Meg wanted to trust Lady Morgan’s advice, but waiting for the book theft to simply “sort itself out” seemed like it could take far too long. And there wasn’t much time left of her holiday. Besides, holding fast to the secret that had been weighing on her heart might do more harm than good. So, when Lucien had escorted her to her rooms, she’d decided to take a chance and tell him the truth the following day.
Unfortunately, during their tour of the vineyard with the aunts, her nerves—and the wine—got the better of her. In the end, she’d fallen asleep in the carriage on the way back to the hotel and then slept in her rooms through dinner as well.
The day after that, she garnered her courage once more.
They took a rowboat on the lake while the aunts watched from beneath their parasols on the shore. Drifting along, alone with Lucien, would have been the perfect time to tell him everything. But when they were nearly halfway across the vast lake, a boy sailing a small skiff was caught unawares by a gust of wind. He toppled into the cold water, flailing and crying out.
Meg and Lucien were still a distance away. Yet, without hesitation, he stripped off his coat and spectacles and plunged over the side. Taking up the oars, she paddled behind as he quickly closed the distance with precise, powerful strokes. When they reached the capsized boat, however, the boy was nowhere in sight.
Lucien dove under the water.
Then everything went eerily calm. There were no more shouts from the shore, no gulls screeching overhead. It was as though they were all holding their collective breaths as the seconds ticked by, turning into minutes. And still . . . nothing.
Her lungs burned with the need to breathe, and she took in a raw gulp of air. But it only filled her with panic because she knew he wasn’t breathing.
Gripping the sides of the hull, her fingertips dug into splinters of dried white paint as she searched for any sign of them. They had to break the surface soon or else . . .
No. She couldn’t finish that thought. It was unbearable.
Nevertheless, her mind conjured a vision of her life without him, of the years passing without his hand to help her down from the carriage. Without his dark eyes to stare at her through smeared lenses that she would clean. Without the thunderous feel of his heart beating against her own. Without that disapproving mouth she so liked to kiss. Without . . .
The overwhelming emptiness of such a future brought her to the undeniable realization that she had fallen in love with him. Not the butterfly-tender, innocent love she had felt for Daniel. That had been a child’s fancy. She knew that now.
But this? This was everything. An entire universe of feeling—burning comets, imploding stars, the crush of continents colliding, rising, breaking apart to form something new.
The notion that the Fates might have put him in her path had been one thing, but knowing it with soul-deep certainty was another altogether. He was her soul’s counterpart.
And she was still in the boat, staring at the calm surface of the lake? No! She could not—would not—lose him.
Frantically, she began to unbutton her spencer, fully intending to go into the water. She’d swum the river at Crossmoor Abbey, after all, so she knew she was a strong—
Just then, she heard a great splash. A heaving intake of air. A rough cough. And there, beyond the hull of the sinking skiff, Lucien breached the water. The boy, hacking and sputtering, was tucked securely against his chest.
She cried out in happy relief, her cheeks wet with tears as she fumbled for the oars and rowed over to where they were treading.
Taking fistfuls of the boy’s sodden coat, she helped drag him into the rowboat. Then she leaned to one side as Lucien levered himself over the other, chest laboring beneath his plastered waistcoat. His shirtsleeves were transparent over the sculpted definition of his shoulders and arms, and a thick hank of dripping hair fell in a tapered rope down the center of his forehead.
After catching his breath and scrubbing the water from his face, he grabbed the offered spectacles. Then he took in Meg’s appearance—her hat torn from her head, hair tumbling from its pins, her spencer wrapped around the boy’s shoulders.
He gave her a hard look. “Do not tell me that you were planning to go in.”
“Fine,” she said with an offhand shrug as she swiped her fingertips over her damp cheeks. “I won’t tell you.”
Slipping a handkerchief from her sleeve, she held it out for him. And he took hold of it, seizing her hand as well.
Something fierce and tender passed between them as his gaze held hers. She could feel the moment her heart started beating again. It happened the instant that the pulse at his wrist thumped, strong and steady, beneath the pads of her fingertips.
He gripped her in return, his fingers like an iron shackle around her wrist. “Meg, you realize that the weight of your skirts would have taken you—”
She laughed. She couldn’t seem to help it. A sudden dizzying swell of giddiness overcame her at the sight of his stern frown that tried ever so hard to mask the concern and warmth in his gaze. He’d worn a similar look when they’d stood on the mountaintop and she’d goaded him into revealing how he felt about her. “If I didn’t know better, I might begin to think that your wayward affection has now surpassed seventy-five percent and is still climbing.”
He released her, but only after his hand gently squeezed hers and the corner of his mouth twitched. “Surely not.”
Then he took up the oars and rowed them to shore.
Meg should have told him the truth then. However, after enduring such a harrowing experience, she couldn’t bring herself to tell him about her deception.
She’d had a taste of what losing him would feel like, and she couldn’t risk it.
* * *
As the days passed, however, she became conflicted.
At first, the sweetness of hot afternoon strolls along the lake—the air ripe with budding fruits, and evening walks beneath shadowed hillsides of olive trees, among gardens bursting with a fragrant bouquet of acacia, lupine and vining clematis—seemed to last forever.
But before she knew it, a handful of days had turned into a sennight.
Her holiday was nearing an end. They would depart for Venice tomorrow, and far too soon they would begin their trek back to England, where she would become the adventureless Margaret Stredwick once again.
Meg knew she had to tell him the truth. He deserved to know. After all, a woman didn’t keep secrets from the man she loved.
He likely wouldn’t believe her, just as he hadn’t believed her from the beginning. But she was going to explain why she’d pretended in the first place and knew that his logical mind would put the rest of the pieces together.
