Lucien didn’t want to leave Meg in the company of Daniel Prescott the following day.
Clearly, he was up to something. What other reason could he have had for privately conferring with Sylvia yesterday?
Given his history for deciding Meg’s future for her, he was likely attempting to do the same. Not only that but exactly nine times during dinner last night he had mentioned his plans to return for another visit in a month.
Of course, none of it mattered to Lucien. Meg could look after herself, as she was so fond of reminding him. And yet, after hearing Mr. Prescott drone on and on this morning about receiving an invitation to breakfast at the main house, it took every ounce of Lucien’s control not to do something that would wipe the smug grin off his face.
In the span of a single second, he’d calculated seventeen delay tactics, nine methods of imprisonment and three accidental deaths that Prescott might encounter on the way up the lane to the abbey.
Instead of deploying any of those, however, Lucien had merely grunted a sound of indifference and set off for the stables with Pell.
A short while later, they stopped their mounts on a hill overlooking the countryside. A cooling breeze drifted over the dew-dappled grasses, but the air was already thick and humid. It was going to be another scorching day.
The promise of rain had been lingering for the past few days, with a heaviness in the air and red bands of clouds streaking across the horizon. But instead of lifting, the pressure only seemed to build, much like his foul mood.
“’Tis a fine prospect, I suppose,” Pell said from atop a sorrel mare beside him, “if your course runs to quaint country cottages in honey-colored stone. A trifle too bucolic for my tastes. Fairly screams of leg shackles and a wife, a dozen children and chickens in the stable yard.”
Distracted, Lucien frowned in confusion at the mention of chickens. “What are you talking about?”
“I thought we were searching for a property for you and your lady? One close to her family, since you seem quite protective of them all of a sudden.”
“Simply because I asked you and Morgan not to mention meeting Meg on the Continent is no indication that I am trying to shield her or her family. There are many logical reasons for keeping our previous acquaintance a secret.”
Pell’s tawny brows inched higher. “And those are?”
“First of all—” Lucien stopped. “Any idiot could parse out all the benefits of remaining in good standing as a guest.”
He had pulled them aside shortly after their arrival to mention the need for discretion and pretending that they had met in London years ago, instead. At the time, neither his cousin nor his sister had questioned this decision. He’d thought they simply understood that it was the only way to continue searching for the book. And that, by being cordial, there was a greater likelihood of discovering the information he needed to uncover the identity of the other persons involved in the theft.
The only problem was Lucien wasn’t sure that there was anyone else involved. Not only that, but he was starting to have his doubts that she had anything to do with it either.
There were just little things here and there, snippets of conversations, mentions of her family and upbringing, as well as his own recollections of their tour of the Continent. Nothing that provided irrefutable proof. And yet, compiled, it all made her seem rather . . . innocent.
This altered perspective meant nothing, of course, he told himself. An intelligent man was able to weigh both sides of an argument and entertain many schools of thought without being persuaded one way or the other. Therefore, any misgivings he had about her culpability were merely part of the analytical process.
“So it’s Meg now, is it?” Pell asked. “I’m not certain Mr. Prescott would like to hear that.”
“Mr. Prescott is welcome to apply the fixed, corded braiding of hemp fibers to his cervical vertebrae and descend from a platform at a rapid rate of speed.”
Pell blinked in confusion. Then after a moment, he threw back his head and laughed. “Did you just say that Prescott could go hang himself?”
Lucien wiped his spectacles on his sleeve and carefully resituated them. “I did, indeed.”
“You’re jealous, old chap! Bloody hell, it’s finally happened.”
His cousin’s endless amusement was exhausting, and he rolled his eyes as he waited for it to end. “Are you quite finished? There is no cause for your jocular barking. I am not jealous of Mr. Prescott. I knew of her regard for him from the beginning. You’ve misconstrued my reaction. I’m merely dumbfounded by the fact that she could hold such an idiot in high esteem.”
“You’re in love with her.”
Lucien startled. The horse whickered, shifting restlessly beneath him.
Looking away from his cousin, he leaned forward and rubbed a soothing hand down the stallion’s sleek black neck. “I am not predisposed to unquantifiable romantic sentiment. You should know that by now.”
“Ah. Then, I don’t suppose it would bother you that I overheard him talking to Lady Hullworth about taking a property nearby.” When Lucien’s mount shifted again and pawed the ground, Pell gave him a sideways glance, his mouth curved in a smirk. “Looks like your horse needs a bit more exercise. Care for a race?”
