She was a woman with unnatural curls.
In a dress too low at her chest.
On the arm of a man she would have laughed at, with Tom, only weeks before.
“Tickets, sir.”
Tom handed them over, and when the entrance door squeaked open, caught his first sight of Meg’s glittering silver gown in the crowd. He couldn’t move his feet. Or his gaze.
His precious Meg was a stranger.
And all she would see was a man in plain brown clothes with an improper beard—who had nothing in the world worth making her look twice.
CHAPTER 9
Everyone stared at her. She bumped shoulders with too many people. The white-haired woman—Mrs. Whalley, she said—with loud exclamations of sympathy on her negus-scented breath. “Heaven be merciful, but with all the dilemmas you are always getting yourself into, I thought certain you had finally met your demise.”
Another woman, thinner, quieter, with spectacles. “I am Alice Grier. From the bookstore—”
“Miss Foxcroft.” This time a gentleman. Large, wearing a ridiculous periwig, with wafer crumbs spilled on his tailcoat. “As justice of the peace here in Juleshead, I wish to offer you my sincere condolences. Mr. Foxcroft was a good man, and his benevolence to this parish will not be forgotten …”
Then him, standing in her line of vision.
Tom McGwen.
A surge of too many emotions welled insider her. Anger that he had come. Relief, almost, that he had.Absurdity.She clawed the thought away and resisted the pull to chance another glance at him.
He had trimmed his beard shorter to his face, and the hair, usually a little wind tousled, was combed carefully in place. His cheeks were gleaming and clean, if not a little sun kissed. He wore finer clothes than she’d seen hitherto—black breeches and a simple brown frock coat—and she scolded herself for noticing the strength tightening his sleeves.
Blood hastened to her face as she tightened her grip on Lord Cunningham’s arm. “I—I know none of these people.”
“You are doing tremendous.” His encouragement was cut off by another gentleman and his wife, who pressed close to Meg and asked her too many questions about fire and injury and a night she had no memory of.
“I fear Miss Foxcroft prefers not to speak of anything so somber.” Lord Cunningham guided the conversation to safer topics—the weather of late and how in need of repair the roads were after so much spring rain.
The conversation droned in her ear.
She squirmed.
For the second time, now farther way, Tom McGwen’s gaze collided with hers. He stood on the other side of the ballroom, leaning against the timber-beamed wall with a young girl clinging to his hand.
Couples passed between them.
A few grating fiddle notes struck the air.
The haze in the room thickened, as if more than one gentleman were puffing on his pipe—but every time the space between her and Tom McGwen was clear, his eyes remained on hers.
She excepted him to come barreling toward her, but he didn’t.
Why?
“Remind me to cease being so sentimental.” Lord Cunningham dropped the words in her ear as the couple finally sashayed away to join the set. “These assembly balls are far more rustic and unbearable than my childhood memory recounts. Are you well?”
She nodded, but she wasn’t.
“Are you hungry? I have been once already to the supper room, and I fear there is not much to entice save a few wafers, pistachio prawlongs, and as many bruised fruits as you can imagine.” His lips grazed her ear. “But perhaps orgeat lemonade?”
“Yes.” Her throat was tight. Her slippers tight. The skin on her face tight. “Lemonade, please.”
