“I shall be but a moment.”
In his absence, more strangers were already closing in on her. She murmured excuses. With her forehead thundering, she squeezed past shoulders and bumped her way toward a green-curtained window.
She turned her back to the room, to the music, to everyone.
Then he was there.
Close enough that his stance, as she turned, blocked out the turmoil of the ballroom.
“How dare you come here and follow me.”
“Ye ought to dance, Meg.”
“What?”
“I said ye ought to dance.” His jaw tightened as he looked away, then back to her face. Candlelight danced on his features. He was a stranger, yes—but here, amidst all these faces she’d never seen—he was a faint anchor to familiarity. “Ye said ye always wanted to, so ye ought to do it.”
“I would no sooner dance with you than I would—”
“I didnae ask ye to dance with me.”
“Margaret.” Behind Tom, Lord Cunningham strode forward with a sloshing goblet of lemonade. He pressed it into her hand with narrow eyes. “Everything is well, I presume?”
She hesitated.
Tom answered instead, “Everything is well.” Then he was gone, weaving back through the crowd, disappearing into the muted colors of age-faded dresses and drooping feathers.
“It escaped my notice he was in attendance, else I would not have abandoned you.”
She took a shaky sip of the lemonade. The sour, tangy liquid nearly choked her. “I wish to go home.”
“Then hehasdistressed you.”
“No.”
“This must cease.” Lord Cunningham started forward, but she grasped the sleeve of his tailcoat and skirted in front of him. Lemonade spilled.
“No. It is not him. It is … everything.”
“I shall not allow him to torment you with each new encounter.”
“He did nothing unkind to me.”
“He is dangerous.”
“You do not know that.”
“Yes, Margaret. I know more of the man than you think.” Lord Cunningham breathed a resigned sigh, his shoulders deflating. “Nevertheless, I am not so unwise, nor so unkind, as to burden you with that now. If you wish to go home, we shall depart immediately. Now finish your drink, and I shall send the servant to prepare the carriage.”
Lost.The word cut through her as she backed against the wall, drained her goblet, and waited for Lord Cunningham to return. She should not have come. Lord Cunningham had encouraged that the event might cheer her. That greeting those she once knew might pour light into the darkness of her mind.
He was wrong.
Shewas wrong—for coming, for imagining she could step back into her old world and somehow still belong. What was the matter with her? How could this happen?
She curled her fist and resisted the urge to scream, hunt down Tom McGwen again, and demand he tell her who she was. Who shereallywas. Why she felt so lost. Terribly, unbearably lost.
“The carriage awaits.” Lord Cunningham returned and took her hand in his gloved one. “This way.”
