Then the curiosity shop. The building had been old, the shelves a little bowed, and the dull collection of useless trinkets had been anything but interesting. Tom had made it so anyway. Perhaps she should not admit that.
But it was true.
He had slipped on a glove puppet of Punch, mimicking the same rasping, swazzle-sounding voice that might be heard from a street show. She had shaken her head at him, tickled with mirth.
Side by side, they’d weaved through the clutter. He had plucked things off the shelves, made jesting remarks, laughed now and again.
All of it, everything they said, had been pointless and little.
Nothing like Lord Cunningham’s poems.
Or his medicinal knowledge.
Even so.She jabbed a pianoforte key with too much gusto. Tom was … well, fun.
“Is that what you think?”
Meg nearly fell from her seat as Lord Cunningham strode into the music room. Embarrassment warmed her cheeks, as if he’d comprehended her thoughts. Which he hadn’t, of course. Had he?
“Lady Walpoole, she plays the pianoforte with grave unhappiness.” Lord Cunningham moved behind her to inspect the sheet music. “Perhaps this is too difficult a piece for one who has never played anything.”
“I shall ask Tom.” Meg did not mean for the words to slip. “After all, we cannot be certain I was entirely without musical skill.”
“It is no mystery to me.” Lady Walpoole rose from her armchair, her grimace patronizing. “Good afternoon, my lord. I hope you have the afternoon free and might join me in encouraging Miss Foxcroft to exercise more patience.”
“She has every virtue. You cannot convince me otherwise.”
“Virtue without accomplishment is imbalanced.”
“But still beautiful.” Lord Cunningham swept Meg’s hand from the ivory keys. He kissed her knuckles. “In fact, I do indeed have the afternoon free and was hoping it would not be too troublesome for me to steal your pupil away.”
Lady Walpoole feigned a smile. “You are quite at your leisure, my lord. I have letters to finish in my chamber if my presence is no longer needed.” She curtsied. “Until dinner.”
When she had departed the room, all grace and easy movements, Lord Cunningham turned to Meg. He sank down to his knees, gathering her hands. “Violet tells me you have spent every night with her. I came here to scold you for being too kind, but now I want nothing more than to devour you.”
An odd vibration worked through her. Like a note she’d played wrong in an otherwise beautiful song. “Violet is lonely.”
“We are all lonely, my dear.”
“You should endeavor to spend more time with her.”
“My hours are devoted to her in other ways. She is not old enough to understand. You, of course, must see the need—”
“She is less in need of your study and more in need of your company, I think.” Meg gave his hands an encouraging squeeze. “I say this not to injure you, my lord. Only that you might not regret a moment passed when …” A dam constructed in her throat.
The same emotion mirrored in Lord Cunningham’s eyes. He lowered his head. Nodded. “You are right. Of course. You are all wisdom, and I am all fool.”
“Do not say such a thing.”
“Who was I until you came to me?”
“My lord—”
“I was betrothed at fourteen to the daughter of my father’s most substantial business acquaintance. We had known each other our whole lives, and she was as interested in science as I was in medicine.” He gazed over her face—from her chin, to her nose, to her eyes, to her lips, where he lingered too long. “We were compatible. We matched each other in both intelligence and sensibility, and though our hearts were not united with romantic fervor, we were both quite content without it.”
“You did not love her?”
“No.” He swallowed. “Yes. I do not know. I wept when she died, but more from loss of companionship than any true bereavement.” He released her hands. “You must think me terrible.”
