Despite the unshakable attraction between them, Maeve and Lucian are uninterested in love and marriage; especially since they hate one another and couldn't think of a worse match.
• • •
London, 1815
Maeve Langston's aversion to the opposite sex has...
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For the sixth time since he'd arrived at the small chapel, Lucian told himself that his brilliant idea was, in fact, the opposite of brilliant. Maybe he should have followed his original instinct and gone back to London.
But upon waking up alone after his night with Maeve, something had rebelled at the thought of being so far away from her. So, instead of doing the right thing, he'd decided to linger up north, with the hope that he might see her one last time. And there wouldn't be another opportunity like this before a while, mixing among the guests gathered for her sister's wedding. Which should have been their wedding as well.
Alas, he wasn't as inconspicuous as he'd wished, given that he stuck out like a sore thumb, taller than everyone else in attendance. Between that and his limp, his cane, and his sour mood, people could hardly miss him. It was probably why Maeve had found him so easily despite the crowd, her inquisitive gaze falling on him minutes after he'd arrived.
The utter shock and worry that had appeared on her delicate face had confirmed that his presence here might be more problematic than he'd thought. In all fairness, the likelihood that the duke would cause a scandal because of him was slim. Certainly, Maeve's father wouldn't be thrilled to see him here, but he was too well-mannered to make a scene with so many witnesses present. More gossip was the last thing the Langston family needed at the moment.
So, in an effort to avoid a public fracas, Lucian kept an eye on the duke, adamant to see when he'd notice him. It would be better if Lucian anticipated the confrontation that would surely come.
"You look terrible," a familiar voice said from behind him.
Startled, Lucian turned around to face the voice's owner. It felt like months had passed since he'd last seen his oldest mate. The sight of John first brought this sense of remorse he'd gotten used to by now, highly aware that he'd played his ginger friend for weeks. But the lack of resentment in John's eyes confused Lucian, which held him back from answering.
"I would ask how you've been," John continued, "but from the looks of it, I'd guess restless, eaten by guilt, and desperately lonely."
Still uncertain of what was happening, Lucian offered him a wince. "And you'd be right on all counts."
As he shook his head, John looked away, his eyes halting at a very specific person. Lucian knew who was there, so he followed his friend's gaze to glimpse at Maeve, still standing over there with her blonde companion, the composer's daughter.
"John, I... I want to apologize again for what I did to you," he started, turning back to his friend. "I handled this whole thing quite terribly, but my intentions were never to hurt you. I got lost along the way, and to be perfectly honest, I was rather confused by my feelings for her. It took me a long time to accept that something was growing between us, and by the time I did, it was already too l—"
"You were right," John interrupted him.
"About what?"
"My interest in Lady Maeve wasn't what I made it up to be. I didn't realize it then, though. It took me a moment to figure it out."
