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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Bitter, Maeve squinted her eyes at the baron.
She knew that coming from this man, 'Princess' wasn't a kind, endearing word.
You are a spoiled little princess who doesn't care about anyone but herself; egoistic and selfish.
An instant earlier, he was touching her cheek with his bare fingers, and she had been paralyzed by it, her knees weak, her throat clenched. She hadn't taken the time to eat, ever since she'd arrived, and she had wondered if it was the reason for her temporary feebleness.
However, from the moment he had called her 'princess', her mind had rebelled inside of her, making her feel like herself again. How could she be so weak? To think that not even an hour earlier, she was slapping him.
She was about to tell him the origin of her scar was none of his business when she remembered about the truce. Although he wasn't making much effort to respect it, she decided she would be the bigger man – woman – and remain cordial. Although, she didn't need to be friendly anymore.
"I was in pursuit of a cat, and I fell on a sharp rock when I was four," she informed him with a neutral tone.
"Was the cat a known felon? Was he a wanted thief?" the baron asked, in an effort to lighten up the mood.
"It was just a black cat, running around ca— the garden."
Maeve had caught her tongue in time. She had been so close to saying 'camp'. This was a part of her life that mustn't be known. Not ever. If anyone were to learn that her mother, Amalia Langston, born Romero, the very proper Duchess of Leeds, was originally a Bohemian, Maeve's entire family would crumble under the weight of the scandal that would erupt. Their mother was indeed born and raised Gypsy, making her blood — and her children's — one of the lowest in all of Europe. Upon hearing that, the good society of Great Britain would turn their backs on them.
The baron and Maeve remained silent for a long time. Only focused on the gardens, strolling around. When they came across a bench, he stopped her, touching his injured leg. "Would you mind if we took a break for a moment?"
She nodded, still silent, and they sat, facing a small pond. Now that they weren't walking, the silence felt odd. She tried to think of something to talk about, something generic. She really didn't want to learn more personal things about Lord Worthington.
"Have you known Mr. Delawney for a long time?" she inquired.
Without even realizing it, the baron smiled at the mention of his friend. He told her how they had been friends for seventeen years now. He explained he was his sworn protector, how the poor man had been bullied his entire childhood. As he recounted their anecdotes, Maeve couldn't help but feel like she had failed miserably at choosing a neutral subject of conversation.
She now understood why he was being so defensive, why he wanted her to stay away from Delawney. Not that she agreed on the fact she was to be treated like an insufferable wench, but she could comprehend why he would want to shield his friend from bad influences. Despite not wanting to, she was learning a lot about Worthington. He was loyal to his friends and hated injustice, as would a heroic vigilante.
