by Karen Kirst
“Mr. Lucian?”
He jerked around, having forgotten the other woman’s presence.
“You seem to be a fine man. I’m certain Charles would’ve been proud.” A warning worked its way into her eyes. “But you’ll be returning to New Orleans soon, and I’d hate to see Megan hurt. She’s a very special young lady. The townsfolk wouldn’t look kindly on anyone who took advantage of her kindness.”
Lucian stared. She thought he was like his father? Capable of sweeping an innocent girl off her feet and wresting her from the only home she’d ever known, only to revile her the rest of her days? Once settled into married life, Gerard had come to resent Lucinda’s lack of social connections, of town polish and upper-class education.
He spoke stiffly. “You have no need to worry on that score, madame. I have no intention of engaging in a passing indulgence and absolutely no designs on Megan O’Malley.”
Oh, didn’t he? Hadn’t he nearly kissed her twice already? Did he not think of her practically every moment?
Shoving the hair off his forehead, he softened his stance. “Your concern is understandable. The last thing I want to do is cause problems for her.”
Lips pursed, she studied him, gave a brisk nod. “Well, now that I’ve said my piece, I’d better get home. Fred will be wanting his supper.”
Preoccupied, he bade her good evening. Before he could change his mind, he sat down at the desk and, locating a sheet of blank paper, began to write. His lawyer probably wouldn’t understand his instruction to cease and desist, but it made all the sense in the world to him. Leaving Megan in charge meant he could go home and put this unhappy chapter behind him. His mother and grandfather were gone, their secrets buried with them.
What’s done was done.
Running again? an accusing voice prompted. When are you going to face your problems head-on? The grief will follow you wherever you go, you know. You can’t avoid it forever.
“There are no answers here,” he grumbled aloud. No way to discover if his mother had, in fact, deceived him. And, coward that he was, wasn’t he glad of that? Relieved?
No, this was the best way for all involved. The house would stay in the family, which meant the next Beaumont generation could come and visit one day. Learn about their ancestors. Perhaps even take up residence here.
Lucian would not return. But he’d never forget this place...or Megan.
* * *
By the time Friday afternoon rolled around, Lucian was certain he’d made the right decision. Owen had told him not to come today because he had errands to tend to, so he’d meandered aimlessly about the house. All this free time was making him antsy. And fanciful. He’d caught himself entertaining thoughts of Megan, wondering what it might be like if she were mistress of this house, picturing the two of them together sharing breakfast in the garden or playing a game of chess in the parlor. Holding hands in the moonlight, stealing kisses beneath the stars...
The doorbell rang. He blinked, threaded fingers through his hair. He really needed to get back to New Orleans. Perhaps even begin his search for a wife. There were a number of young ladies who’d made their eagerness to fill the position clear and who’d meet his qualifications perfectly. They wouldn’t marry him expecting anything other than financial security and his good name. Easy enough expectations to meet.
Steeling himself to face Megan, to resist the pull she had on him, he left the study and made his way to the front of the house. Wall sconces threw soft light against the floral papered walls. His boots striking the hardwood echoed throughout the cavernous Victorian. Lucian couldn’t wait to see her reaction when she learned he was giving her charge of it.
But when he swung open the door, it wasn’t her waiting on the porch. A silver-haired man dressed in an inexpensive brown sack suit and a woman whose jet-black hair belied her age stood smiling at him.
“Mr. Beaumont?” The man, who topped Lucian by about three inches, stuck out his hand. “I’m Reverend Monroe and this is my wife, Carol.”
“How do you do?” His nod encompassed them both. Spying the cake in her hands, he stepped back. “Would you like to come in?”
In the entry hall, Mrs. Monroe lifted the plate. “Would you mind if I take this to the kitchen? I know the way.”
“Certainly. Merci beaucoup.”
The reverend accompanied him into the parlor. Lucian offered him a seat, but he declined, regarding him with wise eyes that seemed to have the ability to pierce a man’s facade. Lucian forced himself to meet the man’s gaze without flinching.
