Читать книгу His Mountain Miss - Karen Kirst - Страница 12

Chapter Four

Lucian couldn’t in good conscience allow Megan to leave without some sort of protection from the elements. Ignoring the fact he was dripping water all over the floors, he went inside in search of his umbrella. Seizing one propped against the wall, he tossed his coat on the hall table and hurried back out into the rain. There, at the end of the lane, was a flash of white and blue.

As he sprinted across the sprawling lawn, bits of mud splashed up on to his boots. His pristine, clean-as-a-whistle boots. And since, in his haste, he hadn’t bothered opening the umbrella, his vest and shirt were now soaked. He ground his teeth together. If the woman had an ounce of sense...

Drawing closer, he noticed she’d slowed, her head bent and shoulders hunched. Her heavy skirts impeded her progress. His annoyance evaporated at once, and he was glad he’d followed her.

“Megan, wait!”

She ignored him. Still angry, obviously. The woman certainly had spunk. She didn’t fawn all over him like the young socialites in his circle, which he found refreshing. It was growing tougher to stomach their batting eyelashes, coquettish smiles and honeyed words. Their thinly veiled attempts to garner his favor.

Megan, at least, gave the appearance of being straightforward with him.

Opening the umbrella, he caught her upper arm and moved to bring them both beneath its cover.

“What are you doing?” she demanded, eyes still smoldering and chin lifted in defiance.

She was strikingly beautiful, even more so when angry. With his finger, he outlined her chin, dislodging the water droplets. “Has anyone ever told you that you have a stubborn chin?”

Her lips parted. “Actually, you’re the first.”

Lucian dropped his hand. He really needed to stop touching her. He wasn’t what one would consider an affectionate man. In fact, Dominique had complained at his lack of attention. Accused him of being an ice sculpture. He’d shrugged off her comments.

So why would he be any different with Megan? Why did he feel compelled to connect with her every time she was near?

Releasing her arm, he offered her the umbrella handle. “Take this. It doesn’t look like the rain will let up anytime soon.”

Her pale brows rose. “You followed me in order to give me this?”

His smile was grim. “Despite popular opinion, I’m not completely unfeeling.”

“I—” She paused, her brow furrowed. “Thank you.”

When she shivered, he pressed the handle into her hand. “You should go. Too much longer in this weather, and you’ll become ill. Good day, mon chou.”

He pivoted on his heel before he touched her again or made another inane remark about her person. Not smart, Beaumont. As the cool rain slid over his skin, he reminded himself of his purpose. He couldn’t allow Megan to distract him, or worse, trick him into giving her control of the house.

As soon as he got out of these wet clothes, he was going to sit down and draft a letter to his lawyer. One way or another, he would find a way to rid himself of Charles’s house and all the emotional baggage that went with it.

* * *

Friday afternoon, Jane handed Megan the basket of tea cakes. “Are you sure you don’t want me to come with you? What if he’s hateful?”

Megan touched the red silk jacquard scarf tied about her head. It was a bit too snug, but she didn’t want to take it off. The kids would enjoy her pirate costume. She could only imagine what Lucian’s reaction might be. “Lucian can be difficult, that’s for sure, but he isn’t hateful.”

Infuriating, yes. And bewildering. The man made it practically impossible to stay mad at him! Scooping up the umbrella he’d loaned her, she recalled their exchange and how his nearness, the intensity of his black eyes, made rational thought impossible.

“Would you mind opening the door for me?”

Clearly not convinced, Jane complied. “When will we get to meet him? Do you think he’ll come to church on Sunday?”

“Oh, I hope he does.” Nicole looked up from her latest sewing project, violet eyes shining. “From the way you described him, Megan, he sounds like a dream. Just think, a wealthy aristocrat in our midst. All the way from Louisiana!”

Megan couldn’t help but smile at her younger sister’s enthusiasm. Nicole was enamored with the idea of big-city life. As soon as she had enough money saved, she planned to open up a clothing boutique in the city of her choice.

