His Mountain Miss. Karen Kirst
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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.
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