“I’d intended to come much earlier to welcome you to town, but Carol’s sister and her family have been visiting. How are you settling in?”
“The truth is I’m not here for much longer. This was to be a short business trip. Due to unforeseen circumstances, I’ve stayed longer than I’d originally planned. But I’ll be leaving next week.” He pursed his lips together. Why was he blathering on like this? He had nothing to hide.
Except, this was a man of God. Could he somehow sense Lucian had fallen away? That he hadn’t darkened the door of a church in more than a year? And that he kept his mother’s Bible close but never opened it?
The reverend’s expression revealed sincere regret. “I’m sorry to hear that. I was looking forward to getting acquainted. Your grandfather was a faithful member of our congregation. A fixture on the front row in all my years of preaching in this town. Every Sunday on his way out the door, he’d shake my hand and tell me he was praying for me.”
Emotion clogged his throat. Hearing that his grandfather was a praying man made the emptiness inside yawn wider, a cavern that refused to be filled. A yearning for something he couldn’t pin down.
Mrs. Monroe joined them then, saving him from having to reply. “I left your cake with Mrs. Calhoun. The children will be arriving soon for story time, won’t they?” She nudged her husband. “We should get going.”
“I’d actually like to stay.”
At his unspoken question, Lucian said, “Please do. A few of the parents stick around and help serve the refreshments.”
Mrs. Monroe beamed her approval. “I think it’s wonderful how you’ve allowed the town to continue using this place. You’re a generous man, Mr. Beaumont.”
If they only knew... He realized suddenly that Megan could’ve easily spread the word of his original intentions, turning the tide of the town’s opinion against him. It would’ve been a strategic move, a way of putting pressure on him. But she hadn’t done it. Further proof of her selflessness, her kind and humble spirit.
He glanced at the mantel clock. She was late, which wasn’t like her. Had something happened? Was she ill? Crossing to the window, relief spread through him at the sight of her coming up the lane. He squinted. What on earth was she wearing?
* * *
Anticipation she shouldn’t be feeling danced along her nerve endings, hammered her heart against her rib cage and lengthened her stride. In the past few days, she’d thought of little else besides Lucian and the many reasons she mustn’t care for him. Since she was a day-dreamer by nature, often preoccupied with her thoughts, her sisters hadn’t noticed anything out of the ordinary.
Her life was good—like a rich chocolate cake. Plain. Unexceptional. But good. Lucian’s presence in her life was like sweet, decadent icing on that cake. His presence added depth and excitement and meaning. Paired together, the two created a delicious concoction.
Well, you’d better get used to cake without icing, because Lucian isn’t sticking around. He has a life to get back to. A perfect, beautiful, spoiled young debutant to choose.
That put a damper on her anticipation.
Climbing the steps, a scowl twisted her mouth. She really was a foolish, naive girl. Her wayward heart had actually entertained the notion that he could come to care for her. Her. A simple mountain
girl who would stick out like a sore thumb in his glittering world. She didn’t know the waltz. Or which fork to use. When she laughed, it wasn’t a polite twitter but a full laugh that would no doubt shock polite society.
Josh was right. She read too much. This was real life, not fiction.
The door opened before she could press the bell. Instead of admitting her, Lucian crossed the threshold and pulled the door closed behind him.
The humor warming his black eyes to melted chocolate robbed her lungs of breath. He was always so serious and somber that this unexpected lightheartedness made him seem like an entirely different man.
Folding his arms across his strong chest, straining the shoulders of his gray, pin-striped coat, he looked her up and down. “Who are you supposed to be? Or should I say what are you?”
She smoothed the furry pelt covering her hair, the one Nicole had fashioned into a sort of headdress for her. It was hot and itchy and tended to pitch forward into her eyes, but the kids would love it. “Tonight’s story is Little Red Riding Hood. Can’t you guess who I am?”
