He’d had Guinevere’s rapt attention. And Meg’s, too.
She’d found herself drawing closer, her hand resting over the back of the chair, her fingertips tingling with the need to smooth back the hank of hair that had fallen carelessly over his forehead.
Thankfully, the nurse had arrived just in time to put Guinevere down for her nap, saving Meg from accidentally giving in to temptation.
But before her daughter had left, she’d held up her doll for Lucien to kiss. And he had, without a moment’s hesitation, bussing loudly enough to make Guinevere giggle.
And now, in addition to remembering how good it had felt to be with him in the past, Meg was starting to have visions of what a future might be like. And that, she knew, would never happen because she refused to risk her heart again.
If only that organ would cooperate.
“My brother isn’t taking a holiday. He is helping the aunts ready their house to be let. Even though Crossmoor Abbey has been their primary residence since before my nephew was born, they hadn’t officially decided to move in until this summer, and much to the dismay of their caretaker. The crotchety Mr. Bagdemus did not take the news well. In fact, rumor has it that he began telling people that they up and died. Isn’t that simply dreadful? Well, I suppose he felt abandoned, the old dear. And it’s clear that he’d grown quite fond of them . . .”
She realized she was rambling when Lucien’s expression turned focused and assessing, in the way that it did when something just occurred to him. Not knowing what that might have been, she glanced at the portrait again.
But when her eyes drifted to the bronze placard on the wall, engraved with Brandon, Ellie and Johnathon’s names and titles—along with a very telling date!—she jolted with alarm. And just in case Lucien hadn’t noticed it, she stepped in front of the placard.
“As for Guinevere, I don’t think she was born yet,” she lied, quickly scratching her nose before she gestured to the waiting corridor. “And that was the gallery. I imagine you are eager to return to the lodge and prepare for the arrival of your cousin and sister tomorrow.”
“Hullworth should have a new portrait painted with his entire family,” Lucien said, pausing in the doorway, his brow notched with three vertical lines. “And your portrait should be beside his, along with your future husband and child, of course.”
Her heart pinched. “I’ve told you before, my family only marries for the deepest, most enduring love. Every person in these portraits was certain beyond a shadow of a doubt that they were spending their lives with their soul’s counterparts. And I will settle for nothing less.”
“In other words, because your Daniel Prescott,” he emphasized with a noticeable sneer, “was an idiot, you’re choosing to spend the rest of your life alone?”
The ire, which had failed to ignite just a moment ago, suddenly flared.
“I don’t see that it’s any concern of yours.”
He took a step toward her, his large form eclipsing the sconcelight. His eyes were volcanic, all simmering pupils behind those lenses. “Then, tell me, ma petite louve, who does the princess think of when she looks up at the stars and smells ripe figs and wine grapes in the air?”
“Not you, that’s for certain.” Her nose itched.
“Liar,” he said, his breath brushing her lips as he lifted a hand and tenderly tucked a stray tendril behind her ear.
She made a strangled sound, curling her fingers into her palms to keep herself from reaching out for him. Drat that man for having a slight smudge on his glasses, compelling her to rise on her toes, lean against him to take them off and . . .
The effort to keep still made her tremble. But she held firm. “Would the truth change anything between us?”
He studied her intently for a moment—eyes, lips, flushed cheeks—and she could see him calculating every possibility, every outcome.
“No,” he said at last. “There would still be something between us. I fear that fact will always remain unchanged.”
She had a sense that he was talking about something far more intimate than the book, and the way he looked at her caused her womb to clench, her knees quaking with longing.
But in the end, he dropped his hand, turned and walked away. And she told herself that it was the best outcome for both of them.
Chapter 26
Just desserts
The following morning, Lucien was in a foul temper, unable to resolve the conflicts warring within him.
Trust her—don’t trust her.
Leave—don’t leave.
Search for the book elsewhere—stay here with her.
These opposing schools of thought were threatening to rip him in half.
If that wasn’t bad enough, there was something else wrong with him, too. He felt sluggish and muddled whenever he was in the bachelor’s quarters. But as soon as his steps crossed the threshold of the main house, his senses became alert and keen. Almost painfully so. Colors were too bright. Aromas too potent. And when he was alone in one of the rooms he was searching, he would swear that he could hear Meg moving around in the nursery, even when there were several floors between them.
It was utter madness.
After all, why should he have cared that Meg’s portrait wasn’t hanging in the gallery? Why should he have felt a sudden flare of anger at the mention of Daniel Prescott?
Lucien knew Prescott was no longer in her life. He’d investigated the man two years ago and discovered that he was cousin to the Earl of Edgemont, a peer who’d never indicated a desire for power or political gain or whatever else the person who’d stolen the recipes might have wanted. Then Lucien’s investigator tracked Mr. Prescott to Upper Canada, where Meg had said he’d gone. By all appearances, their relationship had been just as she’d said, and it had nothing to do with the book.
So then why did Lucien want to murder the man for breaking her heart? Or was it the fact that he’d stolen her heart in the first place that bothered him more?
He growled as he strode up the lane, his hessians kicking up dust along the way. He hated this constant battle. It was far worse than a failed experiment. At least then he had detailed notes to decipher what had gone wrong.
His path led him to the stables where he came each morning. In his current mood, he decided that a much longer ride for exercise was in order. He was always plagued by the sensation that something was familiar to him. Logically, he knew that couldn’t be the case so he shrugged it off.
Today, however, he suddenly understood why. He looked at the stablemaster and recognized him, though he couldn’t recall from where or when. It could have been any number of places over the years. Even at Caliburn Keep.
Lucien’s suspicions sparked, and he decided to have his driver make a few discreet inquiries into this man’s history.
In the meantime, he needed to expend as much tension as possible. He and Meg were performing a search of the attic later, and he knew from previous experience that resisting her in a confined space was nearly impossible.
* * *
It was stifling in the attic that afternoon, and Meg was having a difficult time keeping on task.
Her chemise and pink muslin were constantly clinging, much like his shirtsleeves. She tried not to stare at him without his coat. But with his sleeves rolled up to the elbow, it was impossible not to watch the movement of those corded forearms that had first taken her fancy.