Page 31 of Ghost of the Ton

Clear eyes, the color of hard, unyielding emeralds, focused on Mia, and her stomach clenched in fear. He appeared the kind of warrior who won his battles before they even began, felling his opponents with a single stare.

Well, he wouldn’t fell her. She had stared Death in the face and survived. This man—the beast sitting before her—couldn’t harm her any more than she had been already.

And when a hunted animal has nothing to lose, she stands her ground with a clear conscience. She stares her predator in the face, challenging him to devour her.

Wasn’t that what Lady Portia always said?

Mia suppressed a smile at the thought of her friend, who’d faced Death many times, staring at the end of a pistol and reigning triumphant over the male sex—the weaker sex. Portia had only faltered once, when she’d faced the man she loved. But Mia was unlikely to love a man—much less likely to be loved by one. Therefore, there was no opponent whom she couldn’t face with courage and determination.

She met his gaze. The man across the desk widened his eyes, and Mia caught a glimmer of confusion in them. Perhaps he expected women to cower before him—or dissolve into a puddle of female desire.

Then his expression darkened and she saw, once more, the anger. She clasped her hands together, and he lowered his gaze. Mia caught a flare of surprise in his eyes as his gaze settled on her left hand—specifically, the gold band adorning the third finger.

“Ye’ll probably be wondering why I summoned ye,” he said at last.

Summoned?

Mia folded her arms. “I thought you’d said everything you wanted to say to me yesterday.”

He frowned and broke the gaze. But the frisson of triumph at making him look away dissolved when he flicked his eyes back at her and she saw the granite-hard frost in his expression.

“I see little point in pandering to the compliments ye’d expect from a London fop, Miss Lucas.”

“I assure you, sir, the last thing I expect from you is a compliment.”

She hesitated, fearing his reaction to her next words. But what did she have to lose?

“And,” she continued, “I believe I should be addressed as Lady MacLennan.”

His lips thinned as her arrow hit home.

Then the corner of his mouth quirked into a smile, though his eyes remained cold.

“Not, perhaps, for much longer.”

She caught her breath.

Bastard.

Though she didn’t voice the insult, her cheeks warmed at the profanity.

Then he blinked and she caught a glimmer of regret in his eyes.

“Forgive me…” he began.

“There’s nothing to forgive,” she said, leaning back. “I take it you’ve been considering how to release yourself of the burden you find yourself under. Given, I would hope, that even you wouldn’t stoop to murder, I presume you’re contemplating an annulment?”

He jerked back as if she’d slapped him. Then he let out a sigh and nodded.

“I’ve naught against ye personally, lass, but I have the fortunes of Glenblath to consider.”

“Fortunes I contributed to.”

“Aye,” he said, his voice a low growl, “but I never expected our marriage to last.”

Mia let out a mirthless laugh. “I suspect I’m more surprised than you that I survived. Certainly I feel the impact to a greater degree than yourself.”

He lifted his hand to his face and brushed it across his forehead. Despite her indignation at the cruel words he’d spoken, she couldn’t help the swell of compassion at the strain in his eyes brought about by having a large estate to care for, with all the tenants and servants who depended on him. In London, Mr. Stockton had painted a pretty portrait of Hamish MacLennan as an honorable man striving to do what was best for others under dire financial circumstances. And, perhaps, had his anger and revulsion today not been directed toward her, Mia might have loved him for it—as she believed she might have come to love him had he not rejected her so soundly.