His Mountain Miss. Karen Kirst
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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.
Except for the hair. There was no taming those luxurious, dark brown waves that insisted on falling forward to rest on his forehead.
“Merci.” He stepped back to allow her entrance, his intense gaze sweeping her scooped-neck white blouse, full black skirts and wide black belt that accentuated her waist. “Where’s your eye patch and wooden leg?”
“Isn’t this enough?” She pivoted in the entryway and indicated her scarf.
After looping the umbrella on the coat stand behind him, he settled his hands on his hips and appraised her appearance. “You need an eye patch. The wooden leg, not so much, but definitely some gold jewelry—loot from the legion of ships you’ve besieged.” Amusement shone in the depths of his eyes.
Was he teasing her? Her palms began to sweat. “I’m, uh, fresh out of gold. Sorry.”
“That’s too bad.” He tipped his head towards the basket dangling from her fingers. “May I take that for you?”
“No, thank you.” She tightened her grip. She didn’t want him to discover the tea cakes now and forbid the children to have them. Better to wait until the book had been read to pass them out. He wouldn’t be around to intervene.
“As you wish.” The amusement faded, replaced with a subtle knowing.
His open scrutiny unleashed a flurry of butterflies in her middle. “I always come half an hour early to set up the chairs and get my books in order. May I?”
“By all means.” He motioned for her to precede him into the parlor on their left. Megan stopped just inside the room.
“I took the liberty of arranging the chairs for you.”
“Oh.”
“This is the way it was set up last week.” He stood close beside her, his exotic scent stirring the air. “Did you prefer it done another way?”
“This is fine. I—”
“Well, hello there, Miss Megan.” Mrs. Calhoun entered the parlor bearing a tray of delicate-looking pastries and fresh strawberries. “Doesn’t this look delectable? I was all prepared to make a batch of sugar cookies when Mr. Lucian suggested I do something special. I’m so glad he did. The children will enjoy these.”
Mouth hanging open, Megan’s gaze followed the older woman’s movements. Lucian suggested? But—
Mrs. Calhoun spotted her basket and pointed. “Oh, what do you have there? More goodies?”
“Y-yes.” She avoided looking at Lucian. “My sister and I baked tea cakes.”
“That’s wonderful,” she said, bustling over to take it from Megan, “they’ll go fast.” To Lucian, she said, “That Jane O’Malley has a way with food. Her twin, too. Whenever there’s a church social, folks flock to the table to try and snag a sampling of their desserts. There’s never enough to go around, though.”
When they were alone once more, Megan finally looked at him. Spread her hands wide. “I don’t understand. Why are you being so...agreeable?”
Folding his arms across his wide chest, the corners of his mouth turned down. “Just because I don’t happen to like the situation I find myself in doesn’t mean I should make things difficult for you. What did you expect I would do? Blockade the door?”
“No, not that.” She shook her head. “But neither did I think you would help me.”
His dark brows winged up. “My grandfather didn’t?”
“He was too feeble to do any heavy lifting,” she said defensively. “As to the other preparations, he left everything to me and Mrs. Calhoun. Which was fine by me,” she rushed to add.
Dropping his arms to his sides, Lucian’s expression turned pensive. “I must inform you that I’ve written my lawyer asking him to find a way around the stipulation.”
She wasn’t surprised. Still, disappointment spiraled through her, as did a prick of anxiety. “I doubt he’ll be successful.”
But what if he somehow found a way? A loophole of some sort?
“We’ll have to wait and see, won’t we?” His gaze flicked to the window behind her. “For now, it appears you have an early arrival.”
Turning, she spotted Ollie Stevenson trudging up the lane, gesturing and talking to himself. She suppressed a mischievous smile. “Would you care to greet him? I have to retrieve my book from the library.”
“Me?” He followed on her heels. “How about I go and get Mrs. Calhoun?” A slight undercurrent of anxiety wove through his words.
With a dismissive gesture, she shot over her shoulder, “She’s busy getting the drinks. Don’t worry, Ollie doesn’t bite. Not often, anyway.”
Leaving him behind, she heard him mutter something about her enjoying this. A thrill lightened her step. Upsetting Lucian’s reserve could become addictive. Good thing he couldn’t see the wide grin splitting her face.
* * *
Lucian had initially intended to secrete himself in Charles’s study for the duration of the evening. Those plans changed. Megan knew children made him uncomfortable and yet she’d purposefully left him to face the unpredictable creatures alone. Well, two could play at that game.
One arm propped against the mantel, he couldn’t stop a satisfied smile as he recalled her dumbfounded reaction to his announcement that he’d be sticking around to observe story time. If her frequent, darting glances his direction were any indication, his presence made her nervous. Good. Served her right.
Ollie, the precocious, persistent seven-year-old whose earlier stream of chatter had given Lucian a headache, kept raising his hand despite Megan’s calm assurances that there’d be time to ask questions later. He had to hand it to her, the woman had a seemingly endless supply of patience. And she was an adept storyteller. Her lilting, musical voice pulled one into the adventure, her enthusiasm transferring itself to the audience.
Watching her, Lucian’s gaze was naturally drawn to her white-blond hair. Rays of waning sunlight slanted through the window to glisten in the loose curls, and his fingers itched to bury themselves in the silken mass. Careful, Beaumont. She’s as pretty as a picture, for sure, but you’ve no idea what lies beneath the surface. Remember Dominique.
How could he ever forget? She’d convinced him of her sincere affection, had even claimed to love him, while all along she’d been biding her time. Holding out for the true prize—his father. Why settle for the son of a shipping magnate when she could have the man with all the power?
His chest seized up, and he absentmindedly rubbed a flat palm over his heart in an effort to soothe away the discomfort. The smothering sensation had started not long after his mother’s death a year ago. Had worsened a few months later with Dominique’s trickery. Being in this house didn’t help. There was no escaping his grandfather’s indifference and worse, the constant reminders of his mother and the fact she was lost to him forever.
When he glanced up and caught Megan looking at him with concern creasing her brow, he dropped his hand. There was nothing to worry about. At least, that was the family physician’s conclusion, who’d declared