It was just after dawn when Lucien stepped onto the lane between the main house and the lodge. The faint golden glow on the horizon cast eerie shadows against the trees on either side.
He’d gone to Meg’s room last night, regardless of the countless reasons he knew he shouldn’t—first and foremost of those being that her brother was home.
But no matter how hard he’d tried, he hadn’t been able to stay away.
He experienced an actual physical ache when he wasn’t near her. Any logical man would assume that it would begin to subside after all the nights they’d spent in each other’s arms. He had thought so, at least.
Instead, the feeling, the craving, the outright need for her intensified until nothing would quiet the restlessness inside him except for the welcome of her warm embrace.
They had both been frantic lovers last night, tumbling onto her bed, clutching each other, rising and arching together as if they were caught in the sand of a giant hourglass, knowing that their time was running out.
There had been so many things he’d wanted to say. And she, too, had looked at him with unspoken emotion in her eyes. But every time it seemed as if the words would simply spill out, she would kiss him, and he would kiss her, and all the words remained locked on their tongues until they were both spent and exhausted and claimed by slumber.
Even after losing himself again and again, it had been impossible to leave her side. But he knew he had to before anyone awakened, especially her bro—
“Merleton!” Hullworth’s voice called out.
Lucien froze. The lodge was in sight. He could make a run for it. But that might appear a trifle too guilty. So instead, after quickly calculating the likelihood that he’d just been caught—ninety-nine and nine-tenths of a percent—he turned around and faced the consequences.
“I was in my study when I saw you pass by my window,” Hullworth said, surprisingly not holding a pistol.
“My apologies,” he said, his throat dry. “I didn’t mean to disturb you.”
“Not at all. I’ve had my share of restless nights wandering the gardens. Sometimes it’s the best thing to clear one’s head. Then again, sometimes a man needs a bit more.”
Lucien swallowed at the way the marquess’s eyes narrowed and his jaw tightened. There was a sixty percent chance he was carrying a dirk in his boot. In a rage, it would take him approximately four, perhaps five, seconds to retrieve said dagger and plunge it into Lucien’s chest.
Hullworth continued. “Like a day of hunting, for example. What say you? Are you game?”
Lucien wondered if he deliberately intended his question to have a double meaning, as if the duke himself would be the game being hunted. And if Hullworth knew all the wicked things Lucien had done to his little sister last night, well . . .
He shifted slightly. “I’d be glad to go out hunting. Regrettably, I didn’t bring any weapons with me.”
“I’ll take care of all that,” Hullworth said and clapped him on the shoulder. Hard. “Your cousin is welcome to join us. Unless you’d rather it was just the two of us.”
Lucien had a brief vision of Hullworth holding a rifling flintlock and accidentally aiming it between his eyes when the groomsmen were distracted by the dogs and fallen waterfowl. Seventy-eight percent chance.
He shook his head. “No. I’ll ensure that Pell joins us. The more the merrier.”
“Excellent. An hour, shall we say? I trust that will give you time enough for you to change out of your evening attire.” He raked a hard gaze down his form, that muscle twitching in his jaw again. “We’ll break our fasts, then ride out.”
Without another word, Hullworth turned on his heel and marched back to the house. And Lucien wasn’t entirely certain if he’d just been caught or if he’d managed to evade detection by one-tenth of a percent.
* * *
By the time he arrived at the main house, Lucien had donned proper attire, dragged his cousin out of bed and reminded himself that he was the Duke of Merleton, a man known to intimidate others by his stare alone.
He would talk to Hullworth, man to man, about his intentions. But first he would need to speak with Meg. She was a grown woman and didn’t need to have decisions made for her.
So with his head held high, he crossed the threshold, even though he still wasn’t sure if he would survive the day. Thankfully, Pell would be along soon, either to bear witness to his murder or become victim number two.
Hullworth was just coming down the main stairs with his son on his hip. So proud, he looked like a man who’d been crowned king. But where was his daughter?
Lucien frowned. He’d noticed last night at dinner, and in the parlor before, that Hullworth only talked about his son. It was as if Guinevere didn’t exist for him.
He’d always thought Hullworth was a good sort. He even admired him. And yet, this was unacceptable.
“Where is Guinevere?”
Hullworth looked perplexed by the question. “In the nursery, last I saw. Why do you ask?”
“Do you not think that she would wish to come down and bid you farewell?”
Lucien’s jaw was tight, shoulders tense. It occurred to him that it wasn’t his place to interfere with family matters, but perhaps someone needed to tell Hullworth that he was being a right solid prig by abandoning that sweet little girl.
The boy wiggled in Hullworth’s arms. “I’ll fetch Gwenny, Papa.”
But no sooner had the boy dropped neatly to the tiled floor than a familiar, mischievous giggle floated down from the top of the stairs.
“The little escape artist has appeared,” Lucien said with a grin, more to himself than to Hullworth.
