by Karen Kirst
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.
&
nbsp; 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.
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.