Not Megan. She loved East Tennessee, the mountains and streams and forests. The peace and quiet, the fresh air and space to roam. To daydream. She couldn’t imagine being content anywhere else.

She hesitated in the open doorway. “How about I ask him outright whether he plans to or not? That way your minds will be at ease.” And hers, as well.

“Yes, do!” Nicole urged.

“Only if he’s in an agreeable mood,” Jane cautioned.

Lucian, agreeable? She didn’t expect him to be, not with her and the children invading his territory. I can handle whatever he dishes out. I have to. For the kids and the town.

“I’ll see you both later.” She turned and headed out into the late-afternoon sunshine, soaking in the hum of life all about her. Birds chirping. Squirrels darting up and down the trees on either side of the lane. The breeze swelling through the tree canopy far above her head. Ah, spring. Her favorite time of year. If only it could last forever.

If only Charles was still here. Waiting for her and the children with eager anticipation, his weathered face smoothing into a welcoming smile, the loneliness in his eyes fading for the short time they were there. It was highly unlikely that Lucian would welcome them. If anything, he would take himself off to another part of the house in order to avoid their presence. That was fine by her. Why wouldn’t it be? She didn’t care one way or another.

However, standing on his front porch a quarter of an hour later face-to-face with the man, she realized that was a lie. Lucian Beaumont was not the sort of man who inspired indifference. Quite the opposite, in fact. The strong emotions he invoked within her were foreign to her experience. Sure, her sisters and cousins sometimes irritated her, but they’d never made her furious enough to want to punch something. And yes, she was naturally curious, but she’d never been driven to discover the inner workings of a person’s mind. And never, ever had she felt this crazy, inexplicable, overwhelming attraction to a man.

Well, you’re just going to have to control yourself, because he is not hero material. Far from it.

“Here’s your umbrella.” She thrust it at him, uncharacteristically flustered.

He, on the other hand, appeared coolly poised in a deep blue cutaway coat and vest, a brilliant sapphire tiepin nestled in the folds of his snowy white cravat. Black pants and his Hessians completed the ensemble. Way too formal for the occasion and even for the town, but she supposed that was the way he was accustomed to dressing in New Orleans. And he pulled it off beautifully, she had to admit. Masculine and formal. In control.

Except for the hair. There was no taming those luxurious, dark brown waves that insisted on falling forward to rest on his forehead.

“Merci.” He stepped back to allow her entrance, his intense gaze sweeping her scooped-neck white blouse, full black skirts and wide black belt that accentuated her waist. “Where’s your eye patch and wooden leg?”

“Isn’t this enough?” She pivoted in the entryway and indicated her scarf.

After looping the umbrella on the coat stand behind him, he settled his hands on his hips and appraised her appearance. “You need an eye patch. The wooden leg, not so much, but definitely some gold jewelry—loot from the legion of ships you’ve besieged.” Amusement shone in the depths of his eyes.

Was he teasing her? Her palms began to sweat. “I’m, uh, fresh out of gold. Sorry.”

“That’s too bad.” He tipped his head towards the basket dangling from her fingers. “May I take that for you?”

“No, thank you.” She tightened her grip. She didn’t want him to discover the tea cakes now and forbid the children to have them. Better to wait until the book had been read to pass them out. He wouldn’t be around to intervene.

“As you wish.” The amusement faded, replaced with a subtle knowing.

His open scrutiny unleashed a flurry of butterflies in her middle. “I always come half an hour early to set up the chairs and get my books in order. May I?”

“By all means.” He motioned for her to precede him into the parlor on their left. Megan stopped just inside the room.

“I took the liberty of arranging the chairs for you.”

“Oh.”

“This is the way it was set up last week.” He stood close beside her, his exotic scent stirring the air. “Did you prefer it done another way?”

“This is fine. I—”

“Well, hello there, Miss Megan.” Mrs. Calhoun entered the parlor bearing a tray of delicate-looking pastries and fresh strawberries. “Doesn’t this look delectable? I was all prepared to make a batch of sugar cookies when Mr. Lucian suggested I do something special. I’m so glad he did. The children will enjoy these.”

