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 sitting in an armchair, her legs folded before her, staring at the dying fire in her fireplace. She was holding a book, but she hadn't even glimpsed at it for the past hour, unable to focus on the words.
The war was over. They had won. Napoleon was defeated once more. Lucian would come back. She was trying her best to cling to the idea that he had survived, that he hadn't been hurt, and that he would be back as promised. However, a dark part of her couldn't help but have doubts.
She had promised her sister she wouldn't let herself get sick with worry, for the sake of her family, and she had more or less managed for the past two weeks. But now, with the war over, now that she was so close to having her answer, she was panicking again.
Her parents were out to a party, along with Ailia, to whom Maeve had promised she would be fine if they left her tonight. However, now that she was alone, her younger siblings sleeping soundly upstairs, she wasn't fine at all, her mind taking her to dark places.
In all the news she had read, not a single one mentioned the death of an officer. He wasn't supposed to have been on the battlefield, but what if he had? How do you find a body in the middle of fifty thousand others? What if he had died or been hurt, and no one had noticed, or no one had cared?
A loud crack in the fireplace startled her, making her drop the book she was barely holding. Wondering how long she had been brooding like this, she decided it was time to go to bed, to be brooding there instead, staring at the ceiling.
She unfolded her legs and forced herself up, before picking up the book. As she straightened up, a shiver ran down her spine, and she froze. She didn't know if it was instinct, premonition, or intuition, but she turned around slowly, knowing someone was behind her.
When she recognized him, the book slipped from her hand again.
Lucian.
He was right there, in front of her opened window, dashing as ever in his impeccable evening suit. Had she finally gone mad and was having visions? Or — her heart dropped at the thought — was he a ghost?
He was staring back at her with the same wonderment in his eyes, unable to make a move, just like her. She felt her throat clutch, and her sight became blurry, tears filling her eyes. He noticed and frowned, before finally moving to her with haste, reaching her in a few steps. His strong arms wrapped around her trembling frame, and she let herself be cradled in his comforting embrace as tears kept flowing down her cheeks. He was too warm to be a ghost, too real to be a vision. It really was Lucian. He was back. He was here.
She cried with relief, the two weeks of worry finally over. He held her tighter in his arms, and she wrapped hers around his solid form.
"Don't cry, swan," he begged, as if in pain. "You are breaking my heart."
She nodded, but the tears didn't stop. He unwrapped his arms from around her, and tenderly grabbed her face in his hands, forcing her to look up. "I am all right, Maeve. Everything is going to be all right now."
