Читать книгу His Mountain Miss - Karen Kirst - Страница 11

Chapter Three

Rounding the curve in the tree-lined lane leading to Charles’s house, Megan was presented with an unobstructed view of the gardens spreading out behind it. Against the backdrop of gray skies, the lush grasses seemed greener than usual, the vibrant flower patches more vivid. Tree branches swayed in the rain-scented breeze.

And there, in the midst of everything, sat the lord of the manor. Eating his breakfast and perusing a newspaper as if he hadn’t a care in the world. And looking entirely too at home, she thought peevishly. He was a worldly-wise gentleman, wealthy beyond belief and accustomed to the conveniences of city life. He didn’t belong in her quaint mountain town.

Determination spurred her across the lawn.

When he noticed her approach, he set aside the paper and stood up, his expression carefully neutral. “To what do I owe the pleasure of this visit, Miss O’Malley?”

His voice, like sweet tea and molasses rolled into one, shouldn’t please her, but it did. His accent was deeper than hers, almost like a song with its French undertones. She wondered what it would sound like if he was actually happy.

She stopped a distance away, the round, white metal table between them. “We don’t stand on formality here. Why don’t you call me Megan?”

“As you wish, Megan. Please, call me Lucian.” His eyes seemed to impossibly darken. He gestured at the food spread out on the table. “Have you eaten? You’re welcome to join me.”

His invitation was born out of politeness, no doubt ingrained from birth. It was clear he didn’t really wish to dine with her.

“No, thank you. I’ve already had breakfast.” If you could call a cup of coffee breakfast. She couldn’t eat when she was nervous.

“Some tea, then?”

“Yes, thank you.”

Coming around to her side, he scooted out the chair for her and poured her tea, stirring in cream and two spoons of sugar.

“You remembered,” she blurted.

“Yes” was all he said as he placed it in front of her.

When he was seated, he rested one arm on the table, the other fisted on his hip in a relaxed position, waiting for her to explain the reason for her visit. His black gaze was too direct, sharp, for her to be at ease. His masculine appeal didn’t help matters.

Smoothing her skirts, she took a calming breath. “I came this morning because I’d like to know what you’ve decided about the house.”

“I haven’t yet.”

“Until you do, are you going to allow the story times to continue?”

“Do I have a choice?” he responded evenly, one dark brow arched.

Megan truly didn’t want to goad him, to argue, so she said nothing. Sipped her tea.

“Tell me, mon chou, why is this so important to you? Reading to other people’s children?” His gaze swept her curls, which she’d again restrained with a single ribbon. “Dressing like a princess?”

“What did you call me?”

Lucian looked startled, as if he’d made a slip. He waved it aside. “Later. For now, I’d like to hear your answer.”

Perhaps Kate knew French and could tell her what he’d said. An heiress from New York City, she must’ve learned other languages.

“Living off the land is hard work. As early as four or five years of age, children begin helping with chores. Depending on each family’s situation, there can be little time for a child to relax and just be a child. In addition to this, many families can’t afford books. Since Charles has a vast collection and ample space, he and I decided the children would benefit from a weekly story time. Not only would it be fun for them, but also educational.” She leaned forward, warming to her topic. “Books expand horizons. They entertain, inspire and enrich lives. I enjoy reading to them. Dressing the part merely adds to the experience.”

“And the strawberry tarts and lemonade? What purpose do they serve?”

She smiled then. “Incentive for them to sit still and listen. Treats are reserved for those children who behave.”

“I see.”

That phrase again. She wanted to shake him.

He was studying her, obviously trying to decide if he believed her. No one had ever doubted her sincerity before. It was not a pleasant feeling.

A raindrop splashed on her arm. Then another. She glanced up at the rain-swollen clouds overhead. “I think we’re in for a shower.”

The drops began to fall harder and faster.

Lucian surged to his feet and, circling the table, took hold of her hand. “Let’s make a run for it!”

“The dishes—”

“Forget them,” he ordered as the clouds opened up, releasing a torrent.

Tugging on her hand, they made a dash for the back porch, surging up the slippery steps to stand, breathless and soaked to the skin, beneath the sheltering roof. The rain pounded the earth in an unrelenting assault. Lucian dropped her hand. His unfathomable gaze met hers. His hair was plastered to his head, his face slick with rainwater. Megan shivered. Her white eyelet blouse clung to her body, as did her robin-egg-blue skirts. Before she could guess at his intentions, he’d shrugged out of his coat and stepped close, settling it across her shoulders and pulling it closed. His heat and exotic cologne enveloped her.

“Th-thank you.”

“Are you warm enough?”

She nodded, suddenly tongue-tied.

Several wet strands clung to her face, and before she could brush them aside, his fingers were there. Warm and featherlight. His fingertips skimming her cheek set off sparks, shimmers of light through her body. Her breath hitched.

What was happening to her?

She didn’t like this arrogant man, his polished manners and jaded view of life.

