She nodded through Mrs. Rushworth’s excruciating stories. She even smiled at Lord Cunningham, unblinking when he called her dear, while footmen arrived with the second course.
All without looking, even once, at Tom McGwen—or her uncle’s empty chair.
This was wrong.
Hewas wrong.
All the stories he’d told her rushed back. The three of them wiling away winter evenings by the hearth in the apothecary kitchen. Her slipping to Uncle’s lap. Tom helping them hang rosemary and laurel on Christmas Eve.
She’d clung to those memories, decorating them in her mind until they were beginning to feel real. Now he wanted to destroy that? When Uncle was finally here? When she was just beginning to understand the inexpressible comfort of having family?
The letters were wrong.
She was not asking for Tom to believe that. Only to rein back judgment until it could be proven. Did he not owe her that?
“A toast, I think.” From the head of the table, Lord Cunningham stood. His eyes swiveled with amusement between Meg and Tom. Had he noted the tension? “To dismissing the past and looking with fervency and excitement to what awaits us in the future.”
“Always a master with words,” Mrs. Rushworth praised, the first to lift her wine.
Glasses clinked.
Meg had expected Tom to remain still, but he raised his goblet of water andtingedit with hers. She almost spilled her drink. A fresh onslaught of anger tampered with her chest, and she tore her eyes away from him before she felt the full effect of his new face.
She’d never seen him like this.
In the well-fitting black tailcoat with a modest but neatly tied neckcloth and finger-combed hair. The beard was gone. His skin was smooth, his jaw firm, and long dimples appeared around his mouth when he smiled.
Which he did—right now—to the captain’s eligible sister, seated next to Tom.
Miss Godfrey blushed in delight.
Hah.
Of all things. Meg’s pulse skipped. Not in jealousy, of course, but annoyance. Why had he bothered staying, anyway? What was this? Another scheme to annoy her?
No wonder they had fought before.
He was insufferable.
Despicably stubborn.
Even if he was handsome. To other girls. Like the captain’s sister.
The third course passed in a blur of orange soufflé, lamb chops, and a grating riddle from the captain. Both he and Lord Cunningham seemed to have imbibed too many glasses of ratafia, as the former grew too amused and the latter too loud. Miss Godfrey kept Tom engaged in a steady flow of whispered conversation.
When Lord Cunningham rose for a second toast, a sliver of apprehension jumped through Meg.
“This is lovely.” He swept a hand across the courtyard, the garden behind them, the cloisters to the right. “Made lovelier by the presence of so many esteemed guests. Especially you, darling.” His watery eyes lingered on Meg, a little sultry. “The woman who has agreed, much against what I deserve, to be my wife.”
A murmur of cheerful excitement rippled across the table. Her frustration gained speed. What was he doing?
“But do not cheer yet, my friends. All among us are not so fortunate.” He angled his head toward Tom. “It is Mr. McGwen we must raise our toast to. A better man than me.”
What?
“Anyone who can rise from the ashes of his past, who can rally his own inner strength enough to overcome the hatred of not only his entire family but his entire community …”
Shock winced through Meg. What was he talking about?
