Page 19 of Appointment in Bath

Her gaze briefly fell from his. She retreated another step, shaking her head. “P-please d-don’t tease me.”

“I’m not teasing. I wonder it myself. You’ve been excessively quiet on the two occasions we’ve met. Have you nothing to say to me?”

“I-I…” Her brows knit in frustration. “I stammer,” she blurted out at last. “In c-case you hadn’t n-noticed.”

An unreadable emotion softened his gaze. “I had noticed, actually.”

“Th-then you know why—”

“It’s charming,” he said at the same time.

She broke off. Butterflies materialized in her stomach, fluttering their wings like mad.

He studied her face. “Is it always this evident? Or does it grow easier on occasion?”

She didn’t answer. She was still trying to wrap her mind around the fact that he’d called her stammer charming. That he’d described her as lovely and mysterious. In all her life, Meg had never been complimented even once by a gentleman. And here was Ivo Beresford—a man who should be her enemy—showering her with an abundance of praise.

Offhand praise.

Just like his wink, it didn’t mean anything. It was all part and parcel of his enviable ease of manner. He had an effortlessness about him. A confidence bred into his bones. It allowed him to say whatever he wished to her and—very likely—to any other young lady he met.

She wondered how he might sound were he actually serious about one of them. Would his voice deepen to a rasp? Would his eyes smolder with feeling? Would he clasp his beloved’s hand and gaze soulfully into her eyes?

“I had a friend at Oxford who stammered,” he said, graciously overlooking the fact that she’d been rendered mute by his previous question. “Lewis Kitteridge. He was perpetually in fear of his funds being cut off. He used to stutter like a faulty steam engine whenever his father came to visit. Said it was on account of his nerves.” His mouth quirked gently. “Do I make you nervous, Miss Burton-Smythe?”

Meg saw no point in denying it. “A little,” she said. Surely it must be obvious.

“I see.” He seemed to consider her dilemma. “In that case… I suppose we shall have to cure your nerves the same way Kitteridge cured his.”

“How?”

“Proximity.”

She gave him a bewildered look.

“Kitteridge had to travel to India with his father. They were in each other’s company constantly for nearly six months. When Kitteridge returned to Oxford, his stammer was cured. He was no longer afraid of his father, you see. He’d got used to him.” Mr. Beresford’s smile broadened. “You shall just have to get used to me.”

Meg’s chin ticked up a notch. A prickle of indignation lent a tartness to her voice. “I c-can’t accompany you to India, sir.”

His eyes sparkled with appreciative humor at her rare display of sarcasm. “No, indeed. What would the villagers say? Not to mention your father.” He closed the growing distance between them. “Given the circumstances, we’re left with no other alternative than to simply continue our acquaintance in the manner in which it began.”

“Inauspiciously, you m-mean.”

“Not at all. You may have been down when I met you, but you got back on your mare, didn’t you? You’re a competent horsewoman. More than competent, I suspect. We can ride together in the mornings, if you like.”

Meg moved slowly toward Rowena. Now they were no longer discussing the bridge, she didn’t feel right to linger beside him on the ground. Never mind that her pulse was skipping wildly and her blood fizzing with excitement at the mere suggestion of the two of them meeting again.

“I’d be glad of some company,” he said.

“You m-must have lots of p-people to ride with. Your gr-groom or your friends from the village. Miss Colfax is a c-capable horsewoman. She—”

“I’d be glad of your company.”

Meg’s resolve weakened. “I c-couldn’t,” she repeated faintly, still edging toward her mare. “Forgive me, but…I must get b-back on my horse.”

“To ride with me?” he asked. “Or to run away?”

“I should run,” she said. “I fear I’m n-not brave enough to c-continue our acquaintance.”