Her nape prickled.
She glanced over.
August sat with his hip perched along the back of the moth-eaten armchair.
“What is it they will understand?”
He removed a cheroot from inside his waistcoat pocket and held the rolled paper to the nearest sconce. Red flared at the tip.
Only then did he glance back at her.
“Your ruin?”
Your ruin…
He took a long pull and released a plume of white.
Meghan frowned.
She would have the security of his name, but there would be scandal. Not that she cared about that. Nothing was more important than love.
But August should care about her reputation because it washer, and if he—
At her silence, August winged an eyebrow upward.
“You should not be so casual about my reputation, August,” she chided, tossing another stick into the fire before returning her attention to the flames.
Because you cannot look at him…
Something sinister and dark hung about him like a cloak.
He studied her a moment, as though confirming something only he could see.
“Madam, I will not marry you.”
The twig snapped in Meghan’s fingers.
Crack.
For a moment, Meghan thought she misheard him.
Madam, I will not marry you…
The blood rushed through her ears in a whoosh, muffling sound, blurring reality.
Meghan attended her broken stick. Dull grey lichen grew within a split in the wood. The scent of pine filled her nose.
She tipped her head.
How strange that something that appeared dead should carry such a vibrant sign of life.
Meghan stared a moment longer and then tossed the small stick to join the ashes of the others.
The branch exploded into sparks and ash.
Meghan gasped.
Her heart hammering, she edged farther from the hearth.
