My Escort Abandoned Me In The Freezing Rain — Then A Stranger Stepped Out Of The Shadows
Part 2
I scrambled awkwardly to my feet, my bare left heel slipping slightly on the wet marble.
I stood there, shifting my weight to my right leg and clutching my dirty shoe to my chest like a useless shield.
My voice came out raspy, edged with panic and immediate defensive hostility as I demanded to know if he was spying on me.
The man exhaled a thin stream of gray smoke that plumed into the damp air and vanished.
His voice was deep, resonant, and laced with a dry, gravelly amusement as he casually denied it.
He pointed out that he had been there first, seeking a quiet refuge from the chaotic ballroom.
He claimed I was the one who had chosen to turn his sanctuary into a ward for the damp and entirely miserable.
My jaw clenched instantly at his casual dismissal.
The sheer arrogance of his tone made my freezing blood run dangerously hot.
My cynical nature completely overrode my fear as I spat out an apology for interrupting his private brooding.
I turned to go back down the stairs, forgetting entirely about my bare foot in my haste to escape him.
As I stepped down, my raw heel struck the unyielding stone.
I let out a sharp hiss of pain, my knee buckling slightly beneath me.
Before I could fall into the mud, the stranger moved.
He crossed the distance between us with startling speed, abandoning the safety of the shadows entirely.
He didn’t grab my arm, a gesture I absolutely would have fought off.
Instead, he simply stepped directly into my path, a solid wall of dark wool blocking my descent.
He told me not to be an idiot, his voice softening just a fraction.
Up close, the smell of sandalwood and expensive scotch was intoxicatingly strong.
He noted that I was bleeding and freezing, warning me that retreating into the rain would guarantee pneumonia.
I looked up at him, entirely unnerved by the terrifyingly intricate lion mask obscuring his upper face.
I retorted that it was none of his business if I died of pneumonia, though my chattering teeth completely betrayed my bravado.
He looked down at my dripping hair, my ruined feathers, and the muddy shoe clutched tightly in my hand.
He didn’t look at me with pity, which I had fully braced myself for.
He looked at me with a strange, clinical curiosity mixed with something that felt dangerously close to irritation.
He agreed it wasn’t his business, but stated he had a profound distaste for watching people freeze to death in his general vicinity.
He claimed it ruined his mood.
I glared at the gilded lion, calling him terribly rude, to which he calmly replied that I was terribly wet.
He tossed the heavy wool coat over my shivering shoulders, but as I looked up at the weary, cynical eyes of the Duke of Westfall, what on earth could a man like him possibly want from me in return?
Part 3
Dan, the Duke of Westfall, wanted absolutely nothing from the freezing, barefoot seamstress standing on the marble steps, aside from perhaps a brief distraction from his own suffocating boredom.
He did not view Megan Linley as a damsel in distress, nor did he harbor any romantic notions about rescuing a woman from the rain.
He was simply a man burdened by an inherited title and a crumbling estate, staring at a woman who refused to crumble along with her ruined silk gown.
The heavy wool coat he tossed over her shivering shoulders was not a gesture of affection.
It was a pragmatic transaction, a barrier against the cold that he could easily afford to discard.
Megan gathered the oversized lapels around her neck, inhaling the sharp scent of sandalwood and expensive tobacco that clung to the dark fabric.
She realized in that moment that he wasn’t looking for gratitude.
He was looking for someone who understood the precise, calculated weight of survival.
Two hours earlier, survival had looked entirely different to Megan.
It had looked like twenty yards of cheap emerald silk, meticulously sewn by candlelight in a drafty room in Clerkenwell.
She had spent eighty nights transforming the stiff, unforgiving fabric into a masterpiece of illusion.
The bodice was boned perfectly to mimic the expensive creations of Mayfair modistes.
Every seam was reinforced to withstand the rigors of a society waltz.
Her landlady, Brenda, had laced the corset with an optimistic brutality.
Brenda firmly believed that a twenty-inch waist was the only reliable currency a woman without a dowry possessed.
Megan had endured the agonizing pressure against her ribs because she understood the brutal economics of her reality.
She was twenty-four years old, her fingers perpetually scarred by needle pricks, and she was running out of time to secure a roof that didn’t leak.
Brian had seemed like a viable, if uninspiring, solution to her precarious existence.
He was the second son of a lesser baron, employed as a clerk in a moderately successful shipping firm.
He lacked the wealth to marry a titled heiress, making a respectable, hardworking seamstress a pragmatic alternative.
