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.