Culross gave a sharp, downward cut of his hand and moved, directly and unhesitatingly to claim his enemy’s prized bride.
Chapter 7
When the Earl of Abington’s grand carriage lost a spoke, Meghan, Andromena, and Fleur convinced Meghan’s maid, Bridget, to let them go outside.
Poor Bridget. She hadn’t stood a chance. It hadn’t even been a struggle to wear the young woman down. After all, given the McQuoid traditions and well-known history of their love of snow and cold weather, what servant would be able to deny their calls? Especially on a McQuoid wedding day toanotherduke, no less.
Hiding behind an ancient elm for cover, her snowball fight with Andromena and Fleur forgotten, Meghan stared vacantly at the plumes of smoke in the distance that came from the church where her family already gathered.
A heavy weight pressed in on her chest.
Just as she’d done after her return from Lord and Lady Rutland’s ball, Meghan relived the last time she had spent with August. It was pathetic to do so. He hated her family—and her by association. But her body didn’t care about his hatred.
Her wrist still burned with the memory of his touch. His kiss. The way he had sucked until he left his mark behind.
In the early morn hours, as sleep eluded her, she had squirmed and shifted beneath the weight of those memories, until the ache between her legs became unbearable.
There had been no reprieve. No matter how much she’d squirmed or pressed her legs together, the throbbing there remained and kept her from sleep.
At some point, exhaustion claimed her and blessedly there had been no dreams. Just blank nothingness.
Within minutes, she’d be officially married—and all she could think about was another man. At that, a man who disdained her.
“Found you!”
Meghan gasped, wheeling around.
Andromena’s snowball exploded on Meghan’s chest in a spray of powder.
Andromena laughed. “AndI got you!”
Meghan glanced down at her sister’s handiwork.
She cocked her head.
Unfortunately, when she’d skipped about the snowy terrain, Meghan hadn’t considered her hems.
She looked lower.
Or her slippers.
Snowflakes drifted past her with a rising intensity. Meghan touched her fingers to the several errant curls whipping about her cheeks.
Orthe artful arrangement made of her cumbersome curls and the Duchess of Hartwell tiara affixed to them. Crafted of diamond carnations and fuchsias, the piece weighed on her like an albatross, not a symbol of love and devotion tied to the flowers’ meanings.
She would walk down the familial aisle her ancestors had for generations to meet a duke with a muddied wedding dress and white satin slippers. Previously white, now sleek and slick with mud.
Hartwell would not only loathe Meghan in her current state; he would be beside himself with rage.
A vindictive smile tightened her lips. “What a shame,” she whispered.
If she were lucky, he would take one look at Meghan andpubliclydeclare her unsuitable.
“Meghan?” Her sister’s cheer-filled voice cut into Meghan’s spiraling descent into insanity.
“Who do you think will be next?” Fleur’s breath came fast from their earlier exertions, leaving little clouds of white in the air.
Meghan stared blankly.
