“Do not say anything yet. We have both endured much, and to make any decision on so irrational a mind would be criminal.”
“I fear I have encouraged you when I—”
“Indeed. You have.” He slipped a finger under her chin, lifted her face to him. “But only because, whether you wish to admit it or not, you have thought of this too.”
Was he right?
Days flashed across her memory. Sitting next to Lord Cunningham, smelling cinnamon, lulled by the rhythm of his deep-voiced poetry readings. The picnic. Dancing with him. Laughing with him—her one friend in a world of strangers.
Yes, she had thought of it too.
The realization soured through her like curdling milk.
“A maid is already on her way. You must promise to do nothing but sleep.”
The one thing she felt certain she could not do. Not now. She nodded anyway. “As must you.”
“We shall speak again after breakfast.”
“Very well.”
“All shall be resolved.”
“Yes.”
“Good evening, my dear.” With a firm kiss to her forehead, he departed down the corridor, his footsteps echoing in a discordant beat.
Meg shut herself inside. When the maid knocked several minutes later, she did not answer. Instead, she dropped to her hands and knees, coaxing out the white-and-orange kitten hidden beneath the bed skirt. What had Tom called the thing?
Pippins.
Ridiculous name. She’d taken to calling it Marigold instead, something sensible and pretty—but now, she found herself murmuring, “Come here, Pippins. I shan’t hurt you.”
The kitty poked out its head, eyes wide, ears flat. With a meow, it darted out from the bed and zoomed across the room. Then under theescritoire.Then slowly, toward Meg’s outstretched hand.
After several sniffs, the furry creature allowed Meg to hold it against her body. She had touched the thing so little. She had even been so negligent as to allow her maid the duty of feeding and watering—because accepting the creature had seemed somehow like accepting Tom.
More guilt swamped her. She stroked the kitten harder, until the bedchamber window turned dark and the kitten purred in sleepy contentment.
Breakfast. Tomorrow.Her mind hurt. Her body hurt.Marriage.She tried to imagine what she would say to him—what dress she would wear downstairs, if her fork would tremble, or if she would drink of her morning cocoa without the faintest flinch.“You have thought of this too …”
A noise in the distance. A faraway rider.
Dr. Bagot?
No. He had never arrived in anything but a carriage.
Taking Pippins with her, Meg rushed out into the corridor and found a window not colored with the isolating stained-glass pattern. She brushed back the curtains, but had no view of the entrance drive.
Tom.The thought drove her to the stairs. She padded down them without a light, nearly stumbled, and winced when the kitten’s claws pricked her chest in fear.
In the anteroom, the shadow of the butler was just pulling shut the door, his light flickering from the gust of night air. “Miss Foxcroft.”
“Who arrived?”
“Why, no one, miss.” He smiled, candlelight glimmering off his walrus-ivory dentures. He swept something behind his back. “In truth, I was just ready to depart for bed. May I assist you back to your chamber?”
“Tom McGwen was here.” She stepped closer. “Wasn’t he?”
