Page 36 of Appointment in Bath

“The dinner is over,” Mr. Beresford said. “The gentlemen have retired to their cigars. Pinnock wishes to hire Ruggiero to teach his younger sons. They’re engrossed in a discussion about methods of instruction, and the vicar and Pinnock Jr. are halfway to planning the latter’s grand tour. I excused myself to check on my cattle. None of them know I’ve come after you.”

“What about Miss C-Colfax?”

“She’s withdrawn to the parlor. She’ll be awaiting you there.”

“Then I shall join her.” Meg slipped off his coat. Thrusting it into his hand, she moved to brush past him.

He caught her arm, arresting her step. “We’re not done with this conversation.”

“There’s n-nothing more to say.”

“Not here, no. But tomorrow. Meet me at Sefton Bridge at sunup. We’ll talk then.” His fingers curved around her silk-clad flesh in an insistent grasp. “And don’t shirk as you did the last two days.”

Meg’s eyes jolted to his, startled and uncertain.

“I waited for you,” he said gruffly.

Her heart gave a hopeful thump. She did her level best to ignore it. “It was raining. I-I c-couldn’t—”

“You could,” he said. “You will.” He loomed over her, refusing to release her until she’d agreed to see him again. “Tomorrow. Promise me you’ll come.”

“I-I—”

“Say, I promise you, Ivo.”

Meg could no longer disregard the pounding of her pulse. He’d never looked at her quite that way before. Great goodness, it was very near a smolder. She drew in a breath to refuse him, but a refusal didn’t emerge. “I p-promise you, Ivo,” she heard herself whisper instead. “Now let m-me go.”

Mr. Beresford’s hand fell from her arm. Meg didn’t wait for him to reply. She didn’t even look at him. Clutching her skirts, she fled back into the house.

Chapter Ten

The next morning, the minute the cold light of dawn had burned away the low-lying fog, Ivo was up and in the saddle, riding to meet Meg. He arrived at the river early. All the better to cool his blood. A good night’s sleep hadn’t done it. He’d been as aggravated when he woke up as he’d been when he retired. Aggravated with himself—and with her.

Not only had she thought the worst of him (understandably so), she’d provoked him into near incivility. She’d made him feel…

But lord only knew what he’d been feeling last night.

It hadn’t been friendly, that was for certain. Indeed, he’d thought for a moment, looming over her in the moonlight, holding her arm in his grasp, that he might bend his head and kiss her. The impulse had nearly overpowered him.

Dashed inconvenient.

The last thing he wanted was an entanglement. He was only three and twenty for God’s sake. And Meg was a Burton-Smythe!

It wouldn’t do. It simply wouldn’t. And yet…

He couldn’t let her go.

Ivo was pacing by the clapper bridge, slashing his riding crop among the frost-tipped undergrowth, pondering that very dilemma, when she arrived on her mare. She rode up to the same tree where he’d tied Rowena on the last occasion they’d met and dismounted without waiting for his assistance.

Relief coursed through him, obliterating what remained of his irritation. He’d suspected she wouldn’t come. He could scarcely have blamed her. She had every right to doubt his motives. And he meant to tell her so.

He strode up to meet her, coming to an awkward halt. “You came,” he said, rather stupidly.

Her face was pale beneath her freckles. “I promised I would.”

“And you keep your promises, of course,” he said. “I would expect nothing less.”

She didn’t reply, only looked at him. There were no shy blushes. No flustered stammerings. Just taut, unrelieved silence.