No.
She made to run. “Excuse me,” she whispered to the gasps of consternation, “excuse me,” as her bag bumped against skirts and knees. But her gown was too narrow for running, and her luggage heavy like a boulder, tearing at her arm. Lucian was by her side in a heartbeat. “Allow me,” he said tightly.
She veered to the left. “Let me be.”
He snatched the bag from her hand. Her feet kept walking of their own volition. She’d go regardless; she would go without her belongings … Lucian looped his arm through hers; feeling his muscular body against hers was a shock, and she moved blindly for a beat. He was not exerting any force. It then registered; his grip was light, light enough to dare her to break free. But she didn’t. She didn’t. He leashed the raw strength of an ox behind his measured hold, and the people around them … their disapproving faces, their shocked exclamations … the visions of that kept her compliant. Her ears were hot, and angry tears needled her eyes.
“Let me go,” she managed. Lucian guided her straight past the entrance to platform number seven. Dread exploded in her chest. “Let go,” she said, frantic now, “let go, you … miserable brute.”
His lips pressed into a line, and his quiet anger flared around his form, dark like shadows. Farther and farther he maneuvered her away from her platform, and she followed; she was allowing him to drag her to her demise in the middle of a crowd, amid the screams of whistles and blaring announcements …
“Mademoiselle.” An older gentleman with a tall hat and thin mustache was strolling alongside them, his tone jovial. “Mademoiselle, puis-je vous aider?”
May I assist you?
They had attracted attention. Mortification stung her cheeks, and she knew not where to look. Lucian glanced at the man over her head. “Don’t bother my wife.”
“Ah, matters of the heart, oui?” The Frenchman gave a knowing little laugh. “Mes condoléances, monsieur—les rousses viennent de l’enfer.”
A whole barrage of French reproofs jumbled through her mind at that, but the gentleman had already faded back into the surrounding hustle and bustle. She glanced up at Lucian’s stony face and decided to beg. “Please—I’m missing my train.”
“Your train’s right there,” he said, and turned onto platform number eleven. A Great Northern train was ready on the tracks and belching plumes of thick black smoke. She moved through the wafting soot in frozen silence—was he abducting her? Sending her to a remote estate? Bedlam?
“Where are you taking me?” It came out as a croak.
He nodded at a young man in station staff uniform while he pulled her up the coach stairs. “To Scotland,” he said. Vaguely, she registered the plush splendor of a private railcar. Lucian guided her to the table booth next to a window. “Have a seat.”
Dumbfounded, she plopped down on the bench. “Scotland,” she repeated when he took his seat across from her. “But your departure was tomorrow.”
“That used to be the plan,” he said. “I decided to reschedule.”
She glared at him in disbelief. “Did you lie in wait, to see whether I was leaving? And had the train readied just in case?” When he was silent, she cried, “What sort of madman does such a thing?”
His elbows came down on the table as he leaned in. “What sort of madwoman travels to Europe on her own with nothing but a handbag?”
Europe—how did he know?
A whistle screeched, and a shudder went through the train.
She shot to her feet. “You cannot just abduct me.”
He scoffed. “It’s travel for business, not an abduction. And we need it.”
“We?”
“Our marriage needs it.”
“What?” She felt so wholly unmarried to the scowling creature looking up at her, his words triggered genuine confusion.
Lucian fixed her with a dark eye. “We’re married,” he said. “You don’t like it, because you’re angry with me, but you running away won’t change a thing. We need to … we need to mend it. So. Sit down.”
She remained standing. “Mend it,” she repeated, feeling dizzy. “Mend it—Mr. Blackstone, this is entirely unmendable.”
“I hadn’t taken you for someone who gives up this easily,” came his cool retort.
How dare he. And yet. She had allowed it. She had allowed him to put her onto this train, for fear of causing a scene. A tide of self-loathing made her cringe. She whipped back her veil. “Perhaps,” she said, increasingly reckless with emotion, “perhaps I simply don’t consider our farce of a marriage worth the effort.”