“Lord Culross is too much of a coward to face me?” She looked him up and down pointedly and sneered. “I suppose that places you a hair above a coward.”
He clasped his hands behind him. “That is for you to take up with Lord Culross.”
What a peculiar man. Meghan did not know whether he intended that as jest or actual suggestion. “Is there a reason you are in my rooms?”
The gentleman nodded once. “Lord Culross instructed me to collect you.”
August had truly sent another man in his stead.
The bloody coward.
A sharp ache throbbed behind her breastbone. No. It was worse. Her lower lip trembled.
It was a clear sign of his indifference. August cared so little he could not be bothered to come for her.
As if she had needed another sign, a voice in her head needled.
Her skin tingled and she glanced up quick.
Lord Greyhold’s eyes revealed their first emotion—pity.
Gathering the last vestige of her pride, Meghan tossed her head back. “Collect me?”
Lord Greyhold nodded.
The laugh she forced out emerged with all the bitterness in her heart. “Like marbles or snuffboxes?”
“Not insofar much as you’ll be wrapped in a carpet and carried out.”
Wrapped in a—?
Meghan studied the stoic gentleman again, searching for signs he joked.
She found none.
And burst out laughing anyway.
She laughed wildly, helplessly. Her entire body shook until mirth bent her double. Meghan barely caught herself against the chair. “O–oh my…g–gooooood.” She gasped, trying to breathe through her amusement. “A-all of this is too absurd.And if I laugh at any mortal thing, ’tis that I may not weep,” she said—before realizing what she had quoted.
“Don Juan,” her nearly seven-foot companion observed.
The legend of the arrogant libertine devoid of morals, honor, and heart.
Meghan howled with laughter.
Don Juan, indeed.
Chapter 12
Acold river mist spilled across the Town of Ramsgate courtyard. Cobblestones cleared of snow had already begun to show the grime and mud left by dockworkers long at work.
An errant cry from seagulls and the intermittent call of watermen signaled the beginning of a busy wharf day.
Waiting beside his mount for Meghan’s arrival, Culross stood with his hands clasped at his back and his gaze fixed on the tall brick pub. They had not exchanged another word since their volatile exchange.
Thick, dark grey clouds hung in a low blanket over the London skyline, hinting at only a temporary lull in the storm. A crisp, earthy scent promised further snow and lent an unnatural quiet to the back court.
When Culross rose for the day and saw to his ablutions, he had let Meghan pretend she was sleeping—and left.
