Page 20 of Appointment in Bath

It was the truth. Despite her show of boldness today, Meg feared her father’s wrath. She feared the condemnation of the servants. She even feared the inevitable reaction of Mr. Beresford’s family. Indeed, sometimes it seemed as though she’d spent the whole of her life afraid.

But it was a real enough fear this time. If anyone ever found out she was meeting Mr. Beresford—or any gentleman—in secret…

“Nonsense,” he said. “You’re made of sterner stuff than you realize. Here. I’ll prove it to you.” He held out a large, black-gloved hand. “Cross the bridge with me.”

* * *

Ivo didn’t expect Miss Burton-Smythe to acquiesce immediately. And she didn’t. Indeed, she backed away from him so quickly that her bootheel slid in the mud. She quickly recovered her footing.

“I c-couldn’t,” she said, continuing her retreat.

Ivo followed her, patiently, unhurriedly, his hand still extended. He felt rather like Apollo pursuing Daphne through the wood. A slow pursuit. Miss Burton-Smythe would have no need to turn herself into a laurel tree to escape him.

“You must want to,” he said. “Why else do you ride this way so often?”

She withdrew another step. “Just because I like looking at the bridge d-doesn’t mean I want to t-tempt the d-devil.”

“We all want to tempt the devil on occasion.” He turned his hand palm up in invitation. “Sefton Bridge crosses the Barle, not the Styx. It’s only a pile of stones. That’s what clapper means in the medieval Latin. It’s nothing to be afraid of.”

She came to a halt. “I’m n-not afraid.”

Ivo’s heart ached a little for her. She plainly was. Though why he should trouble himself with bolstering her confidence, he didn’t know. It wasn’t why he’d come here this morning. He’d wanted to see her again, yes, but his purpose hadn’t been to compliment her or to coax her into action. It was her father Ivo needed to coax.

Sir Frederick’s support of the railway scheme would be integral to its success. And what better way to engage that support than to befriend the man’s daughter? It didn’t hurt that Ivo had already scraped an acquaintance with the girl.

Or that he liked her.

And he did like her.

“Then come with me,” he said. “We’ll walk to the other side and then back again. I promise you, you’ll return quite another person.”

She gave a huff of unwilling amusement. “Because the devil will have stolen my soul away!”

Ivo laughed. She had an unexpected sense of humor. It was hidden just beneath the surface, only emerging when he’d goaded her. It made him want to goad her all the more.

“No,” he said. “It’s because you’ll have faced what you feared. Every time we do so, we emerge stronger from the experience. It’s a proven fact.”

A disgruntled expression crossed her face, even as she reluctantly slid her hand into his. “Proven b-by whom?”

His fingers engulfed hers. “By me.”

She inhaled a deep breath. “I have crossed it once b-before in my life.”

“Yes, I know. When you were eight.” He led her up onto the first granite slab. The river rushed swiftly below. The water was high from the recent rains, rippling and splashing over the frost-tipped ferns, reeds, and outcroppings of rock. “You must have been a daring child. I expect your nanny despaired of you.”

Miss Burton-Smythe followed him slowly, holding tight to his hand. Her grip was strong for a lady. Especially one as lithe and elegant as she was. Her snugly cut riding habit skimmed the curves of her figure, its heavy winter wool and thick cording doing nothing to disguise the winsome, long-limbed shape of her.

He’d told her she was lovely. It had been the kind of empty gallantry that fashionable gentlemen dispensed as easily and as thoughtlessly as breathing. It was only after Ivo had said it that he’d realized how thoroughly he meant it.

She was lovely. Her mass of curling hair. Her blushing cheeks. Those China blue eyes, both hesitant and eager by turns. And that figure! She was fashioned in the mold of a Renaissance painting. Botticelli’s Venus, perhaps. Or the striking red-haired lady—shown both with and without her gown—in Titian’s depiction of Sacred and Profane Love.

But Ivo didn’t want to think of Miss Burton-Smythe with no clothes on.

He refused to countenance that rogue corner of his brain that was already imagining her with her hair tumbling down around her bare shoulders. That was already wondering whether the liberal gold-dusting of freckles that covered her face and throat covered all the rest of her as well.

Scandalous, unworthy thoughts. He had no intention of acting on them.

“I was exceptionally well behaved,” she informed him.