“To the victor, the spoils,” Lucien answered. “First one back to the house wins.”
Then without hesitation, he spurred the stallion, tearing up the earth beneath them.
And during the return ride, he came to one conclusion: he would sooner buy every property in Wiltshire before he would permit Mr. Prescott within a hundred miles of Meg.
* * *
Needing to clear her head after her talk with Daniel, Meg went to the morning room to catch up on her correspondence. She had a heap of letters from friends and family to answer.
Ever since Brandon had married Ellie, Meg had not only gained a sister-in-law but had also been generously welcomed into the fold of her dearest friends. Among those were Winn, Viscountess Hunt; Jane, Viscountess Northcott; and Prue, the Marchioness of Savage, each of them strong, capable women who knew their own minds and precisely what they wanted out of life.
Meg envied that. At one time, she had also shared that sense of certainty but learned that it was pointless if only one party desired a future together.
And now? Well, she was more conflicted than ever.
Woolgathering over a blank page, she heard the heavy thundering of hooves, fast approaching. Looking out the window toward the stable yard, she saw that it was Lucien, apparently returning from a morning ride.
The black stallion’s barreled lungs expanded, his coat glossy from sweat, and he shook his mane in a way that Meg knew he was content after a good ride. Dismounting, Lucien patted him fondly.
Then Viscount Holladay rode up. Stopping his mare, he pointed crossly and said something that made Lucien laugh. She felt her own cheeks lift in a smile.
Somewhere along the way, he’d lost his hat, his hair tousled. The sight of it made her fingers tingle and curl around the pen in her grasp. She entertained the brief fantasy of what it would be like to ride with him, racing hard and fast across the countryside, and return to the stables, disheveled and perspiring, her hands reaching up to set him back to rights . . .
“Have you seen my brother, Miss Parrish?”
Meg startled away from her ruminations and glanced over her shoulder. “Oh, good morning, Lady Morgan.”
“Forgive me, I meant to say Miss Stredwick, of course,” she said, misunderstanding the reason for Meg’s guilty surprise. “Such a fun little charade we’re having.”
Her green eyes glinted like a cat who’d spotted an opening in the aviary and planned to eat every finch in sight.
“I appreciate that you didn’t mention where we’d actually met,” Meg said.
“Think nothing of it.” She flitted her fingers as she sauntered into the room, giving the bric-a-brac on the tables a cursory perusal. “Although, I do wonder at the reason for such secrecy. Surely, the Dowager Lady Hullworth knew that you were bound to make acquaintances abroad. One might even think she would be thrilled to have a niece who’d spent so much time in the company of a duke. Unless, of course, it was because of all those days and weeks spent with my brother . . .”
As the words hung in the air, Meg’s heart lurched. Her stomach churned as she thought about Guinevere and how her own gargantuan secret seemed to be teetering on the head of a pin.
“. . . that you now regret the association,” Morgan continued after a weighted pause. Then she pursed her lips. “And here I was so looking forward to becoming your friend.”
Meg expelled a sigh of relief, her fear of discovery abated for the moment. But she knew it was only a matter of time. She would have to tell Lucien soon, whatever the consequences might be.
“There is nothing to prevent us from becoming friends. I do not regret the association at all. It’s only that”—she swallowed, hating all these lies upon lies—“I don’t want my aunt to have any grand notions that there is anything between the duke and me.”
Lady Morgan nodded. “Ah. Likely for the best. My brother has other interests that keep him far too absorbed to even consider marriage. It’s reassuring to know that you have such a good head on your shoulders for one so young.”
“Thank you, my lady. You are too kind.” Meg smiled politely or hoped she was smiling and not sneering from that verbal pat on the head. “I believe you’ll find your brother in the stable yard.”
Morgan hesitated at the door as if she planned to say something else, and Meg held her breath. But then Bryony came in.
“Beg pardon, my lady,” she said with a curtsy. “Your maid sent me, asking me to remind you that it’s time for your tonic.”
Lady Morgan did not glance to the clock but merely smiled in that way she had, with her lips curling slightly at the corners. Without a word to Bryony, she turned back to Meg. “I’m so looking forward to knowing more about you. Much more.”
As Meg watched her leave, she felt a chill slither down her spine. That sounded almost like a threat, rather than a promise of friendship. But she pushed the notion aside.
