“Her ladyship said everything must be done to precision.” The maid motioned to the dressing table once Meg was fully adorned in the silk, flower-netted gown. “The papillote iron is already hot.”
Meg seated herself and stared in the oval mirror—watched as the limp copper hair transformed into tight, dramatic curls and a braided coil atop her head. She rubbed her eyes. Would Lord Cunningham notice they were swollen? She had not slept half the night. Even when she did, her slumber was restless.
Until the dream.
Somewhere between tossing and flipping her pillow upside down and glancing at the window to make certain no one lurked, sleep had conquered. She’d been somewhere strange. The edge of a cliff, early in the morning, with sea gulls gliding below sun-crested clouds.
She’d stared out across the sea and nearly stumbled.
Pebbles shifted under her feet.
Her body careened—
And then him. Tom McGwen, yanking her from the ledge, crushing her between his powerful arms and heart-racing chest. She told herself to push away. She should. She wanted to.
But at the same time … she did not want to.
She allowed him to kiss the top of her head, then her cheek, then her neck, then her lips. He was warm and soft. Sensations ruffled through her like the wind, staggering them closer to the cliff.
“Miss?”
Meg jerked. She glanced at her face in the mirror, touched her cheeks to will back the heat. Such a dream meant nothing.Tommeant nothing.
She knew enough of his character to be certain of that. Didn’t she? Then why was she still so affected by him?
The maid finished with her ministrations, and Meg hurried downstairs to the drawing room, where her new companion was said to be waiting. She took in a breath. There was no reason to be unsettled. Was there?
Inside the room, a slender woman turned from the window. Her hair was whitish blond, her wrinkles softened with powder, her sharp chin lifted in a posture of scrutiny. “You must be Miss Foxcroft.”
“Yes.” Meg took another step forward. She tripped on the rug. “I fear I have not yet the pleasure of knowing your n–name. Lord Cunningham has told me little.”
The woman smiled—regally, coolly—and approached Meg with her shoulders straight. Her dress was simple, white with delicate embroidery and a revealing neckline. She smelled of lemon and musk. “You bite your fingernails.”
Meg glanced at her hands with a burn of surprise. She had never noticed.
“Your back is not straight. You maneuver your steps with the ease and heedlessness of a brutish farmer.”
The insult left a slash of pain through Meg’s midsection. She stood straighter, eyes wide, but could not seem to tear her gaze from the woman.
“Your speech lacks practice, and your confidence is waning.” The woman leaned closer still and took a delicate sniff. “And you smell of the woods and stables. The worst of your failings yet.”
“Miss—”
“My lady, to you.” The woman’s jaw protruded. “Whenever you enter an occupied room, you must bow. Then you must sit. But you must never,neverstand here beyond the threshold, your poise forgotten, as if you had no sense at all.”
“I assure you, I have sense.” She bit the inside of her cheek, but it didn’t stop the zing of anger. “Where is Lord Cunningham?”
“He has departed on business for the day. In truth, I requested it. I cannot instruct you properly with members of the opposite sex observing us, as if this were all a game.” She smiled again. “It is not.”
“I fear you misunderstand.”
“No, I fear you do.”
“I have no intention of—”
“Under my hand, you will learn decorum, needlework, musical concepts, language, fashion—and most of all, the ability to conceal this preposterous show of emotion.” The woman nodded back to the door. “First, go upstairs and bathe. You will even your fingernails and you will powder your face against this ridiculous darkening complexation. It is clear no one has taught you anything.”
“I like the sun.”
