Viscount Holladay had just addressed her as my lady and referred to her as our favorite agent provocateur.
Lucien had also said that Meg reminded him of her, even though he had never met the lady in question. And then there was that encounter in Calais when he’d told her about the theft of his family’s legendary book . . .
“Why do you suppose the culprit would travel to France?”
“I could ask the same of you, for I cannot reason it out.”
“You’re asking me?”
“I can think of no one more qualified to answer the question.”
As all the pieces of the puzzle clicked into place, Meg felt as if a weight had suddenly dropped in the pit of her stomach.
When Lucien stood, she jerked her basket from his grasp. “You think I’m Lady Avalon, don’t you? That’s the reason you followed me, isn’t it?”
He stared back at her with an inscrutable expression but gave no response.
Even so, it was all the answer she needed. And suddenly, she was rather annoyed at knowing that every chance meeting from Calais to Germany wasn’t because he found her irresistible but because he thought her a thief!
Though, to be fair, she had stolen one recipe. But not all of them! Someone else was to blame for that.
Her chin jutted forward. “And what if I told you that I am not she?”
If he hadn’t been so busy attempting to be affable—which she now realized was likely for the sole purpose of extracting information—then he would have known that already. He would have seen her for who she really was. A woman who, according to almost every other man she’d ever met, was too young to know her own mind.
But no. Not the duke. Instead, he thought she was capable of stealing and of . . . seducing men. Dozens of them.
She swallowed. Her eyes met his in time to see his smoldering glance drop down to her lips. Her very kissed lips.
“Such a declaration would be rather unconvincing at this point,” he said, and she felt a rush of prickling heat sweep over her.
Someone really ought to have warned her about the hazards of imbibing cherry water.
The viscount chuckled. “Shame on you, old chap. You’ve made her blush. And that pink color makes her look quite the innocent lamb, too, certainly not the portrait of a wolf you’ve painted. I think I’m inclined to believe her.”
“Pell,” Lucien growled, breaking his momentary silence.
“All I’m saying is,” he continued, ignoring the glare he was given, “what if you’re wrong?”
The question hovered between them, buzzing like a bumblebee that didn’t know where to land.
Meg saw the way Lucien’s eyes changed, unfocused as if he were running various possibilities through his mind. He was a puzzle-solver, and it was likely impossible for him to let a question go without considering all the answers.
But as Meg watched him, her own scenarios formed.
If Lucien kept to his current thinking, then he would continue to pursue her, all the while suspecting her of stealing from him. But if he was swayed by his cousin’s—and her own—claim that she was not an adventuress, agent provocateur or seductress, then they would leave to search elsewhere for the real Lady Avalon.
Meg would likely never see him again. And any hope she might have of engaging in a holiday flirtation before she ended up on the shelf for the rest of her life would be crushed underfoot like a cherry pit.
She didn’t know why but every part of her, every single burning drop of blood in her body, rejected that possibility. If he stopped believing she was Lady Avalon, that would bring an end to all of this. No more tugs. No more kisses. No more Lucien. And he was the only one who made her feel this way.
The flutter of interest, the stirring of butterflies in her stomach when she had been with Daniel Prescott were nothing compared to this. With Lucien, she was forever feeling as though she might collide with him. Or no, that she needed to collide with him.
Whatever it was, she knew she couldn’t let this end.
So Meg had a decision to make.
You should tell him the truth, said the angel on her shoulder, poking at her conscience with a rather pointy pair of wings.
Or—whispered a figure from the other side, casually twirling a forked tail in the air—you could tell him the truth in a manner that made it impossible to believe.
It wouldn’t be an outright fib, after all. Just a reason for the duke to continue his pursuit. And she would tell him eventually. Just not yet.
“I’m curious as well, Your Grace. What if you are wrong about me?” Meg batted her lashes up at him as she splayed a scandalized hand above her breasts. “Why then, you and I were both just caught in a rather compromising position. I believe my chaperones would expect reparations of some sort. Perhaps even a proposal of marriage.” She shrugged as if the matter were out of her hands and issued an exhausted sigh. “Of course, we couldn’t possibly marry this summer because, well, I’m on holiday, and I intend to enjoy myself.”
The viscount snickered. “I believe that was a direct shot to your manhood, old chap.”
The duke leveled him with another glare, then turned to Meg. The way those river-stone eyes held hers made her pulse quicken.
Her mouth went dry as well. It seemed that he was peering into her soul . . . all the way to the truth. Even though she still felt the burning pressure of his lips against hers, she was far from a seasoned seductress. And she worried that he saw through her facade.
Nervous, she plucked one of the cherries out of the basket and popped it into her mouth. Every bit of it. Which was unfortunate because the stem was still sticking out between her lips part of the way, like a lost worm.
Not wanting to reveal how much of an idiot she was, she took hold of the stem and withdrew it until the fruit was caught between her teeth. Then she plucked it free and swallowed the cherry—stone and all—in a single gulp before dampening her lips.
His gaze missed nothing. And she didn’t know why, but his eyes seemed particularly dark as he growled, “I’m not wrong.”
That low timbre spiraled deep inside her. He sounded so certain that even she believed it.
“Such a shame.” Holladay tsked. “I was so looking forward to seeing you as a bridegroom, cousin. Waiting at the altar. Impatiently calculating the number of footsteps she would take up the aisle.
“As for you,” he said to Meg, his hands clasped beseechingly, “it behooves me to mention that Lucien has an agonizingly determined nature. Once set on a task, he never stops until it is finished. So I beg of you, from the bottom of my heart, please travel somewhere exciting. I mean, after all, this is my holiday, too.”
She laughed. “Then, I shall do my utmost to give you”—she glanced to Lucien—“both of you, an adventure you’ll never forget.”
* * *
Lucien watched her walk away. Without a doubt, she was the most audacious woman he’d ever met. And she had just thrown down a gauntlet at his feet.
“Is that an actual grin on your countenance, cousin?” Pell scoffed. “And here I thought your mouth had been permanently etched into a frown since the age of five.”
Ignoring the jibe, he allowed his admiring gaze to slip from the revolving parasol to the subtle sway of her hips. It took supreme effort not to follow.
He was a rational man, always in complete control of his responses. Yet, for reasons that defied logic, her unexpected kiss had done something to him.