Page 17 of Appointment in Bath

“I’ll think on it,” he said dismissively. “In the meanwhile, focus your attentions closer to home.”

It wasn’t a suggestion. It was an unmistakable command.

She realized then with a startling clarity that he had no intention of financing a season for her next year. He meant to keep her here, an unhappy prisoner to his whims, rather than risk her shaming him in the ballrooms of London or Bath. He was embarrassed by her, just as he’d been by her mother.

The spark of temper in Meg’s veins lit into a full flame. Focus her attentions closer to home? “I shall,” she promised him. “Indeed, I shall.”

Chapter Five

Still simmering over the conversation she’d had with her father, Meg woke the next morning, resolved to ride out to meet Mr. Beresford even if it should be raining hailstones. Fortunately for her—and for the temperamental Rowena—the weather proved a good deal more pleasant than that.

The rain had ceased and the dense, wet fog that blanketed the hills was gradually lifting. Frost hollows still lingered in the valleys, the result of icy air collecting overnight, but the sun was making short work of them. With luck, there would be a few hours of brightness before the West Country winter wrapped its chilly fingers back around them.

She arrived at the river to find Mr. Beresford waiting. He wasn’t on his horse, however. He was standing on the riverbank admiring the bridge. His white stallion was tethered nearby.

Observing her riding up, Mr. Beresford smiled broadly. “Miss Burton-Smythe. I’d hoped you would find your way to joining me.”

A ray of sunlight glinted off something silvery metallic on his face.

Goodness. He was wearing his spectacles.

Warmth curled in Meg’s belly. She believed she liked him better this way. He was still handsome, but somehow more approachable. “Is anything the m-matter?” she asked.

“Nothing at all,” he said. “I was riding along, and seeing as how you weren’t here yet, I thought I might as well have a look at the bridge.”

“You’ve seen it b-before.”

“Many times. I never cease to marvel. Here.” He beckoned. “Come and look.”

She bit her lip. Riding with a gentleman alone was one thing, but dismounting and walking with that gentleman was another matter entirely. A young lady was safe on her horse. She couldn’t be kissed. She couldn’t be ravished.

Though Mr. Beresford wasn’t likely to attempt either where Meg was concerned.

Telling herself not to be so silly, she swung her leg over the pommel. Before she could hop from her sidesaddle, Mr. Beresford appeared. He reached up to help her dismount.

“Thank you,” she said breathlessly, determined not to blush as his hands closed around her waist and lifted her gently to the ground. Her half boots sank into the mud.

Mr. Beresford took charge of Rowena. He secured the mare to a tree, narrowly avoiding being bitten. “Mind your step,” he said to Meg. “The ground is infernally marshy out here. You risking ruining the hem of your pretty habit.”

Meg self-consciously smoothed a hand over her skirts. It was her best riding habit, made of chocolate-brown Venetian wool trimmed in a dark mink velvet. The village tailor had cut the jacket daringly closer to her figure to emphasize the curves of her bosom and waist. She’d worn it precisely because she was meeting Mr. Beresford.

Not that anything she owned could compete with the effortless loveliness of the vicar’s daughter. It was a dispiriting fact. One worsened by Meg’s own overactive imagination. How easy it was to envision Mr. Beresford’s reaction to meeting the angelic Miss Colfax!

Returning to her side, he offered his arm. “Allow me.”

Meg accepted his assistance gratefully. He led her down the bank, slowly and carefully. The muscles of his bicep were solid beneath her fingers. His greatcoat smelled of sandalwood and leather. Or perhaps it was his own scent—his shaving soap very likely. It was a thrillingly intimate detail. One she’d never have noticed had she not been this close to him.

“It’s rumored to have been built during the Bronze age,” he said, bringing her up to the edge of the water. The ancient stone clapper bridge spanned the river in front of them, over twenty feet across. “The thirteenth century is a more accurate guess.”

Meg reluctantly released his arm. Her boots stuck firm in the mud. She was in no danger of slipping. “I’ve heard p-people say it was built by the d-devil.”

He grinned. “I’ve heard that, too. Apparently, Satan constructed it for a wager. Locals are only allowed to cross by his leave or risk having their souls stolen away.”

“Do you believe that?”

“Not in the slightest. I’ve crossed this bridge countless times, and my soul is still intact.” A smile twinkled in his eyes. “At least, I think it is.”

She ventured a timid smile in return. “I don’t believe it either. Still…I’ve only ever crossed it once. I was eight years old, and I took care to walk very quickly.”