She had no idea why he was amused, so she sniffed. “I came for a book.”
“Of course.” He waved at the decanter on the table at his elbow. “A whisky may help.” Before she could demur, he poured her one. “Sit. Please. I would like to talk to you.”
She should go. Really, she should. But for some reason, she didn’t want to. With a sigh, she sat, as he asked, and lifted the tumbler to her lips. The liquor burned her throat and she coughed.
Jonathan grinned. “Good, isn’t it? It comes from Ian’s distillery.”
She forced a smile. Though she’d never met Sara’s husband, she’d heard wonderful things about him. “Helps, having a brother-in-law with his own distillery, does it?”
His grin widened. “I am never without friends.”
“I can imagine.”
He went back to staring at the fire, which prompted her to ask, “Was there something you wanted to talk about?”
“Ah. Yes. But first, why haven’t you been at dinner?”
She blinked. Dinner? “Dinner is a family event.”
He frowned. “You’re family.”
Oh dear. “No, Jonathan,” she said with a sigh. “I’m not. I know my place.”
“Do you eat dinner with Mother at home?”
“Of course…but that’s different.”
“How is it different?”
She had no idea why this conversation seemed to be annoying him. This was the way of the world, after all. “For one thing, she hates to eat alone and she claims that Mawbry puts her off her food.”
He laughed at that, but it was more of a snort, and he tried to hide it. “So if we want you to come to dinner, it must be a command?”
“Something like that.” She proffered a smug smile, but it might have been a result of the whisky, which—now that she’d had another sip—was quite warm and pleasant.
“Well, I expect you at dinner tomorrow night then.”
Meg started and she frowned at him. “Ballocks,” she said.
It surprised her when he threw back his head and laughed. “Do you speak that way to my daughters?”
“Only when the three of us are alone.” My, this whisky was something. She lifted the tumbler and observed the colors. “Does one always tell the truth when one drinks this?”
He nodded. “Pretty much.”
They sat in silence and sipped whisky and stared at the fire, until Meg recalled what he’d said earlier and asked, “You wanted to talk to me?”
“Ah yes.” He sighed heavily and scrubbed his face with his palm and she had a flash of worry.
“What is it?” What was so difficult to say?
“I just wanted to ask you…”
“Yes?” Now her curiosity was running wild.
“I… Just…” He turned to her, his expression sincere and unbearably adorable. “Are you happy?”
What?
“Am I happy?” She gaped at him. “Of course I’m happy. Whatever do you mean?”
“When I told you that Mother was planning to find you a husband, you seemed aghast. Do you not want a husband? Are you happy as a companion?”
Oh dear. How to answer this?
She stared down at her lap for a moment, gathering her thoughts. “There was a time when my fate was to marry.”
“Technically, that is not an answer, just a statement of fact.” Blast. She’d never been able to cousin him. “What do you want, Meg?”
“I…”
“Is it so hard a question to answer?”
Another sip was in order. It was going down much more smoothly.
“Meg?”
“No. Jonathan, it’s not a difficult question to answer. But no one’s ever asked it of me before. And for the past two years, since George died, it was a moot point. What I’ve wanted since then was to have food to eat and a roof over my head. Am I happy with those things? Yes.”
“But you want more?”
Oh, did she.
She tried to look away, but couldn’t. He’d captured her in his warm brown gaze. They shared a moment, one simple moment, where she didn’t hide anything, where she let him see exactly the truth.
“I want more, yes. I want a husband to love me. A home that is more than a mere house. I want to belong somewhere. I want choices. Options.” Annoying tears pricked at her lids. Oh, ballocks. She’d had too much whisky. She set the glass down on the table, a little too hard, as it happened.
“And children?”
Blast him for seeing her so clearly. His gentle query triggered the waterworks she was so sure she could hold back. It dredged up the deepest pain, her greatest loss in all this. She angrily swiped at her cheeks.
“Meg.” He sighed her name, which was painful in itself, but then he—the bastard—stood, took her hand, and pulled her into his arms. He was in shirtsleeves and his chest was firm against hers. He wrapped himself around her and held her. Just held her there, in that warm haven, bolstering her with his strength as she wept. “We’ll get you a husband,” he whispered into her hair. “Don’t worry. We’ll find someone.”
To which she had to rear back and wail, “I don’t want just any husband.”
Yes. That was the crux of it all, wasn’t it? She didn’t want just any husband.
She wanted him.
And she could never tell him that, because it would thrust a wedge between them that would destroy their friendship. It would make things awkward.
Not that they weren’t awkward now.
Especially when, from the doorway, Susana clucked her tongue. “What is this?” she asked in a far too theatrical lilt.
Naturally, Jonathan and Meg leaped apart and whirled to face her.
“Nothing,” they both said at the same time, which only made her smirk.
“We were just talking about life,” Jonathan said in a defensive tone.
“And marriage,” Meg added.
Susana looked them up and down. “And Meg started crying? And you gave her a hug?”
“Exactly!” Jonathan crowed.
“Of course.” Susana smiled. “Just what I surmised. The two of you don’t look guilty in the least.”
