The unexplainable need to draw closer to the bed, nurture her, stir medicine, cool fevers, cure the illness … well, it was near choking. Had Meg assisted her uncle before the fire? Was tending bedsides second nature to her?
“How old are you?” Violet asked, as if expecting the information returned.
Meg hesitated. How old had the newspaper read? “Nineteen.”
“Father is two and thirty.”
“Though much younger in heart,” he assured.
The child tilted her head at Meg. “How long do you plan to stay?”
“I am not yet certain.”
“Father says he shall never marry again, but if I ask him to, he will. Won’t you marry him, please?”
“Oh.” Unexpected heat scorched the tips of Meg’s ears. The very idea. “I do not think—”
“Because I do so wish to have a party. No one gets married without one, do they? We might have cake and ice sculptures and lemon syllabub—”
“If you wish lemon syllabub, I shall have Cook prepare you a dish tomorrow,” said his lordship.
“But I want a party.”
“I fear the doctor would not be fond of such a scheme.”
“He is terrible. He spoils everything. I hate him too.” Violet yanked the coverlets over her head, and though Lord Cunningham attempted to coax her out again, she refused to budge. With a reluctant kiss to her blanketed form, he led Meg back into the hall, where he expelled a breath.
“You must forgive her temperament. It is only the illness that makes her so disagreeable.”
“Certainly.” Meg smiled to assure him, though something nagged at her. “She is rather a brilliant child, I think.”
“Yes. As was her mother.” He cleared his throat, and a rare flush of embarrassment extended beyond his cravat. “Of course, you are in no wise bound to wed me for the sake of lemon syllabub and ice sculptures.”
Meg laughed away the words. “You need not worry. I shall deter her against the nonsense at every opportunity.”
She expected him to agree, to make known his own mission to pacify his daughter by other means. But his eyes stayed still on Meg, heavy and focused and portraying a message that dropped her stomach in unease.
As if his daughter’s request were not nonsense at all.
The high-pitched meow echoed throughout the anteroom.
“Shh.” Tom cradled the clawing kitten back under his coat flap. “Quit yer whining or I’ll let Meade feed ye to the dogs yet.” He brushed away the orange-and-white hairs from his vest—and frowned. He never paid his clothes much mind. Before, it never mattered when he snagged a hole in his trousers, because he’d always gone that evening to Meg and she had patched it up. He never cared when his shirts bleached duller in the sun or when the sleeves were a little frayed, because Meade was always soot stained and Meg usually had no shoes and no one seemed to notice anyway.
Here was different.
He leaned against the pristine wall, next to a cherub-sculptural column, on floors that were black-and-white squared marble. Discomfort scratched through him. He combed his hands through his beard, then his hair, for the hundredth time.
He should have worn his Sunday waistcoat.
Or polished his boots.
“Mr. McGwen.” The squinty-eyed butler returned, sneezed for the third time, and motioned Tom to follow.
Their squeaking footsteps matched the pound of his chest. Sweat dampened his back, as the ornately carved drawing room doors swung open and the butler announced him.
Wiggling the kitten closer, Tom strode inside. The room swallowed him. Grandeur colors, the suffocating scent of roses, gilded mirrors, and intricate wall murals.
Then Meg.