Mouth hanging open, Megan’s gaze followed the older woman’s movements. Lucian suggested? But—

Mrs. Calhoun spotted her basket and pointed. “Oh, what do you have there? More goodies?”

“Y-yes.” She avoided looking at Lucian. “My sister and I baked tea cakes.”

“That’s wonderful,” she said, bustling over to take it from Megan, “they’ll go fast.” To Lucian, she said, “That Jane O’Malley has a way with food. Her twin, too. Whenever there’s a church social, folks flock to the table to try and snag a sampling of their desserts. There’s never enough to go around, though.”

When they were alone once more, Megan finally looked at him. Spread her hands wide. “I don’t understand. Why are you being so...agreeable?”

Folding his arms across his wide chest, the corners of his mouth turned down. “Just because I don’t happen to like the situation I find myself in doesn’t mean I should make things difficult for you. What did you expect I would do? Blockade the door?”

“No, not that.” She shook her head. “But neither did I think you would help me.”

His dark brows winged up. “My grandfather didn’t?”

“He was too feeble to do any heavy lifting,” she said defensively. “As to the other preparations, he left everything to me and Mrs. Calhoun. Which was fine by me,” she rushed to add.

Dropping his arms to his sides, Lucian’s expression turned pensive. “I must inform you that I’ve written my lawyer asking him to find a way around the stipulation.”

She wasn’t surprised. Still, disappointment spiraled through her, as did a prick of anxiety. “I doubt he’ll be successful.”

But what if he somehow found a way? A loophole of some sort?

“We’ll have to wait and see, won’t we?” His gaze flicked to the window behind her. “For now, it appears you have an early arrival.”

Turning, she spotted Ollie Stevenson trudging up the lane, gesturing and talking to himself. She suppressed a mischievous smile. “Would you care to greet him? I have to retrieve my book from the library.”

“Me?” He followed on her heels. “How about I go and get Mrs. Calhoun?” A slight undercurrent of anxiety wove through his words.

With a dismissive gesture, she shot over her shoulder, “She’s busy getting the drinks. Don’t worry, Ollie doesn’t bite. Not often, anyway.”

Leaving him behind, she heard him mutter something about her enjoying this. A thrill lightened her step. Upsetting Lucian’s reserve could become addictive. Good thing he couldn’t see the wide grin splitting her face.

* * *

Lucian had initially intended to secrete himself in Charles’s study for the duration of the evening. Those plans changed. Megan knew children made him uncomfortable and yet she’d purposefully left him to face the unpredictable creatures alone. Well, two could play at that game.

One arm propped against the mantel, he couldn’t stop a satisfied smile as he recalled her dumbfounded reaction to his announcement that he’d be sticking around to observe story time. If her frequent, darting glances his direction were any indication, his presence made her nervous. Good. Served her right.

Ollie, the precocious, persistent seven-year-old whose earlier stream of chatter had given Lucian a headache, kept raising his hand despite Megan’s calm assurances that there’d be time to ask questions later. He had to hand it to her, the woman had a seemingly endless supply of patience. And she was an adept storyteller. Her lilting, musical voice pulled one into the adventure, her enthusiasm transferring itself to the audience.

Watching her, Lucian’s gaze was naturally drawn to her white-blond hair. Rays of waning sunlight slanted through the window to glisten in the loose curls, and his fingers itched to bury themselves in the silken mass. Careful, Beaumont. She’s as pretty as a picture, for sure, but you’ve no idea what lies beneath the surface. Remember Dominique.

How could he ever forget? She’d convinced him of her sincere affection, had even claimed to love him, while all along she’d been biding her time. Holding out for the true prize—his father. Why settle for the son of a shipping magnate when she could have the man with all the power?

His chest seized up, and he absentmindedly rubbed a flat palm over his heart in an effort to soothe away the discomfort. The smothering sensation had started not long after his mother’s death a year ago. Had worsened a few months later with Dominique’s trickery. Being in this house didn’t help. There was no escaping his grandfather’s indifference and worse, the constant reminders of his mother and the fact she was lost to him forever.