Meg’s cheeks flared. “Guilty?” It had been terribly nice, being held by him. But they’d done nothing wrong. Not in the slightest. She glanced at Jonathan. His Adam’s apple bobbed.
“Of course not,” he averred.
Susana’s smile widened. “Well, you might want to get these late night meetings out of your system before the guests arrive. If you’re not careful, you may find yourselves thoroughly compromised.” She seemed gleeful when she said it, which was a trifle mortifying, but Meg ignored that.
Jonathan frowned. “Don’t be ridiculous. Meg is family.”
“She is.” Susana nodded. “And she isn’t, if you know what I mean.” The wink didn’t help.
“I, in fact, do not know what you mean.” He seemed disturbed.
Meg wondered idly if there was any whisky left in her glass.
“You and I know Meg is family. That we all grew up together in the wilds of Devon. But the mavens of high society don’t know or care. All they will see is that she is a single woman and you are a roguish duke.”
“I’m hardly roguish.”
“Not according to gossip.”
“That is entirely unfair.”
“Is it?” His sister fixed him with a too-knowing glance. “My point is, when the guests arrive, you will both have to behave.”
Well really! “We were behaving!” Meg sputtered.
Susana gave her the once over. “You’re in your nightgown.” Her gaze reached Meg’s feet. “And you’re barefoot.”
“She couldn’t sleep,” Jonathan said, which didn’t help at all.
Meg stepped forward. “I came down for a book.”
“And ended up in my brother’s arms?”
All right. Perhaps it didn’t look all that innocent—
“I didn’t kiss her.”
Oh dear. Granted, he was defendin
g his honor, but did he have to shout it quite so stridently, with such…distaste? What was she, a hideous un-kissable hag? Apparently so. Fury, pain, and humiliation whipped through her. She couldn’t help it. She whirled on him and smacked his shoulder.
His nostrils flared. “Whatever was that for?”
But Meg couldn’t answer. Her throat was clogged and her vision slightly blurred.
Susana shook her head. “You, Jonathan Pembroke, are hopeless,” she said, wrapping her arm around Meg’s shoulder and guiding her from the room, leaving the duke sputtering in their wake.
* * *
The next morning, Jonathan still had no idea what had transpired in the library the night before. Most specifically, what had made Meg cry.
Not the first time. He totally understood that bit.
It was the second time.
Dear God, it had ripped at his heart to see her expression collapse, to see tears well in her eyes, to see her lips tremble.
He’d only insisted that he hadn’t done anything inappropriate. He hadn’t kissed her.
Granted, the thought had crossed his mind. She’d been so sweet and soft in his arms, and her scent, something lemony, had teased at his nostrils and made him…hungry.
But he’d batted the thought away like an annoying gnat, just like every time he had it about Meg.
Meg was different.
She was like a sister.
He’d always thought of her as such, from the first time he’d rescued her from the old elm in the meadow she liked to climb, even though she could never get herself down. She’d been five then. The same age his daughters were now. Was it any wonder he’d always thought of her as someone he needed to protect?
But she wasn’t five now. Now she was a grown woman, and a damned beautiful one. Yes, he’d had, ahem, thoughts about her, but they’d felt wrong. They’d felt like he was betraying George.
His mind flittered back to the way it had felt, holding her against his body in the library, and against his will, his passion stirred. He groaned and buried his face in his hands. It was wrong to think of her like that.
Wasn’t it?
It was a relief when Rodgers interrupted this mental torture with his morning tea. After that, he found his mother and told her the reason Meg never came down for dinner was because she required a command. Or at least, an invitation.
Blast it all. It had never occurred to him that she felt she didn’t belong. It broke his heart that she felt she didn’t belong.
She did. She belonged.
He hunted for her all day to tell her so, and to apologize for whatever he’d said or done that had made her cry that second time, but he couldn’t find her. She had always “just left” whatever room he checked.
By dinnertime, he was getting irritated.
To be honest, he was irritated with himself.
He’d spent the day thinking about Meg, and how hard it must be for her to be caught between two worlds. And how much he would like to change all that for her. How he could change all that for her.
Mostly, he thought about how much he regretted inviting Mattingly to the party.
He hadn’t really considered things when he added Mattingly to his list. He’d been too busy trying to please his mother with actual viable prospects.
He hadn’t thought about what that might mean.
Of course Mattingly would be taken with her. She was beautiful, talented, funny, and smart. How could Mattingly not want to woo her? They would dance and chat and—good God—laugh together.
And Jonathan would have to stand there and watch with a smile on his face.
What a miserable proposition.
By the time dinner came around, he was in a high dudgeon. Which was saying something. Usually it was only old ladies who got into high dudgeon.
That was probably why he frowned at Meg when she entered the sitting room in her companion’s weeds with her hair up in a spinsterly bun. It didn’t help that there was a mutinous expression on her pretty face.
“Why are you dressed like that?” he snapped.
“Like what?” she snapped back.
He waved his hand at her outfit. “Like that?”
“These are my clothes.” She tipped her chin and sniffed at him with a primness that only irritated him more.
“She looks fine,” Mother said. “Come have some ratafia, Meg.”
