She had nearly declined the offer. The look on his face made her accept.
Somewhere between“The tender spring upon thy tempting lip”and“Witness this primrose bank whereon I lie,”her eyes fluttered shut. The world was airy, void, painless, and then—
“Do take a seat, Mr. McGwen.”
“I’ll stand.”
Forcing past the layers of fog, she sucked in a breath and leaned up. Everything was bleary, then her eyes focused with heart-tripping clarity on the man who had entered the library.
Rain dampened the red, windblown hair across his forehead, and he wiped moisture from his face with a brown sleeve. Too bad he could not remove the scowl so easily. “I want to speak with the lass.”
“The lass.” Lord Cunningham smiled as he snapped shut his book and stood from the scrolled sofa. “Very charming. Though I imagine she prefers to be called by her name.”
“My lord.” Meg thought it wise to interject before Lord Cunningham’s veiled bark turned into snarling teeth. “I will speak with him.”
“I presume it is no trouble if I remain, my dear?”
“It is.” This from Tom. He took another dripping step into the room. “I’ll speak with her alone.”
“I was only attempting to ensure propriety, I assure you.”
“She’s nae thing to fear from me.”
“Yes. To be sure.” Lord Cunningham swept back a look at Meg, smiled again, and lifted his book. “We shall resume tomorrow then. In the meantime, you may speak with Mr. McGwen about our discussion over dinner.”
She nodded. “I will.”
“Goodnight, darling.”
The words came out a little weak when she answered, “Goodnight.” Breaths coming faster, she smoothed her dress and waited until Lord Cunningham departed the room before she stood. “You cannot keep doing this.”
“Doing what?”
“Barging in at any given hour.”
“I had to speak with ye.”
“So long asspeakingis all you do.” The second the words were out, she longed to pull them back. The last thing she wished to broach was the kiss.
The glower on Tom’s face shifted into a softer expression. He marched closer to her, tossing his hat to the sofa, and stood inches too close.
The air charged between them.
The memory.
Had it not been for the chair, she would have moved backward and feigned interest in searching for a book or a candle or anything. But the chair—and her palpitating heart—kept her planted. “Lady Walpoole wishes me to learn the intricacies of a dinner party.”
His eyes remained fixated on hers. Then lower. Her lips.
“Lord Cunningham has already seen to the invitations. He has invited Mr. Rushworth and his wife, who were both instrumental in aiding Lord Cunningham in his search of medical books. He collects them. He is brilliant, really.” The words poured out fast, like water gushing through a broken dam. Why was she rambling? “Other guests shall be in attendance. I do not recall their names. You would not know them.”
Tom took one more step.
She collapsed back into the chair, and while his eyes were still watching her lips, she watched his. “His lordship wants you to be in attendance too.” Breathy. “He fears you misjudge him. He is not unkind.”
He hovered over her, hands on the armrests.
“Only protective.”
