“Not you yet, my dear,” he said coolly. “I require a word with you.”
No, the Duke of Hartwell would not let her off so easily.
The moment the door shut, he spoke.
“Not a word,” he clipped out in austere tones—far more menacing than any bellow would have been. “Not a single word,” he repeated.
His was nothing more than an exercise to display his control of Meghan. A reminder of his superiority. She scrunched her toes deep into the soles of her slippers until her arches ached.
“Have I been a less than tolerable betrothed to you?” he asked, promptly volleying another charge. “Are you determined to humiliate me, Miss Smith?”
Meghan met him with calm. “No,” she said evenly. “I would never—”
Hartwell glared her into silence.
“Then what, by God, would dare make you steal off in the middle of the night to Lord and Lady Rutland’s masquerade?” It was in that final query that he raised his voice.
Heart racing, Meghan jumped.
This is who would be her husband for the remainder of her days? She would be damned if she cowered.
Meghan set her jaw and refused to look away. “It was not about you, Your Grace,” she said with forced steadiness. “I came for myself. I came because I had never been.”
He peered down the length of his hawkish nose at her. “Miss Smith, let it be clear—if youhadbeen before, you would not, even now, be my betrothed.”
Her heart leapt. Was he saying…?
He mocked with a thin smile. “Worry not your pretty head, you shall be my duchess.”
That’s what he thought she cared about? “I assure you,” she said tightly, “I have no interest in being a duchess.”
The moment those words left her mouth, Meghan understood how they must sound to him.
One frosty brow winged upward.
“Ah,” he said coolly, “then you should have proceeded far differently with my courtship of you.”
She was making a mess of this.
“No, Your Grace. I didn’t mean to suggest… That is…what Iintendedto—”
The duke lifted a staying hand, and her words trailed off at once.
“The wedding proceeds as planned, Miss Smith.”
Miss Smith.
Her panic mounted.
In less than a fortnight, she would marry this man she referred to asYour Grace, and who referred to her currently asMiss Smith. There would be no warmth. No affection.
But there would be a shipping alliance further cemented.
“Do not look so doleful, my dear betrothed,” he said, infusing his tone with a falsified warmth. “You will be free to have your affairs—no matter how sordid they may be.” He paused deliberately. “That is, after you provide me with a rightful heir. And another son to quickly follow.”
“A broodmare,” she seethed.
He shaped his mouth to something cutting. “What other reason is there for marriage?”