Their courtship had been a carefully choreographed dance of mutual necessity.
He offered the promise of a small but steady household allowance.
She offered the guarantee of a wife who wouldn’t embarrass him in public or demand extravagant jewels.
There was no burning passion between them, only the quiet, desperate hope of avoiding destitution.
The interior of the hired coach they shared on the way to the Harrington masquerade smelled strongly of damp straw and stale gin.
It was a sour, metallic odor that completely overwhelmed the delicate lavender water Megan had dabbed behind her ears.
The London sky outside the carriage window had bruised into a deep, violently purple twilight before breaking open in a torrential downpour.
Rain lashed aggressively against the small, cloudy glass, blurring the gas lamps into long, sickly yellow streaks.
Every jolt over the uneven cobblestones sent a sharp, unforgiving ache straight up Megan’s spine.
Brian sat opposite her, tapping his silver-tipped walking stick against the wooden floorboards in a frantic, irregular rhythm.
Tap, tap, tap.
The sound grated on her already frayed nerves.
He stared resolutely at his scuffed leather boots, completely refusing to meet her gaze.
The illusion of their polite, practical courtship was beginning to crack under the mounting weight of his obvious anxiety.
Megan smoothed the skirts of her emerald gown, hoping the dim light of the carriage hid the cheap quality of the dye.
She needed tonight to go smoothly.
She needed Brian to introduce her to his peers, to solidify their arrangement before another harsh winter set in.
The carriage groaned loudly before coming to a sudden, jarring halt.
They were still at least fifty yards away from the grand portico of the Harrington estate.
A long line of lacquered black carriages, bearing the gilded crests of true nobility, blocked their path forward.
Footmen carrying massive black umbrellas scurried back and forth through the mud like agitated bats.
Megan leaned forward, eager to escape the suffocating, gin-soaked air of the hired cab.
She wanted to hear the string quartet and see the warm glow of a thousand wax candles reflecting off polished marble floors.
She needed to prove that the painful blister currently forming on her left heel was worth the agony of this entire endeavor.
Brian, however, did not move a single muscle toward the door.
His hand remained clamped tightly around the brass handle of his cane.
His knuckles were bone white.
He swallowed hard, the wet sound echoing horribly in the small, enclosed space.
He finally looked at her, his face completely pale and a fine sheen of perspiration coating his upper lip.
Megan kept her voice perfectly level as she asked why they had stopped.
The words tumbled out of Brian’s mouth in a panicked, disorganized rush.
He had spotted his father’s distinctive crest on the carriage currently idling two spots ahead in the line.
His father was supposed to be in Bath, far away from the prying eyes of London society and this particular masquerade.
Megan felt a cold dread settle in the pit of her stomach, but she forced her expression to remain entirely blank.
She asked him calmly to explain why his father’s presence was a problem.
Brian looked at her with wide, pleading eyes, silently begging her to absolve him of his cowardice.
He stammered that his father would instantly cut off his stipend if he saw him escorting a woman of her low station.
He couldn’t risk his inheritance, his entire future, for a single night of dancing with a nobody from Clerkenwell.
The silence that followed his confession was heavy and suffocating, broken only by the relentless drumming of the rain against the roof.
Megan felt a hot, prickling sensation behind her eyes.
She dug her fingernails into the palms of her hands, absolutely refusing to cry.
The humiliation didn’t feel like a sharp stab to the heart.
It felt like a slow, heavy sludge pouring directly into her stomach, weighing her down until she couldn’t breathe.
Megan told him she understood.
Her voice sounded completely hollow, echoing as if it belonged to a stranger standing in the corner of the cab.
Brian offered a pathetic, rambling apology, repeatedly blaming his cruel father and his meager clerk’s salary.
He reached into his tailored coat pocket and pulled out her masquerade invitation.
It was a thick piece of cream cardstock with gilded edges, now slightly bent and damp from his sweaty fingers.
He held it out to her like a fragile peace offering.
He suggested she go inside alone, assuring her that no one would realize she had arrived without an escort once her mask was securely in place.
He promised to wait for a better opportunity to introduce her to his family.
Megan stared at the cream cardstock, memorizing the exact curve of the gilded lettering.
She snatched it from his trembling hand without uttering a single word in response.
She turned the heavy brass latch, shoved the carriage door open, and stepped directly out into the raging storm.
Her thin leather soles hit the wet cobblestones with a sickening, immediate splash.
Icy water soaked instantly through to her wool stockings, chilling her right to the bone.
