His Mountain Miss. Karen Kirst
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humid, salty tang of New Orleans, the rush of the mighty Mississippi and steamboat blasts and lusty cries of the dock workers. His home.
Over the course of the past year, Lucian had learned to avoid his darker emotions, to push aside grief and loss instead of dealing with it. A coward’s way, he admitted. But it meant survival. And right now, that was his only goal. To keep his head above the waters of disappointment and disillusionment that was his life.
This house and all it represented threatened to suck him under. He could not—would not—allow that to happen. He would sell it to the first reasonable bidder, no matter if it was at a loss. Money was not the issue here. Ridding himself of this burden was. The sooner the better.
Quiet footfalls against the stones registered behind him. Megan O’Malley.
Wearing that filmy, bridal-like gown, with flowers intertwined in the white-blond curls hanging nearly to her waist, she seemed to him a sort of woodland fairy, as insubstantial as a dream or a figment of his imagination. He blinked, wishing her far from here. But she kept coming, her movements graceful and fluid. She was beautiful, radiant even, with dewy-fresh skin that invited a man’s touch. Inquisitive eyebrows arched above large, expressive eyes the color of the sea. Straight, flawless nose. Lips full and sweet like a ripe peach.
In New Orleans high society, Megan O’Malley would be a much sought-after prize. Thankfully, he’d learned his lesson where innocent-seeming beauties were concerned. He was immune.
The determined jut of her chin gave him pause. Made him wonder if she was going to prove an obstacle to his plans.
Boots planted wide, he clasped his hands behind his back. “Story time over already?”
“I cut it short today. I saw the last child out myself, so there’s no need to worry you might bump into one later.” Amusement hovered about her mouth, but her eyes were watchful. “So, what do you wish to speak to me about?”
He gestured to the metal bench to his right. “Would you like to have a seat?”
“No, thank you. I’d rather stand.”
“As you wish. Miss O’Malley, I’m not sure exactly what sort of arrangement you had with my grandfather, but I’m afraid it must come to an end. You see, I’m here to oversee the sale of this property, and in order to do that, the house must be kept in excellent condition for potential buyers. I can’t have strangers, especially children, traipsing in and out doing who knows what sort of damage. I’m sure you understand my predicament.”
“Actually, I don’t.” Her pale brows collided. “Charles assured me that the children, and indeed the townspeople, would always have access to his home. In addition to the weekly story times, we host once-monthly performances open to the community.”
“He meant while he was alive—”
“No.” She shook her head, curls quivering. “He meant always. In those last months when he was growing weaker, he spoke of how he wanted our endeavors to continue after his d-death.” Her blue eyes grew dark and stormy, her distress a palpable thing.
Lucian couldn’t help but be suspicious. What had been her true motivation for befriending the old man? Had she assumed that, because of the rift in their family, neither he nor his father would come to claim the house? That after Charles’s death, she would have unlimited access to it?
“Must you sell?” She stepped closer, tilted her head back to gaze imploringly up at him. “Charles wouldn’t have wanted it to go to strangers.”
“What he wanted is no longer relevant,” he retorted, years of animosity born of rejection rising up within him. His only grandfather hadn’t wanted anything to do with him, so why should he care about the man’s wishes? “I am the owner now, and I will do as I see fit.”
Sidestepping her, he stalked back towards the house to order his valet to unpack enough clothing for the next week. Hopefully, that was all the time it would take to find a buyer.
“What kind of unfeeling man are you?” Megan called out after him, voice shimmering with indignation.
Lucian stopped dead in his tracks. Pivoted on his heel. Smiled a cold smile. “Unfeeling? How I wish that were the case! For without feelings, one could avoid a plague of problems, wouldn’t you agree? Good evening, Miss O’Malley.”
He left her there in the garden to see herself out, lips parted and eyes full of reproach. If he felt a pinprick of remorse for his less-than-stellar manners, he shoved it aside. This wasn’t about her. This was about unloading emotional entanglements. He couldn’t allow her or anyone else to distract him from his goal.
Chapter Two
Megan hesitated before the imposing mahogany-and-stained-glass door, her finger hovering above the doorbell. Gone was the eager anticipation that had marked her past visits to Charles’s home. Now there was only sadness. And dread. That Lucian Beaumont’s behavior had marred her pleasant memories of this place stoked her ire.
In her left hand, she clutched the missive that had been delivered to her cabin shortly before lunch. What could he possibly have to say to her? He’d made his intentions plain last night. Charles’s wishes meant nothing to him. Though it was a stretch, she could somewhat understand why he wouldn’t care about helping her or the townspeople. They were strangers, after all. But Charles was family. His only grandfather.
A grandfather he hadn’t bothered to come and meet, despite repeated invitations to do so.
Recalling the anguish in her friend’s eyes as he spoke of his failed attempts to bring his daughter and grandson back to Gatlinburg, Megan blinked away tears. Nursed the grudge she’d harbored towards his estranged family. Knowing what she did, she shouldn’t be surprised by Lucian’s selfish disregard of everyone else’s needs but his own.
The door swung inward, and there stood the object of her turmoil, looking coolly refined in a chocolate frock coat, tan vest and pants, and the ever-shiny black Hessians. Her gaze was drawn once again to his hair, the dark, unruly waves at odds with his neat clothing and stiff manner.
His black gaze bored into her, making her want to squirm. “Miss O’Malley, I see you received my message.”
Walking past him into the entrance hall, she was glad she’d chosen to wear one of her best outfits, a deep blue fitted jacket with layered skirts that skimmed the tips of her boots. Her mass of curls, too heavy to be piled on top of her head, was restrained at her nape with a matching ribbon.
“No princess attire today?”
“No, that was strictly for the children’s benefit.”
Glancing up, she caught him gazing at her hair with a look akin to disappointment. She blinked and it was gone. Must’ve been a trick of the light.
“I see.”
There was that phrase again. She gritted her teeth, fairly certain Lucian Beaumont did not see the true picture at all, his outlook tainted by cynicism.
“You wished to see me?”
“Actually, Charles’s lawyer is the one who asked for you. He arrived this morning from Sevierville and wishes to speak with us about the will.” He motioned for her to precede him. “He’s waiting for us in the office.”
“But Charles never indicated that I’d be included. I can’t imagine why he would’ve done such a thing.”
Lucian’s steady gaze assessed her. Perhaps gauging her sincerity? “You indicated the two of you were close. Most likely he wanted to leave you some things to remember him by. Your favorite books, for instance.”
Megan’s thoughts were a jumble as they passed through the hallway to the rear corner of the house where the office was located. She hadn’t spent much time there, as she and Charles had preferred to use the library or, weather permitting, the back porch or gardens. Like the rest of the house, this room was richly appointed with