The marquess laughed. “That’s what Meg calls her, too.”
In the distance, he could hear the nurse calling for her. It only made her scramble down the stairs faster, scooting on her bottom with alarming speed. Lucien crossed the foyer and climbed halfway up before he realized what he’d done: he’d stepped between a father seeing to his own child’s safety.
However, Hullworth hadn’t moved. He was merely watching the proceedings with interest.
Reaching Guinevere, Lucien was prepared to scold her gently for not being careful. But then she smiled at him, her cheeks smeared with some unknown yellowish-orange substance.
“Wooshan!” she called out, lifting her arms, and his breath caught.
He took the remaining stairs on peculiarly unsteady legs and then picked her up.
Below, he heard the boy ask, “What’s a wooshan, Papa?”
“The duke is,” Hullworth answered darkly, and Lucien grinned.
Holding her, he quickly discovered that the mysterious substance was on her hands as well, and now on his lapels. It smelled of apricots, sunshine and little girl.
“What are you doing out of the nursery?” he mock-scolded.
She giggled and then she placed her sticky hands on his cheeks and looked him directly in the eye and whispered, “Papa.”
His heart stopped midbeat, and he felt a sharp pang that he’d never experienced before. He told himself that children likely use words without knowing the meaning. It was up to him to correct her.
But before he could, she bounced forward and pressed her wet apricot mouth to his with a resounding smack and said “Wooshan” again, as if the other word had never been uttered.
Looking up to the landing, he saw Meg standing there. Her hand was splayed over her heart as if she had been stricken by the same peculiar ailment he was suffering. And he realized in that moment what it was.
He wanted one of these little creatures. A dozen of them. And he wanted them with her.
* * *
When Meg saw the look in Lucien’s eyes as he held his daughter, the tender fondness caused such a wealth of yearning in her heart that she almost couldn’t bear it.
She had to tell him. Too much time had elapsed already.
But just when she was going to ask to have a private audience with him, Brandon called up the stairs.
“We’re going hunting, Meg. No need to look so alarmed. I’m sure I’ll come back in one piece. Cannot be too certain about Merleton, though,” he said with a dark chuckle. “Would you mind taking Johnathon back to the nursery with Guinevere?”
Her nephew was already tromping up the stairs as Lucien climbed the rest of the way and deposited Guinevere in her arms.
“She’s a trifle sticky this morning,” he said with the evidence glistening on his face.
She laughed. “Believe me, I’m familiar with this state.”
Without thought, Meg withdrew a handkerchief from her sleeve and pressed it to his cheek before realizing how intimate the gesture was. She moved to withdraw, but he stilled her hand and gazed into her eyes.
“When I return—if I return,” he added with a wry lift of his brows, “I should like to speak with you. In private.”
“I should like to speak with you, as well,” she said with a nod.
His gaze warmed as he took her hand in his and bowed over it. Then he stole her handkerchief from her grasp. “I accept this favor you’ve bestowed on me and will ensure its safe keeping while I am away at battle, my lady.”
His teasing brought out a giggle from their daughter and a quiet gasp from Meg when he turned her wrist and pressed his lips to the pulse that always beat faster for him. Only for him.
“Until then,” he said with a promise before his gaze flicked to a point over her shoulder. “Good morning, sister.”
Meg turned and saw Morgan’s hard stare. But in a blink, it was gone, replaced with a polite grin.
“I think my brother has taken a fancy to you.”
Glancing back over her shoulder, she saw that Lucien was at the bottom of the stairs and out of earshot. “I feel the same about him.”
“He has a bit of a blind spot when it comes to you, I think.”
“What do you mean?” she asked, watching her nephew scamper past on his way back up to the nursery.
“Lucien hasn’t done the math. But I have,” Morgan said with a pointed glance to Guinevere. “And apparently, he doesn’t remember that he had pale blond hair until the age of ten, a towheaded family trait. It was the most peculiar sight to see it change.”
Meg went cold. “I’m going to tell him when he returns.”
“Then, I wish you luck. Lucien isn’t the most forgiving of men. He despised you for two years for stealing that book, remember?”
“But I didn’t.”
She shrugged. “The point I’m trying to make is that you need to tread carefully. If you simply blurt out this news, then it will be as if you’ve slapped him across the face with it.”
Meg considered this. She’d actually been thinking that Lucien would prefer the direct approach. Simply tell him and then apologize for misleading him. After all, she’d seen the tenderness in his expression as he’d looked at Guinevere.
However, Morgan was right. He had hated Meg for two years, believing the worst. And he’d never read the letters, which had likely been destroyed by now. So she had no proof.
And he always needed proof.
“Perhaps you can ask the kitchen to prepare something he might like,” Morgan suggested. “Something that might become his new favorite, and gradually ease into the conversation.”