She slammed the carriage door shut behind her with enough violent force to rattle the entire wooden frame.
She didn’t turn back to watch him leave.
She heard the driver crack his whip over the noise of the wind.
She heard the heavy wooden wheels grind harshly against the stones as the carriage pulled out of the line and fled back toward the safety of the city.
The sound faded quickly into the rain, leaving her entirely abandoned at the bottom of the grand Harrington steps.
The rain was not a polite, aristocratic drizzle.
It was a cold, driving sheet of water that felt like a thousand tiny needles striking her bare shoulders.
The emerald silk of her dress, which had taken months to meticulously press and shape, instantly went heavy and dark.
It clung to her legs like wet, suffocating paper, entirely ruining her careful stitching in a matter of seconds.
She stood frozen at the base of the staircase, staring up at the sweeping curve of white marble that led to the massive entrance.
High above her, warm golden light poured invitingly from the tall French windows.
She could hear the faint, elegant strain of violins cutting bravely through the howling wind.
It sounded like a completely different universe up there.
It was a dry, warm, and intensely secure world that she had been brutally locked out of.
Megan took a tentative step forward.
Her left shoe immediately sank deep into a puddle of thick, gritty mud.
She stopped in her tracks as a violent shudder ripped through her slender frame.
It wasn’t just the freezing temperature seeping into her skin.
It was the sheer, crushing absurdity of her entire situation.
She had starved herself to afford the cab fare so she wouldn’t arrive smelling of the crowded omnibus.
She had bled over the needle for eighty nights.
And here she was, standing in the muck like a discarded stray dog, abandoned by a coward who valued his allowance over his dignity.
She looked down at her hands, numb and pale in the freezing downpour.
She was clutching the cream invitation in one hand and a cheap velvet half-mask in the other.
The glued-on raven feathers decorating the mask were already drooping, looking pathetic and entirely drowned.
An irrational voice in her head whispered that she should turn around and go home.
She could walk back to the main road, hail a hackney, spend her last remaining coins, and retreat to the safety of her drafty room.
But the terrifying thought of facing Brenda’s pitying gaze was far worse than the freezing rain.
The prospect of admitting absolute defeat, of sitting in the dark and unlacing her own corset because she was utterly alone, made her stomach churn with acidic bile.
She looked back up the grand, sweeping steps.
There had to be at least fifty of them stretching between her and the portico.
She gritted her teeth and shoved the wet velvet mask roughly onto her face.
It felt clammy and gross against her cheekbones, smelling faintly of old dust and cheap glue.
She gripped the heavy, sodden skirts in both hands, hauling them entirely out of the mud.
She exposed her ruined stockings and muddied ankles to the elements, no longer caring a single bit about societal propriety.
She began the long, agonizing climb.
By the tenth step, her lungs were burning fiercely against the severe confinement of the tight whalebone stays.
By the twentieth step, the blister on her left heel fully ruptured.
A sharp, agonizing sting flared with every single movement as raw skin rubbed relentlessly against wet, unyielding leather.
She paused briefly on the thirtieth step, gasping desperately for air as the rain continued to batter her.
The portico was finally drawing closer.
The massive stone columns offered a deep, shadowed overhang that shielded the upper landing from the worst of the downpour.
Torches sputtered wildly in iron sconces mounted against the walls, throwing chaotic, flickering shadows across the slick marble floor.
Megan leaned heavily against the cold stone balustrade the moment she reached the top.
The marble was freezing against her bare arm, but it felt incredibly solid and grounding.
She dropped her heavy skirts.
They landed with a thick, wet slap against the stone tiles.
She knew with absolute, crushing certainty that she couldn’t go inside.
The realization hit her like a physical blow to the chest, driving the last remaining breath from her lungs.
She looked down at herself in the flickering torchlight.
The hem of the beautiful emerald dress was completely caked in dark brown sludge.
Her carefully constructed bodice was soaked through, the cheap fabric turning an embarrassing translucent shade in several patches.
Her hair, which she had pinned into an intricate, elegant chignon, was rapidly unraveling.
Wet strands plastered themselves to her neck and forehead, making her look utterly unhinged and wild.
She looked exactly like a half-drowned rat that had crawled out of the Thames.
If she walked into that pristine ballroom, the footmen would likely throw her out immediately, invitation or not.
The wealthy lords and ladies would point and laugh from behind their gilded fans.
It would be a flawless, unforgettable social execution.
She slumped against the balustrade, sliding slowly down until she was sitting directly on the cold, wet step.
