Lucien was just handing me down from the table. This is how it’s done on the Continent.
Um . . . no. She’d never believe that.
Then, perhaps, if Meg incorporated a bit of truth: You see, there was this hatbox, and I stumbled toward the table, and at the very last moment, Lucien was kind enough to . . . slip his hand beneath my skirts to ensure that I was unharmed . . .
No. That wouldn’t do either.
He was saving me from a spider?
Erection? What erection?
Nervous, Meg licked her lips and saw his gaze darken. His hand twitched, fingers shifting, flexing inside her. Her breath fractured in response, and he silently quieted her with a kiss against her lips.
But the contact only made her body more eager, her walls issuing an encouraging squeeze. And even though she couldn’t think of a single excuse to prepare for the possibility of discovery, she still couldn’t force herself to stop.
“Very well. I shall look for her there,” Sylvia replied, and Meg’s shoulders sagged with relief. “However, if you should see her first, please inform her that she has a guest. A Mr. Daniel Prescott. I’m sure she’ll wish to be forewarned.”
As the footsteps retreated, so did Lucien. And from his suddenly stony gaze, she felt as if she’d been doused in cold water.
Slipping down from the table on unsteady legs, she attempted to put her clothes in order. Of course, there was nothing she could do with the torn sleeve. Her hair was in complete disarray, her skin flushed. Disheveled as she was, she likely looked like she’d been in a battle with a wild animal.
She noted that he hadn’t bothered to turn away but faced her with his arms crossed, his expression unfoundedly suspicious.
“What?” she asked, seating a hairpin in place. “It isn’t as if I’ve invited him.”
“I thought he lived in Upper Canada.”
“Well, apparently, he’s back in England,” she rifled back with equal terseness. After all, he wasn’t the only one leaving this room unfulfilled.
In response, he growled and snatched his coat in his fist before he tromped down the stairs.
Well, if he wanted to be in a snit, perhaps she would have to give him a reason.
With one last shake of her wrinkled skirts and hopeless flick of her floppy sleeve, she stormed downstairs, too.
Drat you, Daniel Prescott, she thought on a huff. Why were you never around when I needed you, but suddenly here when I do not?
Chapter 27
A bitter pill to swallow
Lucien wasn’t about to walk all the way to Stredwick Lodge for a fresh change of clothes before meeting the infamous Daniel Prescott. The man was a veritable legend, according to Meg. So he donned his coat, straightened his sleeves, jerked at the hem of his waistcoat, then went directly to introduce himself to this paragon who’d first captured Meg’s fancy.
“How good of you to come down to meet our guest,” Sylvia said when he stepped into the parlor. “Lucien, this is Mr. Prescott, an old family friend of Brandon and Meg’s. And Daniel, this is the Duke of Merleton, who is staying at Stredwick Lodge for a time.”
That was his introduction? Lucien thought he deserved more than being essentially labeled a tenant. A squatter. Considering his activities a few minutes ago, he should be addressed as an intimate family friend at the very least.
Nevertheless, he inclined his head to the younger man. Prescott sketched a bow in return, offering a prolonged view of the top of his head, his hair the color of camel dung, seemingly tousled with pomade to resemble a bird’s nest.
At a glance, he knew this man was the dramatic type who likely spent hours every day waxing poetic and filling the room with pretty words without ever really having anything to say.
And Meg had lost her heart to him?
“By the by, Lucien,” Sylvia said, sidling up to him, “did you happen to see my niece, after all? She wasn’t in the kitchens. One of the scullery maids was sure she’d gone to the attic.”
Ah, the attic. The mere mention of it made his pulse quicken. “I believe she is in her rooms, freshening up for her unexpected guest.”
Sylvia stared at him for a moment as if bemused by his crisp articulation of the last five syllables. Briefly, he wondered if he should repeat himself. Perhaps add the word unwelcome to the mix?
But then she smiled. “Yes, of course. I’ll just run and see if she requires my assistance. Gentlemen, I’ll leave you to become better acquainted.”
Lucien moved deeper into the room but remained standing near the settee, which had a closer proximity to the door.
Prescott also remained on his feet, the nest listing with curiosity. “Lady Hullworth didn’t mention how you know the family.”
“I went to school with her son. And I’ve known Hullworth for a number of years as well.”
“Then, you are not acquainted with Miss Stredwick.”
“I am, actually,” he said simply. Quite well, in fact.
“Strange, I never heard her mention you. Must be a recent acquaintance, then.”
Lucien offered a patient smile. “She mentioned you, however.”
Prescott’s eyes brightened. “Did she?”
“Weren’t you the man who jilted her?” He watched with a degree of satisfaction as those eyes dimmed.
“I suppose you could say that. But her brother and I were of the same opinion—that she was simply too young to know her own mind. We thought it best that she should have a Season or two to understand more of the world.”
“And what were her thoughts on the matter?”
Prescott blinked. “I’m afraid I don’t catch your meaning.”
“Correct me if I’m wrong”—which, of course, he wasn’t—“but wasn’t it her future the two of you were deciding?”
“I suppose it might be misconstrued in such a way. But we had her best interests in mind. And she hadn’t yet lived. Not really. Nearly her entire life had been spent beneath this roof, and before that in a small parish up north at her father’s estate, which was near my own. You might say we’ve always been part of the same family.”
Lucien pursed his lips thoughtfully. “Hmm . . . I don’t believe that one who lives on a neighboring estate is the correct definition for family. One must be related either by blood or marriage. And I believe you married someone else, didn’t you?”
“Well, yes. However, my intention had always been to wait for her.”
Lucien knew a good deal about waiting and craving.
Yet, as far as he was concerned, running off to marry the first woman to come along was neither of those things. If Meg had meant anything to this man, he would have been too consumed with desire for her to want anyone else.
“Intentions, I find, are a man’s greatest weakness if he cannot rise to the challenge of fulfilling them,” Lucien said.
Prescott didn’t seem to know how to respond to that. He opened his mouth, then closed it several times. But then his eyes cleared, brightening again as he looked toward the archway and smiled broadly.
Lucien didn’t need to follow the gaze to know that it was Meg. He felt his skin react, covering in gooseflesh, tightening over his skeleton.
He turned to greet her . . . only to have her sweep right by him as she bustled into the room with a happy “Daniel!” on her lips.