Duke of Hartwell gripped Meghan by the waist. His impressively large hands spanned her middle, firm and impersonal. There was no tenderness. No warmth. Not even the faintest hint of what she had once hoped might be, if not affection, then at least desire.
He deposited Meghan inside the expansive carriage, directly opposite—
“Andromena,” she said dumbly. “Fleur.” Her partners in intrigue.