Morgan’s footsteps receded down the hall, and Bryony came closer. “Forgive me for saying so, miss, but I don’t like her one bit. And I don’t trust that maid of hers either. Caught her coming out of the housekeeper’s office last night. But she said she’d gotten turned around and thought that was the way to the stairs.”
“The duke mentioned that his sister had been gravely ill. Perhaps she was merely looking through our medicines to see what would make her mistress more comfortable,” Meg offered, trying to put aside her own misgivings.
“No guest should go poking about whenever it strikes their fancy,” Bryony grumbled. “I just don’t like it.”
Meg laid a hand on her maid’s shoulder, admiring her fierce loyalty. “I’ll speak to the housekeeper to ensure that everything is in order. In the meantime, we’ll simply have to make the best of it. I suspect they’ll be gone soon enough. After all, there aren’t many rooms of the house left to search.”
The thought brought an ache to her breast.
Bryony seemed to read it in her expression and gently asked, “And how will you fare when your duke is gone?”
She was about to correct her maid and tell her that Lucien wasn’t hers. But instead, she merely shrugged. “Just like I did before.”
Left alone with her thoughts, Meg sat at the desk and tried to finish her letters, but she couldn’t concentrate.
It had happened again. All those old feelings she’d once had were returning, multiplying by ten and flooding inside her like a dam about to break.
And, just like before, she was keeping a monumental secret from him.
She had to tell him about Guinevere. She wanted to tell him. After coming to know him better and seeing the way he was with his daughter, she was no longer afraid that he would try to take her away. He was not a cruel man.
But what Meg feared most was that he would come to hate her again.
She couldn’t risk it. Not now. Not when everything was still too new and raw between them.
Oh, if only he’d read all those letters she’d sent, then she wouldn’t be in this current predicament.
With a troubled growl, she gave up her writing and locked the unfinished letters in the desk.
Thinking of her daughter—the wonderfully unanticipated consequence of falling in love on holiday—she went up to the nursery.
But Guinevere wasn’t having a good morning either. In fact, she was behaving rather rambunctiously when her mother arrived.
The petulant cherub sat at the little table in the corner, with a cup of milky tea, a bowl of porridge, a piece of toast and a pot of jam. Or rather, what was left of the pot of jam. The rest of it was everywhere—on her face, in her hair, on her pinafore, across the floor and on the nurse.
“Guinevere,” Meg tsked, shaking her head. “What have you done?”
The nurse stood up from the floor, where she was wiping up one of the sticky splatters. “My apologies, mistress. I don’t know what’s gotten into her today. She keeps asking for something called a wooshan, but I don’t know what that is.”
“No. Woo-shan,” Guinevere clarified testily, her brow puckering above the bridge of her nose.
Understanding, Meg felt her cheeks heat. Clearly, she’d been speaking too familiarly with Lucien, and now her daughter was using his given name, too.
Reaching for the bellpull, she said, “I think I might. We’ll just send down to the kitchens for some hot water. In the meantime, you may freshen up. I have her.”
As the nurse left, Meg gathered her sticky daughter in her arms. “Sweetheart, you cannot go about throwing jam every time you don’t get your own way. That isn’t how a lady behaves. Especially not over a man.”
Holding her on her hip, she walked to the window where there was a clear view of the bachelor’s lodge. Her daughter took her face in her little jammy hands and pointed out the window. “Wooshan.”
Meg kissed her upturned nose and smoothed away the wisps of pale hair from her forehead. “After your bath and your nap, we’ll put on your best dress and visit Lucien. Would you like that?”
Guinevere nodded and yawned, supplying a clear view of the white protrusion just beneath her gums.
And when the nurse returned to take the child, Meg said, “I think that new tooth is ready to come in. She always becomes a little inconsolable when that happens.”
“That must be it,” the nurse agreed, and there was no more talk about Lucien. “I’ll just get her cleaned up. And . . . you might wish to do the same, mistress. Or else you’re going to have cherry-stained cheeks all day.”
Meg touched her sticky face. “Good heavens. Well, at least it isn’t porridge in my hair again. Who knew learning to use a spoon would turn into such a disaster?”
Smiling, she left the room, but as she descended the stairs her heart felt heavy again.
She wished there was something she could throw around the room until she had everything she wanted. And she wished things were different between her and Lucien. Wished that they could have had a life together because whenever she was with him . . . it just felt so right. So certain.
If only he felt the same.
Lost in her thoughts, she ended up at the gallery railing that overlooked the foyer instead of having turned toward her bedchamber. And she didn’t pay any attention to the figure charging up the stairs until he was almost upon her.
