The gaunt, two-year-old urchin had blossomed quickly under Mamm’s tender touch. As did all the orphans Papa brought home.
They were good, Tom’s parents.
Better than he had realized.
Until it was too late.
“You’re crying.” Joanie still had the voice of a child. Her eyes were older.
Tom stuffed the letter back into his pocket and made for the door. “I’ll get yer breakfast,” was all he said as he did exactly what he’d scorned Meade for.
Left the girl alone.
Lord Cunningham had not joined her for breakfast in two days. He did not visit her chamber. Nor send a maid with a stack of books or magazines, as he had done other afternoons.
As if he had not thought of her at all.
Pacing back and forth along her bedchamber stained-glass window, Meg shook her head. This was ridiculous. The man had other matters to attend to, likely far more imperative than a pitiful ward. Had she imagined she would be the object of his attention ongoing?
No.
Of course not.
But she’d already thumbed through the lastLe Beau Mondemagazine, and if she had loved reading before, she despised it now. The room was stifling. Too many times, she’d wandered to the window and longed to push it open—but the old lancet design, with its sharp pointed arch, allowed for no escape.
A dull pain clustered along her forehead, where her cut still itched.
She needed to stay here. She must wait. For what, she was not certain—but she had as little right to leave this chamber, to explore the house, as she did to wear the silk and satin gowns hanging in her wardrobe.
If Lord Cunningham wished to see her, he would.
That was that.
But two hours later, after a maid had delivered dinner on a flower-painted tole tray, Meg abandoned her resolutions. She slipped into a hall fading dim with dusk, where newly lit wall sconces guided her way to the stairwell.
Her breathing slowed.
She scolded herself every step down, but a sense of familiarity—perhaps even pleasure—cloaked her. As if she had done this before. As if the nighttime, the darkness, was wont to luring her away and she was addicted to the thrill of untowardness.
What sort of girl was she?
At the bottom of the stairs, she slipped beyond two ionic pillars, moved left into a hall, and passed dark doorways until she reached one with a sliver of light.
His study.
She raised her hand to knock, thought better of it, and was just ready to scuttle back to her room when—
The door threw open. “I think you should look at—” Lord Cunningham stopped short, eyes widening. “Oh. Miss Margaret.” Something about him was different. No, not really. His hair was still intact, his tailcoat wrinkleless, his cravat knotted to perfection.
He backed into his study with a smile that seemed strained. “Forgive me. I was expecting someone else.”
“I did not mean to disturb.”
“On the contrary. You are just the intermission I am in need of.” He circled his desk, hurried shut a large leather book, and nodded for the door. “Shall we take a turn about the garden? It is near dark, but I imagine the moon shall suffice if we are brief.”
“I do not wish to take you from whatever business—”
“I need fresh air as much as you, my dear.”
