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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Maeve was at a boring ball again, sitting in a corner, counting something on her fingers, silent numbers forming on her lips.
When her parents had struck the deal with Ailia and her, stating they would have to go through six Seasons, Maeve had been counting the years until it would be done. Then, sometime last year, she had started to count the months. Just now, as she was sitting in a corner, watching the crowded ballroom from her retreated spot, she had decided to start counting the weeks. It was hard to focus on her task, though, as everyone was being ridiculously noisy.
Today was the sixth of May, a Saturday, and the season would end on the second Sunday of August. It wasn't the exact date, but it was when her family usually went back to the family estate, between York and Leeds.
This year, however, they had Ailia's wedding on the twelfth of August, and it was to be celebrated on the dukedom grounds, with numerous guests. It probably meant they would leave London before the fifth.
She had almost made her calculations all the way to the end of July when someone interrupted her efforts.
"Are you counting the people you plan on having assassinated?" Lord Worthington asked, his deep voice mocking.
Maeve looked up and tried to remain stoic at the sight he offered. He was as dashing as ever, wearing an anthracite suit that fitted him perfectly. Even his shirt was a dark shade of gray, and she wondered why men only wore white ones. The man before her was dangerously alluring, and all that darkness gave him an irresistible devilish look.
Refusing to let him trouble her, she focused back on his face. He was expressionless, as usual, and she wondered why, with all the men in Britain, he was the one who occupied her mind. Why this stoic brute? Maybe because of his darkness, and his mysterious aura surrounding him.
Remembering he was rude and arrogant, she shook her inner self. She still had her fingers up, signing the number eight. With their eyes locked, she slowly lifted one more finger, making it nine.
"There. All done. Where do you think I can find a decent assassin who would make me a batch price?" she asked sardonically, rising from her chair. A glimpse of amusement sparkled in his green eyes.
"I am afraid nine people aren't enough to deserve a discount, swan," he said in return, pretending to be serious.
The pet name disturbed her, so she took a moment to process his words and reply. Ever since this Swan Sisters thing had started, she'd despised the word for what it meant. But when Lord Worthington used it, there was something different about it. The warm and fluttery feeling that awoke in her stomach had nothing to do with anger or annoyance.
"It was actually nineteen," she forced herself to reply as soon as she could think properly. "But I can find more, it isn't a problem. Look, you showed up, and that was one more for my list."
"I was the nineteenth one?" he asked, surprised. She nodded, a sarcastic smile on her lips. "I don't know if I should be honored or offended not to have been the first one. I certainly am reassured," he whispered, bending closer to her ear.