“She doesn’t look fine. She looks like…a companion.”
Meg sent him a look, one he couldn’t quite translate. “I am a companion.”
He pulled himself straighter and said haughtily, “We dress for dinner.”
Her smile was frigid. “I am dressed.”
“More dressed than she was last night,” Susana said sotto voce.
They both glared at her.
“Whatever do you mean?” Mother asked. Thankfully, everyone ignored her.
Jonathan simply plowed on. “You could at least wear something pretty.” It was a perfectly logical request.
There was no reason for Meg to burst into tears.
Again.
He turned to his sister and bellowed, “What is she crying about?”
Susana sniffed. “Why are you asking me?”
“You’re a woman. You understand each other. Don’t you?”
Mother, who was sitting on the divan and taking all this in as though it were a play enacted for her private pleasure, suggested, “Why don’t you ask her?”
Jonathan glanced at Christian for some male support, but he merely shrugged.
So he turned to her. And he sighed. “Meg. Why are you crying?”
She glared at him, though the tears, and then said in an emotionless voice, “I don’t have anything pretty.”
That was all it took. His dudgeon deflated like a failed soufflé.
Of course she didn’t have anything pretty. Cyril, the bastard, had confiscated all her gowns and jewels and sold them after George died. His mother had told him as much and he’d tut-tutted and made some offhand comment about what a bastard Cyril was and then promptly forgot about it.
Well, hell. How could he fix this?
He had no idea, so he just did what he wanted to do.
He took her in his arms—again—and held her as she cried.
This was becoming a disturbing trend.
Although, if he were honest, he didn’t hate it.
“Don’t cry, Meg,” he whispered to her. “We’ll get you something pretty.”
She snorted wetly into his chest. “I don’t want anything pretty.” Which was clearly untrue, except that being contrary was apparently deeply imbedded in her nature.
“Oh dear,” Mother said with such horror, they both turned to look at her, though Jonathan kept his arms firmly around Meg.
“What?” Susana asked.
“I just realized that the party is in two days and Meg hasn’t a thing to wear.”
“I’ll take her to London tomorrow.” He didn’t know where the words came from. They just fell from his lips.
Suddenly, it seemed like an excellent idea.
“Don’t be ridiculous,” Mother said with a snort.
Susana shook her head. “You’ll never get a seamstress now.”
Mother shook her head as well. “Never.”
“Why not?” That seemed terribly ridiculous.
Susana stood and came to Meg’s side. “It’s high season, that’s why. But never mind. I have a solution.” His sister took Meg’s arm, dried her tears, and tugged her toward the door.
“Whatever are you doing?” Jonathan asked. “It’s time for dinner.”
“No time for dinner,” Susana crowed. “Meg, you and I are about the same size and I brought far more dresses than I will ever wear. You and I are going to pilfer my wardrobe! Have cook send two trays to my room at once!”
Jonathan watched them go—happy that Susana’s suggestion had seemed to delight Meg, and slightly annoyed that, once again, she wouldn’t be at family dinner, since this was the last o
ne before the insanity began.
But his feelings hardly mattered, didn’t they?
He was only the duke.
Chapter 4
Susana’s wardrobe was a treasure trove. Meg did her best to swallow the acrid fact that she’d once had one just like it and was now reduced to begging for scraps. She focused instead on the fact that she was lucky to have such a generous friend. And the opportunity to wear beautiful dresses as well. That was wonderful.
“Oh, this one!” Susana sighed, pulling out a beautiful sky blue frock with sequins stitched into the bodice. “It barely fits me now, since I’m increasing again, but it’s one of my favorites. I’m glad I brought it because it is perfect for your coloring.”
It was. And, in a flurry of crinoline, Meg eagerly tried it on. It was perfect. The blue brought out her eyes and made her shine. Or maybe that was simply her delight as she spun around and watched the skirt bell in the glass. It was a little tight in the bodice, but Susana insisted, with a wink, it was just right for someone on the hunt for a husband. There was another, a dark forest green, which would be perfect for the Christmas Eve supper and ball, and a lovely pink day dress.
“I love you in these jewel tones,” Susana said and Meg laughed.
“My last party frock was white.”
Susana grinned. “We’re hardly debutantes now.”
Yes. Hardly.
When they were finished, Meg returned to her dark weeds and sighed. “That was fun,” she told her friend, who grinned.
“Wasn’t it?”
“I’m so appreciative. You’ve been so generous.”
To her surprise, Susana stared at her, tears welling. Which caused Meg to tear up as well. “Meg, darling,” she said, opening her arms for a hug. “You deserve it. You’ve always been so generous with me. Even when we were children. Do you remember that time when you let me have the last cake at tea, after Jonathan and George swept in and tried to scarf them all up?”
Meg had to chuckle. “No. I don’t.”
Susana’s eyes sparkled. “Well, I do. And the time you gave me your doll, because I liked it. And— Oh, I could go on. You’re like a sister to me. A dear, dear sister. And I, for one, hate to see you moldering in Devon with Mama.”
“I’m hardly moldering. Besides, I love your mother.”
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