Until this moment, Meg hadn’t been sure if Lucien’s sister liked her. She was a cold person, but perhaps she’d warmed to her. And her advice sounded precisely like what the aunts might have said.
She smiled. “Thank you, Morgan.”
“Think nothing of it.” Then she flitted her fingers in the air and walked down the hall as Meg went upstairs to the nursery.
On the way there, she remembered the recipe she’d stolen from Caliburn Keep. And written across the top were the words The Duke’s Favorite.
Suddenly, she knew precisely what recipe she would have the cook prepare . . . if Maeve and Myrtle would be able to find it in their collection.
* * *
After cleaning up Guinevere and leaving her with the nurse, Meg found Maeve and Myrtle in the sewing parlor that overlooked the fountain on the south lawn. Situated between their bedchambers, this combination of rooms was now considered their apartments at Crossmoor Abbey. They were family now.
In the future, she would likely have her own apartments when she returned with Lucien and their daughter. At least, once they became a family and moved to Caliburn Keep. Well, if they became a family. Even though her heart was certain of her desires for such a future with him, she still only wanted to marry for the deepest, most endurable love.
Her doubts that she might never have such a life were quickly dissolving away, like sticky jam in warm water.
Lucien loved her. She could think of no other explanation for the way he looked at her and touched her. She was almost sure of it. And that was precisely why she wanted everything to be perfect when he returned.
She entered the parlor, the cheerful room bursting with every color of a spring garden. The bright hues and eternally blooming wallpaper seemed like an extension of the ageless women who occupied this space. They were always in the spring of their lives.
At the moment, however, they were both staring down at a series of small caskets, the lids removed to reveal papers in various sizes and shapes, some folded or crumpled. These were the ill-gotten gains, the infamous pilfered recipes of the Parrish sisters.
Seeing their confused expressions, she asked, “Is something amiss?”
“Maeve asked me to retrieve the cannoli recipe.” Myrtle glanced askance to the doorway and then continued in a whisper. “The one that had us excommunicated from Italy.”
“That isn’t the right word, sister.”
She shrugged. “Nevertheless, when I went to fetch it from this box, it wasn’t in there with all the others from Italy. It was in the Germany box. And some of the France recipes had found their way in there, too. Now they are all in a muddle.”
“Perhaps someone knocked them over by accident and simply put them back to tidy up,” Meg offered, not understanding the reason for their confusion.
“I had thought of that,” Maeve added. “However, the caskets were kept in different drawers. Which means that someone would have been looking through all of them at the same time.”
“But for what purpose? We are all family here.” Even as Meg said the words, she felt a cold shiver down her spine. They were not all family here. “Perhaps the duke, then. He has been given leave to search the house for his book.”
Although, she was under the assumption that he’d given up that pursuit for the most part.
“We had thought of that, too. And we surely wouldn’t have minded admitting that handsome young man with those splendidly broad shoulders into our rooms.” Myrtle waggled her brows.
Maeve shook her head in exasperation. “Then Mrs. Pendergast told us that she saw Lady Morgan’s maid outside our apartments when we were down to breakfast this morning.”
“But Mrs. Pendergast’s eyesight isn’t what it used to be. In fact, we were going to speak with Merleton about spectacles—”
“Which is neither here nor there at the moment,” Maeve added impatiently. “The most puzzling thing of all is that nothing is missing.”
“Just mislaid,” Myrtle said and nodded.
Meg swept a glance around the room and to the disorder of the papers in the caskets. This wasn’t the first she’d heard about that maid, Nina. “It is rather odd. However, a simple explanation is that she was likely looking for thread and thimble to repair one of her mistress’s gowns and was directed to the sewing room.”
The sisters looked at each other with relief.
“Of course, that must be the reason,” Myrtle said.
Maeve nodded and gestured to the cabinet against the wall. “She looked through the drawers. The recipes spilled. And she simply put them back.”
“Speaking of . . .” Hearing footsteps in the corridor, Meg moved closer to the aunts before she continued. “Do you happen to have the England recipes on hand? I’m searching for the one we pilfered from Caliburn Keep.”
“The Duke’s Favorite?” Myrtle said with an excited gasp. “We were hoping you’d come to ask. Are you planning to serve that for a special—”
She fell silent as a figure stepped inside. It was Morgan.
Her green eyes scanned the room. “Good morning. I hope I didn’t interrupt. I was just looking for a thimble. My maid was unable to find one earlier.”
“Of course not,” Meg said with an easy smile. Their mystery was solved without any fuss. “You are welcome anywhere at Crossmoor Abbey. Think of it as your home.”
A pair of dark auburn brows lifted. “That’s quite a generous invitation. I thank you.”
For an instant, a riffle of worry trampled through Meg, wondering if, perhaps, she had revealed too much of her own hopes too soon. But she quickly cast those doubts aside. She knew her own heart, and she knew Lucien’s, too.
Surely, there was no need to worry.