Thank goodness he moved away so she could breathe again. Resting one hip against the railing, he stared solemnly out at the rain. Without the formal coat, he looked more approachable. The white shirt molded to his athletic build, his biceps straining the thin material where he’d crossed his arms.

Stop staring, she chided herself. His outward appearance may be attractive, but it hid the darkness he held inside. The turmoil she’d glimpsed on his face the few times his control had slipped. Who was he, really? All she’d ever known was that he hadn’t cared enough about a lonely old man to make the journey to see him before he died. That was hard to forgive.

* * *

Lucian’s instincts were normally right. People in his circle tended to be shallow and self-centered, motivated by greed and the lust for power and increased social standing. He trusted no one. Not even his so-called closest friends, for he knew that if not for his wealth and the Beaumont name, they’d be gone in a second. He’d spent a lot of years wishing things were different. Eventually, he’d come to terms with the state of affairs.

Until Dominique. The seemingly innocent, sweet-natured girl had resurrected his hope, his longing for something real and pure. He’d thought she was different from the conniving, scheming vipers trying to win his favor. He was wrong. In fact, she’d turned out to be worse. Much worse. And he’d fallen for her act—hook, line and sinker.

Shoving the humiliation aside, he focused on the blonde beauty beside him. Megan fairly radiated goodness, the depths of her sea-blue eyes clear and honest. Listening to her impassioned speech a moment ago, he could almost believe she truly cared about helping the children of this town. Was it real? Or a clever act designed to lower his guard?

“How did all this come about?” He circled a finger in the air. “With Charles, I mean.”

“It started with a simple invitation to borrow books,” she said as her features softened into a smile of remembrance. “He was a bit reclusive, your grandfather, coming to town only for church services and an occasional visit to the mercantile to catch up on local news. It was there that he overheard me complaining that I’d read everything I could get my hands on more than once, and that I longed for new reading material. He remarked that he had a houseful of books. I was welcome to borrow as many as I liked.

“My first few visits, he left me to my own devices. Then one day, he seemed particularly down. I joined him in the parlor—uninvited, mind you—and we wound up talking for hours. He wanted to be a writer. Did you know that?” Huddled inside his overlarge coat, her pale hair clinging to her skin, she looked small and vulnerable. Sadness tugged at her mouth.

“No, I didn’t.” He forced himself to look away from her, to watch the continuing storm that mirrored the one inside him.

It sounded as if she and Charles had shared a special bond. Of course he hadn’t been privy to his grandfather’s dreams, his likes and dislikes, or anything else remotely personal. He had never even met the man! The spurt of jealousy took him by surprise.

Why should he care? Charles had written his mother and him off years ago. They had ceased to exist in his grandfather’s mind. This will stipulation only served to prove Charles’s dislike, one final thrust of the dagger. It hadn’t been enough to ignore Lucian during his lifetime. He’d had to go and complicate matters with this house, just to underscore his loathing.

“He tried his hand at poetry,” she continued, “and he even penned a couple of short stories. I think it kept the loneliness at bay, if temporarily.”

He chose to ignore the censure in her voice, the unspoken questions.

“Lucian, your grandfather was a good man. He—”

“Stop. I do not wish to discuss him anymore today.”

“But—”

“Megan, don’t.” He shot her a warning glance.

“Fine.” She jutted her chin. “Then how about we address the poetry recital coming up?”

“Poetry recital?”

“You know, when people stand up and recite poetry by rote?”

“I know what it is,” he told her drily. “How many people are we talking about?”

“We average between twenty-five and thirty.”

He sighed. Thirty strangers parading through his house. He didn’t like it. Resented this present circumstance that was beyond his control. As empty as his life in New Orleans had become, it was his home. Comfortable and familiar. Predictable. He knew what to expect from those around him, and they him.

Frustration surged. If not for this young lady, he would’ve already put the house up for sale and been well on his way out of this backwoods town.

“By all means, proceed with your plans as you’ve always done.”

Surprise flickered.

“But let me make myself clear—I plan to do everything possible to find a way around that stipulation.”

She jerked her head back. Anger flashed in her eyes. “Why am I not surprised? You don’t care about the children or the people of this community.” Yanking off his coat, she thrust it at him, and he fumbled to catch it before it fell to the floor. “You care only about yourself—” she poked him in the chest “—what you want and what you need. Well, let me assure you, Mr. Beaumont, I will do everything I can to fight you on this.”

Then, to his shock, she pivoted and dashed out into the rain. Though it had slacked off, the rain was still steady. Did she plan to run the entire way home?

“Megan!” He rushed to the top step. “Wait!”

He wasn’t sure if she heard him or not. She didn’t hesitate, didn’t slow down, just kept going. Across the grass and down the lane, until she disappeared around the bend.

Shoving his hands through his hair, he blew out an aggravated breath. The woman was a danger to his sanity. And control? Hah! She had him so mixed up, he couldn’t tell up from down.

He was beginning to wish he’d never heard of Gatlinburg, Tennessee.