Eyes twinkling now, his head fell back and he laughed, a rumbling, husky sound that tickled her ears. The unrestrained curve of his generous lips, the flash of white teeth, the glimpse of happiness in his otherwise stern face, evoked an intense yearning deep within her. A yearning to see this man happy more often. To see his smile. To hear his laughter.
Oh, wow, she was in way too deep. She couldn’t start caring about his happiness!
“Ah, mon chou, you are something else.” Grinning, he shook his head. “I’ve never met anyone quite like you.”
She didn’t have a response to that. So she simply gazed at him, soaking in this new Lucian to remember later, after he’d gone. Gradually, the humor faded and was replaced with his customary intensity. Her disappointment was sharp.
“I need to talk to you about something.” His gaze shifted past her shoulder to the lane. “Ollie and a few others are here. Later, all right?”
“Yes, okay.”
What could he possibly want to talk about? Her stomach dipped. What if he’d heard from his lawyer? What if he’d found a way to circumvent Charles’s wishes?
Her nerves were stretched taut throughout the evening. She rushed through the story and afterward had trouble making small talk with the parents. Distracted, that’s what she was. Just when she thought they’d bidden good-night to the last of the guests, Tom showed up. She hadn’t seen him since the previous Friday night, the night of their confrontation. As impatient as she was to learn Lucian’s purpose, she couldn’t bring herself to dash the cautious optimism on her good friend’s face.
Tom may not be cake icing, but he meant a lot to her. He wasn’t going anywhere.
Asking him to wait in the entryway while she gathered her things, she hurried to the parlor where Lucian was finishing the cleanup.
Picking up her reticule from the settee, she slipped her hand through the ribbon loop. “I’m sorry. Our conversation will have to wait. Tom’s waiting to walk me home.”
An empty pitcher in his hands, his gaze shot to the door and back. He didn’t look pleased. “Do you have free time tomorrow?”
“Once I finish my morning chores. Do you want me to come here?”
He considered the matter for a moment. “Would you mind showing me some more of the area? I can ask Mrs. Calhoun to prepare a picnic lunch. My horse is in need of exercise,” he tacked on.
An entire day with Lucian all to herself? The prospect eclipsed any dread of what he might tell her.
A smile bloomed across her face. “I’d like that.”
“Magnifique.” His answering smile, slow and easy, heated her inside and out. She would never, ever take that smile for granted. “Shall I meet you at your place, say, around ten o’clock?” he asked.
“I’ll see you then.” Please let this night pass quickly!
When he waved away her offer to help with the chairs, she rejoined Tom, ignoring the questions in his eyes. On the walk home, they talked of inane things—his customers, his ailing mother, Megan’s impatience for news from Cades Cove. Nothing too personal, thank goodness. True to his word, Tom didn’t press her or even mention their earlier conversation. But it was there nonetheless...a strange tension between them that hadn’t been there before. One day soon, she was going to have to muster her courage and admit she wasn’t interested in pursuing a romance with him.
Please, Lord, grant me wisdom and courage. Prepare his heart to hear what I have to say. I hate to think of what this will do to our friendship, but the longer I remain silent the harder it will be on the both of us.
She couldn’t do it tonight. Not with her blood still humming from the effects of Lucian’s smile. Her body singing with excitement in expectation of their outing. Her words would tumble out a tangled mess, and she’d end up hurting him more than was necessary. Better to wait, to prepare. Frame her thoughts in the best way possible.
When he invited her to go fishing with him the following morning, she declined without telling him of her plans. Trying to cover his disappointment, he smiled and bade her good-night, waiting until she was safely inside the cabin before he left.
That night, she dreamed that Lucian, herself and Tom were seated around their dining table, a humongous chocolate cake in the middle. It all started out normally. They each ate their slice of cake while engaging in polite conversation. The next thing she knew, they were fighting over what was left of it, a fight that quickly turned into a full-fledged tug-of-war!