The chills seeped immediately through her dress and settled deep into her aching bones.
She pulled her knees tightly to her chest, ignoring how the wet silk bunched and strained dangerously at the seams.
She reached down with fingers that were clumsy and completely numb from the cold.
She unfastened the tarnished buckle of her left shoe.
She pulled it off with a quiet, involuntary grunt of pain.
The heel of her stocking was stained with a small, spreading circle of bright red blood.
She sat there holding the ruined shoe, the rain still misting over her from the fierce wind.
A strange, hollow numbness began to settle over her entire body.
The burning anger was rapidly dying out, leaving only an exhausted, entirely empty shell behind.
The suspension of the Duke’s carriage was so absurdly fine that the rutted gravel roads felt like polished glass.
Megan huddled defensively into the corner, pulling her wet, bare foot up onto the edge of the velvet seat.
The sudden, intense warmth of the cabin was having a catastrophic effect on her freezing body.
As her skin finally began to thaw, a violent, completely uncontrollable shivering seized her limbs.
Her teeth clattered together hard enough to send sharp, shooting pains directly into her jaw.
Beneath the heavy wool coat, her sodden emerald dress actually began to steam.
It emitted the pathetic, sour odor of wet silk and cheap, running dye.
Dan sat opposite her, stretching his long, powerful legs out in the narrow space.
The firelight from the brazier cast deep, harsh shadows across his face.
It emphasized the stark cut of his cheekbones and the deeply weary droop of his heavy eyelids.
He didn’t look at her immediately, granting her a small measure of desperately needed privacy.
Instead, he reached into a built-in mahogany cabinet beside his knee.
He withdrew a heavy crystal decanter and two squat, expensive glasses.
The amber liquid sloshed heavily against the glass as the carriage swayed around a corner.
He poured a generous measure into one glass, the clink of crystal ringing impossibly loud in the quiet space.
He held it out to her without a word.
Megan stared at it, her hands shaking so badly she knew she would inevitably spill it.
He softly commanded her to take it.
She reached out from the deep folds of the oversized coat, her fingers pale and visibly trembling.
As she took the heavy glass, her cold knuckles brushed against the side of his hand.
His skin was incredibly warm, dry, and rough with thick calluses.
They were absolutely not the soft hands of a gentleman who spent his days casually signing ledgers.
She brought the glass to her lips and took a large, desperate swallow.
The liquor hit the back of her throat exactly like liquid fire.
She choked violently, coughing until her eyes watered, bending forward as the burn scored its way down her esophagus.
It landed like a hot, glowing coal directly in her empty stomach.
Dan didn’t laugh, nor did he even offer a polite smile.
He simply watched her cough while pouring a measure for himself, swallowing it neat without a single flinch.
He informed her it was an Islay malt that tasted like a burning hospital but would raise her core temperature faster than the fire.
Megan wiped her mouth with the back of her wrist, realizing he was entirely correct.
The violent shivering was already beginning to ebb.
It was replaced by a deep, radiating heat expanding slowly in her chest.
The peaty, smoky taste lingered heavily on her tongue, sharp and entirely unfamiliar to her palette.
He abruptly commanded her to give him her foot.
Megan stiffened instantly, pulling her knee closer to her chest in a defensive posture.
He sighed, rubbing the bridge of his nose as if dealing with a particularly stubborn child.
He bluntly stated that she was leaving bloody footprints on his expensive upholstery.
He set his glass aside and leaned forward, the sudden proximity making her pulse jump erratically.
She reluctantly extended her left leg, letting her ruined foot rest cautiously on his knee.
Her foot was an absolute disaster.
The skin was pale blue from the intense cold and streaked with dark mud from the Harrington steps.
The heel of her stocking was soaked entirely through with a fresh bloom of dark red blood.
Dan didn’t recoil in disgust as any other lord would have.
He reached into his trouser pocket and pulled out a pristine, white linen handkerchief.
He took her heel in one hand, his grip firm and entirely clinical.
He completely ignored the filthy mud that instantly transferred to his immaculate palm.
With his other hand, he pressed the folded linen sharply against the ruptured blister.
Megan let out a sharp hiss of pain, her leg jerking instinctively away from the pressure.
He commanded her to stay still, his grip tightening securely around her ankle.
He held it there while the heavy silence in the carriage stretched out.
It was broken only by the steady, rhythmic clop of the horse’s hooves and the soft hiss of the hot coals.
Megan stared at the top of his unruly dark hair, which was catching the amber light of the cabin.
