No, no, it wasn’t as if he were a stranger to her, he wasn’t. She’d known he was hers from that day when she was only thirteen years old. So she had forgotten him for five years. He’d probably forgotten her as well.
Now that she thought about it, deeply, she decided that two names had become, overnight, quite distinguished.
She yearned for two names.
It was exactly seven-thirty in the morning, a dreary cold morning, with fat gray rain clouds hanging low overhead. To Meggie, the gray clouds were lovely, the morning was perfect, holding more promise than the day before, more delight than just an hour before.
Yes, it would rain, but not for several hours, that was what Old Hamish had told her. He was the head stable lad, all of sixty years old, gnarly as an old oak and very smart about the weather. Surely she would have Jeremy out of the park, off his horse, and under a lovely romantic shelter before it started raining. All she needed was two hours, maybe less. She was committed; she was focused. She just had to set Jeremy thinking on a straight line, one that led directly to her. She just had to assist him to truly understand why he was really here in London. A distant boom of thunder sounded.
Ah, let it rain, she didn’t care. But her riding habit, her beautiful new hat. No, only Jeremy mattered, and how he would feel when she poured out her heart to him. Not immediately, no, it would surprise him, perhaps make him wary of a girl who professed to have fallen in love with him when she was thirteen. No, she would hold back until the time was right, until he looked at her and simply knew she was his mate.
She looked up to see two people riding toward her. She looked away, lips pursing. Well, blessed hell, she didn’t want two strangers anywhere near her. She just wanted Jeremy, and she wanted him alone. The two horses kept coming straight at her. Meggie cocked her head to one side and looked now, really looked.
It was a man and a woman. The man, who looked like a bloody centaur riding a magnificent black barb, was Jeremy Stanton-Greville. As for the woman, curse her eyes, she was young. She was riding very close to Jeremy.
Meggie felt her heart begin to pound, slow thumping strokes. Her breath suddenly whooshed out when she realized she’d forgotten to breathe. She waited, sitting very still atop Eleanor.
Jeremy waved to her. In just another short moment he and the young woman were directly in front of her, not more than three feet from Eleanor’s nose.
“Meggie,” Jeremy said, riding his horse just a bit closer, extending his hand to take hers briefly, “I am so glad you’re here. I wasn’t sure that you would be here this morning. It’s on the chilly side, you know.”
“Yes,” Meggie said, “I know. I wanted to see you.” But she wasn’t looking at him in that moment, she was staring at the most beautiful young lady she’d ever seen in her life, who had also ridden a big closer. Her glossy black hair was arranged in artful tight curls around her face with the rest of it pulled up atop her head into an Adonis knot. So much black hair, thicker than a female deserved, just barely covered by a clever little riding hat with a curling feather that caressed her white cheek. Ah, and such lovely white skin. She was more beautiful than a woman should be. Meggie wouldn’t be surprised if her bloody name were Helen.
The goddess smiled, a quite lovely smile that reached those incredible blue eyes of hers.
Jeremy said, “Charlotte, I would like you to meet one of my favorite cousins, Meggie Sherbrooke. Meggie, this is Charlotte Beresford, my betrothed.”
Betrothed. In that moment everything in Meggie closed down. She’d heard the term coup de foudre—struck by lightning, to signify falling in love upon first seeing someone. This was a different sort of lightning. This coup de foudre sliced right to her heart and split it apart, shattering it into a million pieces.