Culross caught her lightly by the forearms and hauled her upright.
Her eyes filled with fear.
She feared him.
His nostrils flared. A white flame of fury licked at the edge of his vision.
“As long as you are in my care,” he whispered, “no harm will befall you.”
Tears filled her eyes.
“What do you call destroying my happiness and future, August?”
He lowered his forehead to hers.
“Your happiness as in Hartwell?”
Her silence stood stark. Her answer.
Culross’s muscles coiled tight. He released her quickly.
“Your love for him is so great you sneaked into a masquerade and fell into my arms?”
She paled, but she did not give him the fight he craved—a fight he didn’t understand what it was even over.
He curled his lip into a sneer.
“It must be difficult knowing you’ll never be a duchess.”
His charge had the desired effect.
Angry color flared in her cheeks.
“What?”
“I know how much you wanted that title.”
Meghan sprang forward on the balls of her feet.
“You know nothing,” she spat.
“I believe the word you used was overjoyed, was it not?”
She gasped and staggered back.
“You listened in on my conversation with Andromena!”
“All things considered, given my other offenses this day, that seems a rather minor transgression.”
He shrugged.
“How disappointing for you to lose that venerated title. But you seemed not entirely unbothered at the prospect of having the lesser one as my wife.”
Something passed over her face—something unidentifiable.
“Is it that any husband will do?”
“Given my ruin, I can no longer afford to be particular,” she gritted out.