When he glanced up and caught Megan looking at him with concern creasing her brow, he dropped his hand. There was nothing to worry about. At least, that was the family physician’s conclusion, who’d declared Lucian fit as a fiddle. Mentioned something about anxiety and getting more rest. Right. Lucian wasn’t one to sit around. When he wasn’t working in the shipping offices or attending social functions, he was at the country estate, hunting and fishing and assisting his staff with repairs and the like. Lately he’d entertained passing thoughts of leaving the city behind to take up permanent residence there. But the prospect of rattling around in that big manor all alone stopped him from seriously considering it.

Just then, a small hand slipped into his, startling him out of his reverie.

Straightening, he stared down into the pixie face of a little girl he’d noticed simply because she reminded him of Megan with her long blond hair and big blue eyes.

“I’m Sarah.” She didn’t smile, only studied him with a seriousness that unnerved him.

Lucian glanced around the parlor, belatedly realizing Megan had finished the book. She and the parents were assisting the children swarming the dessert table.

“Uh, hello.”

What did one say to a child? Her warm fingers clutched his, and he marveled at their fragility. If he had to guess, he’d say she was about five or six.

“What’s your name?”

“I’m Lucian.”

She scrunched up her nose, which only made her look more adorable. “Huh?”

Squatting to her level, he repeated, “My name is Lucian.”

Reaching out, she touched the tip of her finger to his sapphire tiepin. “That’s sparkly. I like pretty things. Can I have it?”

He cleared his throat to cover a chuckle. There was no guile in this little one’s eyes, merely simple curiosity. “Well, I doubt you would have use of it. It’s for gentlemen, and you are a lady.”

She seemed to ponder that for a minute. He held his breath, wondering what he’d say if she insisted. He had no experience with this sort of thing.

“Are you Mr. Charles’s son?”

He jerked his head back at the unexpected question. “No. I’m his grandson.”

Tilting her head, a tiny line appeared between her fine eyebrows. “Mr. Charles was a nice man. Are you nice, too?”

Lucian sucked in a breath.

“Sarah,” Megan said as she appeared at their side and placed a gentle hand on the little girl’s shoulder, “wouldn’t you like a treat? They’re going fast.”

With a nod, Sarah slipped her hand from his and hopped to the table without a backward glance. Lucian stood, grateful for the intervention and wondering what Megan had seen in his face that had induced her to take mercy on him. Could she read his moods that easily?

“She didn’t intend to make you uncomfortable.”

“I know.” He watched her at the table, solemnly debating what to put on her plate. “Is she always that serious?”

A heavy sigh escaped her. “She’s had a rough year. Her ma died in childbirth, as did the baby. Her father hasn’t coped well.”

Lucian’s mouth turned down. Such a tragic loss couldn’t be easy for a young child to process. His gaze returned to Megan to find her studying him with an inscrutable expression. One pale brow quirked.

“So, are you?”

“Am I what?”

Her voice went soft. “Are you a nice man?”

He exhaled. “That’s impossible for me to answer, Megan.”

She stepped closer, smelling of roses and, more faintly, strawberries. He clasped his hands behind his back, away from temptation.

“Well, I’ll answer it, then. I think you are nice.”

His jaw went slack. Pleasure reverberated through him, followed quickly by misgivings. “I’m astonished you’d say that, considering.”

“You’re simply acting under false assumptions concerning your grandfather.” Her blue eyes darkened. “And me.”

“Is that so?” He fought the pull of her innocent appeal.

“Don’t go all haughty on me,” she challenged, not in the least fazed. “We’re going to have to discuss this sometime.” Her mouth softened as genuine confusion settled on her face. “I’d really like to know why you didn’t come to see him. You don’t strike me as someone who’d deliberately hurt another person.”

Lucian didn’t often find himself without a ready response. Megan thought he was nice? If that was her true opinion, then she was one of the most charitable women he’d ever met. So was she really that bighearted? Or just very clever?