She startled at Lucien, his face strained with concern. “Whatever is the matter?”
“Who hurt you?” he demanded as he bounded the last three treads to reach her.
Meg was so dumbfounded by the fierceness in his voice, his breathing short and erratic, eyes wild as if he were planning to rip her supposed assailant apart with his bare hands, that she didn’t remember the episode in the nursery. Not until he cupped her face . . . and his brow furrowed in confusion.
“It’s only jam,” she said. “And it’s your fault.”
He peeled his hands away from her cheeks and sniffed the residue. “Why are you covered in cherry jam? And, more importantly, how is it my fault?”
“Guinevere was actually asking for you—or for Wooshan, rather. But the nurse didn’t understand. So the little imp took out her frustrations on the table, the floor, the walls . . .”
She stopped when he smiled broadly at her.
Her heart stopped, too.
“Wooshan, is it?” He reached into his pocket, likely for a handkerchief, but came up empty-handed. The man never carried a handkerchief. Though, it didn’t appear to alter his good humor. “And does she ever misbehave when she wants to see Mr. Prescott?”
Meg set her hands on her hips. “No. She didn’t care a whit when Mr. Prescott left this morning to return to his estate up north.”
Lucien’s smile remained. And it was a little too arrogant as far as she was concerned.
“And why are you so happy, Merleton? Surely, you don’t imagine it had something to do with your peevish display yesterday. You didn’t scare him off, if that’s what you’re thinking. However, you did give him every indication that there was something between us, when you and I know better.”
“Do we know better?”
“The book is not between us. I’ve told you before that I don’t have it.”
She huffed in exasperation and marched back across the hall, leaving him behind as she made for her bedchamber.
But he followed. He was at her side in a few strides, his hand reaching out to stay her. “I wasn’t speaking of the book.”
Then he turned her, his eyes smoky and dark.
She knew that look. It did terrible things to her. And right then, it sent a tug deep inside her and weakened her knees.
But she held firm and stood her ground. “Don’t think you can simply kiss me again because of what happened in the attic.”
“No?”
“No.” Her gaze slipped to his mouth, and she swallowed. “I want more than that.”
His lips curved. “How much more? Which way is your bedchamber?”
“There. At the end of the hall.” She gestured, then lowered her hand and shook her head. “I wasn’t talking about that when I said more.”
“Don’t you think about it, our night together?”
All the time, she thought. “Never crosses my mind.”
He crowded closer, his smirk calling her a liar as he reached up to tuck a curl behind her ear. “I do. All. The. Time.”
Her breath stuttered. She could feel her resolve weaken, feel her hands begin to lift, her lips grow plump and tingle with longing. But she stopped herself.
She wanted more than his kiss.
She needed to be the only one he thought of. She needed him to acknowledge that there was another reason he was there.
Putting her hands against his chest to keep him from getting any closer, she said, “Is that so? Tell me how long it was before you found yourself in another woman’s bed? A week? A month?”
“I cannot answer that without being able to divine the future.”
She was ready to shove away until she absorbed what he said. Then she blinked, staring at him blankly. “Are you saying that you haven’t been with . . . anyone?” She shook her head at once. “I don’t believe it. Unless . . . was it so terrible with me?”
Given the fact that she’d had no other experience in her life, she wasn’t going to be too hard on herself, whatever his answer was. Although, as far as she could recall, they’d both enjoyed themselves immensely. Not half bad for a first time out of the gate.
“Merlin’s teeth. What have you done to me? I just said divine the future as if such a thing were possible. I really am going mad. Ever since you entered my life, I’ve been plagued by this all-consuming, undefinable . . . something. It’s relentless, hounding me, wearing me down until I’ve become a stranger to myself.” His hand gripped her nape, his forehead against hers. “And to answer your question, I haven’t been with another woman because . . . damn it all . . . because none of them were you.”
Then he kissed her. There, in the hallway, in a wash of morning light, where anyone might happen upon them.
She wasn’t sure which one of them came to this realization first, but when they broke apart, they both looked around. Thankfully, there were no servants about, and her aunt was likely in the garden.
“We cannot do that again. We’re going to be cau—”
She broke off on a gasp as he suddenly swooped down, gathered her in the cradle of his arms, and began to stride to the end of the hall. It was on the tip of her tongue to ask him where he was taking her, but she knew the answer.
Instead of arguing or fighting against it, she slid her arms around his neck and said, “Hurry.”