It was a profoundly intimate position, yet entirely stripped of any romantic pretense.
He wasn’t caressing her instep; he was treating a wound with the detached, brutal efficiency of a field medic.
The glaring contradiction of it made her head spin even more than the strong scotch.
The Duke of Westfall was kneeling in the dirt of his own carriage to staunch the bleeding of a common seamstress.
He broke the silence by stating that he preferred to know the name of the woman bleeding in his carriage.
Megan swallowed hard, the urge to invent a slightly better background flaring up and dying instantly.
She knew he would see right through any lie she attempted to construct.
She told him her name was Megan Linley, her voice still raspy from the freezing cold.
He looked up, his gray eyes meeting hers as he weighed the name carefully.
He stated, completely devoid of pity, that she had experienced a thoroughly miserable evening.
A short, incredibly bitter laugh escaped her lips before she could stop it.
She whispered back that he had absolutely no idea.
He tied the blood-spotted handkerchief into a tight, efficient knot around her heel and asked where he was taking her.
She hesitated, dreading the moment he realized exactly how low he had stooped.
She murmured the address of Brenda’s boarding house in Clerkenwell.
He didn’t make a single comment about the poverty-stricken address or ask what she did for a living.
He simply knocked on the wooden panel, barked the directions to his driver, and poured them both another drink.
Absolute silence descended immediately on their small corner of the stable yard.
A groom leading a horse nearby stopped dead in his tracks and stared, his eyes wide with shock.
No one in London dropped things directly at the Duke’s feet.
Dan looked down at the brown paper lying in the dirt.
He didn’t yell at her or call for his men to throw her out into the street.
A slow, terrifyingly calm smirk touched the corner of his scarred mouth.
He called out for his house manager, his voice not raised, but carrying perfectly across the yard.
A frantic-looking man in a severe black suit scurried out of the oak door.
Dan pointed a single leather-gloved finger at the parcel and ordered him to take it to his study.
He took a step closer to Megan, the intense heat coming off his body completely palpable.
He ordered the manager to bring up a pot of black tea and precisely two cups.
Megan hissed that she was absolutely not staying for tea, backing away from his overwhelming presence.
Dan stated quietly that she was indeed staying.
He finally reached out, his large hand wrapping securely around her upper arm.
His grip was entirely unbreakable, yet strangely and surprisingly careful.
He told her that since she had just thrown his coat into the horse manure, she was going to explain her terrible business sense to him in private.
The interior of Westfall House was entirely suffocating, a labyrinth of dark oak paneling and heavy velvet drapes that aggressively blocked the sunlight.
Dan’s study, however, was a chaotic, deeply lived-in sanctuary located at the very back of the massive house.
The walls were lined with books stacked haphazardly, clearly meant for reading and not for display.
The massive mahogany desk was buried completely under architectural blueprints, unsealed letters, and a half-empty crystal decanter.
The room smelled comforting, a mixture of old paper, cold ash from the fireplace, and dark ink.
Dan released her arm the exact moment he closed the heavy door, shutting out the oppressive, dead silence of the mansion.
He walked behind the desk, stripping off his leather gloves and tossing them carelessly onto the blueprints.
He ordered her to sit, gesturing to a worn leather armchair positioned opposite the desk.
Megan remained standing rigidly near the door, her hands clenched into tight fists at her sides.
She stated she had nothing to say to him and had simply returned what was rightfully his.
Dan countered, leaning his palms flat against the desk, that she had returned a symbol of his arrogance.
The deep exhaustion she had seen on the night of the masquerade was back, etching severe lines into his face.
He accused her of displaying a dangerous pride that rivaled his own.
He asked her if she had any idea what it truly cost to buy her specific brand of pride.
She yelled that it cost her nothing because it was the only thing she had left in the world.
He shot back, his gray eyes flashing with real anger, that it cost her meals and coal for her fire.
He pointed out the needle pricks up and down her thumbs and her boots that had been resoled too many times.
He stated she had refused a coat that could have kept her warm simply because she was terrified of being beholden to a man.
Megan yelled that men always collected their debts.
The polite veneer between them shattered completely, leaving only raw, brutal honesty.
She told him Brian had collected his debt by abandoning her the moment she ceased to be convenient.
She told him throwing a coat didn’t buy him the right to analyze her deep misery.
Dan stared at her, no longer looking angry.
He looked exactly like a man who had struck flint for years and had finally found a spark.
He stood up straight, ran a hand through his messy hair, and let out a long, slow breath.