She awoke just as Tom smashed a gob of cake into Lucian’s face.
What a strange, unsettling dream. One thing was certain—she would never look at chocolate cake the same way again.
* * *
“C’est magnifique.” Sitting astride his most trusted and favored mount, Lucian rested his hands on his thighs, enjoying the view while waiting for Megan’s Mr. Knightley to crest the hill. To their left, rounded peaks dense with trees reached for the blue sky, the undulating ridges stretching into the distance. On their right, the fertile valley dotted with cabins and other structures lay far below, a verdant oasis sheltered by the mountains.
Pulling astride, Megan patted her horse’s neck and smiled over at him. She wore a sturdy, navy blue riding dress that made her eyes seem that much bluer and a stiff-brimmed bonnet in the same hue that hid her curls. He did not care for that bonnet, he decided.
“Your father is French, right? Is he the one who taught you to speak the language?”
“No, but it was important to him that I learn to speak it fluently, so he hired a native French tutor for me. Now my father and I converse strictly in French.” His mother had attempted to learn but couldn’t quite master it. He knew she’d felt left out whenever he and his father spoke together.
“That’s why you slip so easily into it.”
“Oui, mon chou, that’s why.”
A becoming pink stole along her cheekbones. “It’s a beautiful language. I could sit and listen to you speak it for hours, even though I wouldn’t have a clue what you were saying.”
Pleasure spread through him at the revealing statement. “Is that so?”
Her blush deepened, spreading to her slender throat, and she turned her head, the bonnet’s brim shielding her. He forced his gaze to the impressive scenery. This was to be their final day together. After lunch, he would tell her of his decision and his plans to leave in two days’ time. The pleasure he’d experienced seconds ago twisted into something painful, and he realized with some shock that he’d grown attached to this young woman.
Better a quick break now than a slow, tortuous parting later.
He would enjoy this one day with her. Tuck the memory away for safekeeping.
“You didn’t tell me what your horse’s name was,” she ventured, taking in his mount’s sleek,
muscled frame.
“D’Artagnan.” He waited to see if she recognized Alexandre Dumas’s character.
“The Three Musketeers is a favorite of yours?”
He smiled, not surprised she had. “I’ve lost count how many times I’ve read it. I could probably even quote parts of it.”
Guiding their horses away from the main trail and into the woods, they discussed books they liked and ones they didn’t. It was a lively, stimulating conversation, one he couldn’t imagine having with any debutant in his circle. Megan’s intelligence and observations impressed him.
“Why don’t you try your hand reading to the children sometime? I’m certain they’d enjoy a change of pace—having a man read to them.”
“I can’t do that, Megan. I—” He stopped at the sight of her frown. “What is it?”
Pointing ahead, she said unhappily, “The meadow I wanted to take you to is beyond that stream, but it’s too swollen to cross. I’d hoped to have our picnic there.”
As they neared, Lucian gauged the width and depth. “It doesn’t appear to be that deep. Our horses won’t have a problem crossing.”
Her gloved fingers gripped the reins. “It’s the swiftness of the current that has me worried. I wouldn’t mind walking across on those larger rocks, but on the back of a horse...” She shuddered. “I’ve seen too many men swept downstream when their horses lost their footing.” Twisting in the saddle to study the land behind them, she said, “We can have our lunch here somewhere, and hopefully go to the meadow another day when the water level’s lower.”
But there wouldn’t be another chance. Dismounting, he walked around to her side and held out his hand. “Don’t worry, mon petite, I will get you to your meadow.”
“I don’t know—”
“Trust me.”
With a quizzical smile, she placed her hand in his and allowed him to help her down.
“Wait here.”
Vaulting into Mr. Knightley’s saddle, he leaned down and, gathering D’Artagnan’s reins, guided them both across the stream. As he’d suspected, it wasn’t deep. They made it to the other side without a single misstep.
