No, he did not like this feeling at all.
Chapter 24
When life gives you lemons . . .
“That man is like a bad penny,” Meg grumbled to herself as she stood in the upper gallery, looking down on the foyer as the duke crossed the threshold.
“Oh?” Aunt Sylvia said, startling her as she sauntered up to the railing. “I thought for certain there was something between the two of you. The air fairly crackled when you entered the parlor last evening.”
“How odd. I didn’t notice a thing.”
“And I’ve never heard anyone challenge Lucien the way you did. Many people find his keen intellect and brooding austerity intimidating. Coupled with the fact that he rarely mingles in society, it prevents him from being at ease enough to reveal the more agreeable aspects of his nature.”
“Are you certain he has any?”
Aunt Sylvia smiled and offered a wave when the duke glanced up and spotted them, inclining his head in turn. “He seemed to last night. I think he was quite taken by you.”
Meg felt the uncontrolled quickening of her pulse when his gaze fixed on her. But remembering the sole reason he was here, she turned away.
“I pray you are not hopeful on that account. He has made it amply clear that his interest is in finding his lost book and nothing more. And for that, I am glad,” she said, needing to put a stop to any matchmaking ideas. “Once he realizes that what he came to find isn’t here, he will think nothing of walking away without a backward glance. As for me, he could leave this very day and never return, and I would be grateful.”
“Is that truly how you feel?” her aunt asked with a puzzled frown.
Meg swallowed, then nodded. She’d lain awake most of the night, thinking about their encounter and everything he’d said, every impassioned reason behind his search for the book. And she’d felt her heart soften a little more.
She was afraid that the foolish organ had not learned its hard lesson well enough and was at risk of breaking all over again if she let him get too close.
“The sooner he leaves Crossmoor Abbey,” she said, “the better.”
Sylvia sighed. “Then, I wish I hadn’t already written to your brother to tell him of our esteemed guest, along with Lady Morgan and Lord Holladay, who will be joining us in a few days. Especially if the duke will likely be gone before Brandon, Ellie and little Johnathon return.”
Meg hid the alarm that sprinted through her. Brandon and Lucien beneath the same roof? No. Sometimes her brother could be too perceptive for his own good.
“And, of course, Lucien would wish to pay his respects to Maeve and Myrtle, too,” her aunt continued. “Though, I have to wonder when he might have met them, as he’d mentioned last night. As we are all aware, the Parrish sisters take great pride in knowing about every bachelor in England. And to share an acquaintance with a duke? Well, I’m rather shocked that they never attempted to introduce you to him.”
Then again, Aunt Sylvia could be a bit too perceptive, too.
Meg carefully schooled her features.
All it would take was one random slipup to reveal that she or the aunts had met him on holiday. Then her family would know that he was Guinevere’s father. Brandon would say something to Lucien. And there was no telling what he would do.
He hated Meg. No matter what she told him to the contrary, he believed that she’d stolen his book, fleeing with it that night in Italy. Once he learned that he was Guinevere’s father, he would have the means to truly hurt her—either by taking Guinevere away or by forcing a union between himself and the woman he despised.
Then she would be the first Stredwick in a loveless marriage, and she refused to do that to her family legacy. No, she would rather not marry at all and raise Guinevere alone, if she had to, than marry without love.
“Perhaps they know that I cannot tolerate brooding and condescending men who are far too tall and wear a constant disapproving frown,” Meg offered with a shrug. Then she clasped Sylvia’s hand with warm affection. “But that is neither here nor there because the duke will be gone soon. Therefore, I shall write to Brandon myself and inform him that there is no need to shorten his stay on this account. I have the matter well in hand.”
* * *
Lucien stepped into the library, surprised to find Meg at a writing desk in front of one of the windows that overlooked the gardens.
She lifted her head at the sound of his footfall but did not look over her shoulder. She simply said, “I suspected you’d wish to start in here, Your Grace. And I’ll be happy to direct you to my father’s collection in a moment. I’m just finishing a letter to my brother.”
“Telling him to stay away from the abbey for as long as possible?”
The curve of her cheek lifted. “How did you guess?”
“I know how you think.”
Her cheek fell, and she expelled a hard breath. “Clearly not, or we wouldn’t be here, would we?”
As he walked farther into the room, he watched as the morning light fell across her face, the line of her throat, the graceful sweep of her arm beneath a willow-green flounced sleeve. And he wondered where they might be if he did know all her secret thoughts. With her in irons and him at Caliburn Keep, the recipes still locked in the vault? Or perhaps still together in that room in Italy, where he would have known her plan to run away and decided to lock the door and hide the key instead?
A hard fist clenched in his gut as that idea took shape.
But musing over impossible things would only drive a man to madness. He’d been on the precipice before because of her; he wasn’t going down that path again.
After sanding her letter, she folded it carefully and dripped the wax to press the seal. Then she surprised him by showing him the neatly penned address. “Just in case you don’t believe I’m actually writing to my brother.”
His mouth twitched as she sauntered toward the bellpull. A long line of pearl buttons down her back undulated with the sway of her hips, as if the wolf were playfully wagging her tail.
“I think I’ll like this new arrangement,” he said, “where I know precisely what you are doing every minute of the day.”
“Shall I tell you what I ate for breakfast?”
Seeing her bat her lashes, then roll her eyes, he felt compelled to accept her challenge. “Tell me.”
“A scandalous amount of coddled eggs and a jam tart.”
“Cherry?”
She gave him an arched look, then coolly said, “Lemon.”
“Liar,” he said. “The lodge had tarts this morning, too. Cherry. I had one myself. The cook even told me they were your favorite.”
Her nose twitched, and she huffed. “Fine. It was a cherry tart. Does that please you?”
He considered the question for a moment. Knowing that she lied because the mention of cherries likely reminded her of their first kiss in the German market, he decided, “Indeed, it does.”
He hadn’t been able to look at a cherry for the past two years without thinking about her. It only seemed fair that she endured the same torment.
When the maid appeared in the doorway, Meg handed her the letter. “And if you could also send a tea tray, filled with every available cherry tart. I should like to throw them all at the duke.”