He quietly stated that it was good she didn’t want pity, because he had absolutely none to give her.
A soft knock interrupted them as the house manager entered silently with a silver tray.
He placed the tea carefully on the desk, retrieved the brown parcel from the floor, and vanished completely.
Dan walked around the desk, stopping a few feet from Megan and dominating the small space.
He stated factually that she was a highly skilled seamstress.
He pointed out that the stitching on her ruined emerald monstrosity was structurally flawless, even if the fabric was an insult to the eye.
Megan frowned, completely thrown by his sudden, bizarre shift into professional critique.
He crossed his arms and explained that his late mother was a hoarder of antique tapestries.
He told her the east wing of the tomb was stuffed with thirty years of deteriorating, historically significant textiles.
The roof had leaked the previous winter, and the rot had thoroughly set in.
Megan’s professional curiosity twitched against her will; antique textiles required a forensic understanding of weave and dye.
He stated his manager wanted to burn them, but they were legally entailed and desperately needed restoration.
He stepped closer, stating that the women they hired took one look at the damp, complained about the dust, and quit within a week.
He needed someone who wasn’t afraid of dirt, looking pointedly at her patched dress.
He needed someone who understood exactly how to salvage ruined things and was far too stubborn to ever quit.
Megan stared into his gray eyes, actively looking for the hidden trap in his words.
She asked him defensively why he would choose a boarding house seamstress when he could afford the finest firms in London.
He smiled softly, the cynical edge returning, and told her she was the only woman in ten years who looked at him and saw a brick wall instead of a bank vault.
He walked back to the desk, picked up a heavy brass pen, and scribbled aggressively on a blank piece of parchment.
He slid the paper toward the edge of the desk, forcing her to step forward and look down.
It was a staggering sum written in sharp black ink.
It was enough money to buy Brenda’s boarding house outright and live comfortably for five years.
He stated it was a contract for six months of rigorous work.
She would have a dedicated workshop in the East Wing and would never be a Tuesday woman.
She would be his salvation from a rotting inheritance, and in exchange, she would never freeze in her bed again.
Megan felt the solid floor tilt slightly beneath her feet.
She told him it was absurd and accused him of offering the job out of lingering guilt over the steps.
He flatly denied feeling guilt, stating he only felt utility.
He called it a pragmatic transaction entirely devoid of romance, which should suit her cynical heart perfectly.
Megan looked past his title, past the scuffed boots, and past the harsh scar.
She saw a man deeply exhausted by the masquerade of his own life, offering her a genuine way out of hers.
It wasn’t a fairy tale; it was a brutal, pragmatic bargain struck in a room that smelled of ash.
She reached into the deep pocket of her brown wool dress.
Her fingers brushed against a small, stiff object, and she pulled it out.
She tossed it onto the desk, right on top of the parchment displaying the exorbitant sum.
It was the ruined, muddy left shoe he had kept in the carriage as collateral.
Dan looked down at the shoe, then slowly raised his eyes to meet hers.
A genuine, completely unguarded spark of amusement lit up his pale gray eyes.
It completely transformed his face, shedding the heavy mantle of the dukedom for a fleeting second.
Megan stated her voice completely steady, that she always kept her debts paid.
She told him she would take the job, but required a proper contract signed and witnessed, not a number scribbled on scrap paper.
Dan picked up the muddy shoe, turning it over in his calloused hands.
He murmured that she drove a hard bargain, looking thoroughly entertained rather than insulted.
He told her she would start on Monday, using her given name for the first time.
Megan paused with her hand hovering near the brass doorknob and agreed.
He set the shoe down and casually advised her never to wear emerald green again because it made her look like tragic upholstery.
Megan let out a sharp, genuine laugh that sounded rusty and unused to the air.
She told him to learn to mend his own coats because his tailor was overcharging him for the seams.
She opened the heavy door and stepped out into the dark, oppressive hallway.
The marble busts still looked entirely unamused, and the velvet drapes still stifled the light.
But as Megan walked toward the servants’ exit, the painful limp in her left step felt significantly less pronounced.
The world was still cold, and Clerkenwell was still waiting for her.
But she was no longer walking back into the dark completely empty-handed.
She had a contract, a clear purpose, and the completely terrifying realization that she was looking forward to Monday.
THE END
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Disclaimer
This story is a work of fiction inspired by real events. Names, characters, and details have been altered. Any resemblance is coincidental. The author and publisher disclaim accuracy, liability, and responsibility for interpretations or reliance. If you would like to share your story, please send it to [email protected].
