But he settled for the scone and inclined his head. “Is this an olive branch, then?”
“Hardly.” She sniffed, and there was an unmistakable flash of ire in the eyes shaded beneath the brim of her bonnet. But before she turned to walk away, she hesitated and gestured with the tip of her parasol toward the sky. “Were you growling at that cloud just now?”
“No. Merely a displeasing correspondence.”
“Ah. Well, just so you know, if it does rain, I fully intend to blame you for ruining our outing.”
The corner of his mouth twitched at her peevish response. “That is a cumulus cloud. Unless there is an atmospheric shift that causes it to grow vertically into a cumulonimbus, we’ll have a suitably dry tour of the river.”
Taking a bite of the scone, he glanced down the deck of the steamer where Pell was holding court beneath a striped awning with Maeve and Myrtle Parrish. Then his gaze returned to Meg, surprised by the flash of her dimples.
“Why are you smiling at me?” he asked, narrowing his eyes before he glanced at the half-eaten pastry in his hand. He swallowed thickly. “Is this poisoned?”
She pressed her lips together, considering. “Not this time. I’d prefer to make you suffer in other ways.”
“Then, why the smile just now?”
“No reason.” She shrugged and turned to face the water. “I just like hearing you talk.”
Damn. He hated when she said things like that. It made it difficult to remember she was his adversary.
She’s a wolf in sheep’s clothing, he reminded himself. He would not be fooled into believing otherwise. And yet . . .
There were moments when he’d caught himself thinking of her as more—as a woman who kept him guessing. Who challenged him at every turn. Who intrigued him beyond reason. And who was simply Meg.
But he couldn’t afford those thoughts. He needed to keep a distance between them. A separation. A necessary barrier. This was about his legacy, after all. It wasn’t a game. Not for him.
Without glancing his way, she remarked, “You haven’t taken another bite. Does that mean you suspect me of disguising my true purpose, the way you did last night when you pretended an interest in me?”
“I did calculate the likelihood of a sprinkling of arsenic. I’m sure there’s some rat poison on this boat you might have procured.”
She huffed and reached over to break off a piece. Around a mouthful, she said, “There. Satisfied?”
“Not necessarily. Such a small quantity of that poison would do little harm. Though, you likely know that already,” he said merely to goad her. And when she moved as if to steal the rest, he stuffed the scone into his mouth.
A moment later, after he swallowed, he offered quietly, “There was no pretense on my part last evening. But I refuse to be led by my baser impulses.”
She stared up at him for a moment, then issued a nod. Though, whether or not she was mollified or challenged by his confession remained to be seen.
Suspicious of her current objective, he frowned at the dainty lace-gloved hand on the rail beside his.
She lifted it to brush an errant tendril from her cheek, then set it back down, a fraction closer this time. “It must be difficult to be a man of reason when your family legacy demands faith in what cannot be quantified.”
“You have no idea,” he said darkly as her little finger slid against his as if by accident, before she moved seven-eighths of an inch away. But that did not stop the tingles left behind. “From the moment I was able to put thought to reason, I wanted to solve the riddle. To make sense of it.”
“I understand completely.” Her gaze followed the dubious lift of his brows. “No, it’s true. You’re not the only one who was brought up beneath a cloud of myth. I have been struggling to make sense of mine for a while now. You see, my family has a long history of love matches brought together by fate. Legend has it that we will know, beyond a shadow of a doubt, when we meet our soul’s counterpart. It has been the same for generations with grandparents, parents, aunts and uncles, even with my brother.”
He scoffed. “Fated love is a fanciful notion.”
“Is that so? Well, it is my understanding that you are searching for a collection of recipes that hold legendary powers. And yet you think my family myth is fanciful?”
“Point taken,” he conceded with a nod, albeit with extreme skepticism.
Noticing a wedge of sunlight fall just above her expertly fitted bodice, he realized her parasol was too insufficient to shield her pale skin in their current position. So he proffered his arm in a silent invitation to take a turn about the deck.
His intention was for her to be beneath the awning, which she was. He did not intend, however, for his awareness to shift to the supple warm curve of the side of her breast, the aimless back and forth stroke of her fingertips against his sleeve, and the escalation of his own pulse.
He swallowed. “And has the myth held true for you?”
“I’d thought so for a time, but . . .” She shook her head. “Perhaps I was too taken in by the stories my father would tell me and too eager for the rest of my life to begin.”
At another mention of her father—the same man who’d studied the Arthurian legends—Lucien considered her closely and came straight to the point. “Is he the man you are working for?”
“My father?”
“Aye,” he said. “You are far too clever and beautiful to have decided on this life you’re leading. And I cannot imagine a father approving of it, unless he is the man you’re working for.”
She looked away as if to study the pair of chaises longues tucked in the shadows beneath the overhang. “My father was a country gentleman. A simple man who valued his family above all else. He often told stories. His favorites were of King Arthur, but mine were the ones he told about my mother. It made me feel as if I knew her.”
Then both of her parents were gone, too, he thought.
“How old were you?” he asked, all the while knowing that it had nothing to do with his primary objective. But seeing her gaze turn distant, the blue of her eyes so somber that it created a peculiar stirring of panic inside him, he had to say something.
“Four,” she answered and left it at that, which he understood.
Even though there had been no one to tell stories of his mother after she died, he knew that some memories were better left alone. That was the reason he buried himself in his work.
“As for your other question,” she continued, “I’m not certain if my father would have approved of my choices. He would have wanted me to marry and build a family of my own.”
“Why didn’t you?”
She exhaled resignedly. “Two words—or a name, rather. Daniel Prescott.”
“Ah. So he is the man you’re working for.”
“Is that all you ever think about? No, don’t answer,” she said tightly, rolling her eyes. “He was the man I was going to marry. Until he . . . decided to marry someone else.”
She slipped her arm from his and went to the railing again.
Lucien followed, a keen sense of irritation abrading his skin where she was no longer touching him. He wondered if it would cease with her hand on his arm again. But even as the thought traveled through his mind, he dismissed it. The irritation was nothing more than the concentration of heat reacting to the starch in the linen.