Doubtless, he would be cross with her. Perhaps even angry for leading him astray. But she hoped he would forgive her when she told him that she loved him.
Her heart squeezed with uncertainty as she lifted her gaze to the man on her arm as they walked the narrow, winding streets. Behind his lenses, those river-stone eyes crinkled at the corners as he smiled, reaching out to tuck a wayward lock of hair behind her ear.
“I imagine that Pell will become quite querulous when he learns that he missed the festivities. I’ve never seen so much wine.”
She laughed softly, knowing it was the truth. “Perhaps you should purchase a few bottles to soften the blow when you tell him.”
The viscount and Lady Morgan had gone to stay with a distant cousin at a villa across the lake a few days ago. But Meg hadn’t minded because, instead of spending time with Lucien’s sister, cousin and the aunts, a smaller party was far more intimate.
They had dined together every evening and lingered over sweet Italian wines and robust coffees until it was nearly dawn. She found it harder and harder to say good-night and wondered if he felt the same.
“I shall do precisely that as I gloat endlessly,” he said, that solitary dimple flashing.
When he stepped away to head into one of the shops, the aunts exchanged a look and then crowded close to Meg. From their beaming countenances, she was afraid they were going to hint at marriage, remarking on the duke’s attentiveness and obvious enjoyment of her company as they had been doing for the past sennight.
But Maeve surprised her when she leaned in to whisper, “Be a dear and make an excuse to have the duke escort you away for a short time. My sister and I must retrieve something of vital importance.”
“Yes, my dear,” Myrtle interjected with a muffled clap of her gloved hands. “The cannoli were simply too divine. And we cannot leave Italy without that recipe.”
“Regrettably, we have encountered an exceeding degree of protectiveness over recipes in this country. It is quite irksome,” Maeve added. “But we are determined to take this one home with us.”
Meg blushed. Earlier this evening, she’d overheard a conversation about the scandalous history of the decadent cream-filled dessert. Apparently, the pastry had first been created as a concubine’s tribute to her emir’s manhood and was said to give brides a better chance of conceiving.
On any other day, she would have found the information both amusing and interesting. From what she’d seen of statues and paintings, a man’s member didn’t resemble the sweet confection at all.
But the reason it still made her blush was because she’d been standing with the duke at the time . . . And he’d chosen that precise moment to look at her while she was in the middle of taking her first—not altogether delicate—bite, her mouth full of flaky pastry and decadent cream.
He’d looked away at once, seemingly embarrassed for her, because swift color climbed to his cheeks, and his throat tightened when he swallowed.
Recalling the moment, Meg decided not to share the history with the aunts. Besides, she’d been looking for a chance to spend a few moments alone with him.
“I’ll mention that shop on the corner,” she said, glancing down the lane.
There was a nervous churning in her stomach as she hoped to find the courage to tell him the truth and face whatever his response would be.
“Splendid,” Myrtle said, and then she gasped and covered her mouth with her hand.
There was a sound of glass breaking, and Maeve’s brows lifted. “Oh, dear.”
Meg turned and saw the duke. He’d been splashed with wine by an apologetic, though inebriated, man who was enjoying the festivities to the fullest.
As the man tottered on by, Meg and the aunts went to Lucien at once, each of them with handkerchief in hand.
Chagrined, he shook his head. “It would be best if I returned to my rooms for a fresh set of clothes. But I won’t be long.”
“Of course,” Myrtle offered with an understanding nod. Then her eyes brightened with animation. “But if it wouldn’t be too much trouble, would you mind escorting Meg with you? Maeve was just complaining about having forgotten her shawl, and she suffers from such chills in these gray years.”
Maeve cleared her throat. The glance she slid to her sister promised retribution at a later date. “Indeed. It is quite a cool evening.”
“Then, perhaps we should all return,” Lucien offered.
“No, no. That won’t be necessary. We’ll simply sit at that table over there and warm ourselves with a nice cup of tea. You two young people can do all the walking for us.”
He inclined his head, then proffered his arm to Meg.
During the stroll back to the hotel, she was quiet, musing over the perfect way to explain everything to Lucien.
By the time they reached the lobby and the soles of her slippers met with the terra-cotta tiles of the floor, she decided that she would begin by returning the recipe that she’d stolen that first day. It was important that he knew she hadn’t meant to deceive him in the beginning. It just sort of . . . happened.
She hoped he would understand.
At the top of the stairs, they parted ways to sort out their own errands.
When she entered her room, she began searching through the trunks that were already packed for their journey. But as she delved to the bottom of her own, she found an unfamiliar green shawl. Believing that it belonged to one of the aunts, she decided to take it with her when she and Lucien returned to the village. Yet, when she went to lift it from the bottom, she discovered it was wrapped around something rather heavy.
Curious, Meg picked up the large, rectangular object and set it on her lap, unwrapping the layers of woven emerald silk that surrounded it. Then she gasped when she saw what was inside.
A bejeweled book, weathered and timeworn, with gilt-edged pages.
She stared at it in disbelief. The book! It had to be Lucien’s book. But how . . . ?
Surely, the aunts wouldn’t have taken it. Surely, they knew how important it was to Lucien. And yet there it was.
This wasn’t just a book of recipes that belonged in his family. It was his history and the very thing his parents had died protecting.
What had she done? By pretending to be Lady Avalon and asking the aunts to play a part in the charade, they’d had no idea what it meant to him, or that this wasn’t all a lark. A mere holiday flirtation.
Oh, this was all her fault. She shook her head in despair, her vision blurring as tears collected in her eyes. Now that the book was in her possession, she knew that he would never believe she hadn’t played an integral part in this grand scheme from the beginning.
She buried her face in her hands. If she revealed the whole truth, then Lucien would hate her. Yet, if she didn’t, she would hate herself.