Page 45 of Appointment in Bath

Her father leaned back in his chair. “So, this is why he’s paying you attention. He’s using you to get to me.”

Meg bristled with indignation. “It’s n-not always about you! There are other concerns in the world. If you would b-but stop thinking of yourself for f-five minutes—”

“You mind your impertinent tongue, girl,” he growled.

“It isn’t impertinent to t-tell you to stop indulging your own vanity.”

“By God, if this is a Beresford’s influence—”

“It’s a Burton-Smythe’s influence!” Meg’s temper exploded in a startling conflagration, burning away what remained of her timidity, and taking her stammer along with it. Before she knew it, she was on her feet. “Your blood is what runs in my veins, not Beresford blood. My temper is entirely owing to you. You passed it to me by birth and it’s you who’s provoking it!”

His brows elevated to his hairline.

She belatedly realized she was shouting. A dizzying sense of her own feminine power struck her. She felt a trifle giddy.

No one ever shouted at her father. Not even Roddy during his worst fits of temper. Indeed, Roddy had preferred to leave England entirely rather than stand up to Sir Frederick. That Meg should be the one to do so now, despite her years of timidity, was shocking to them both.

“I don’t mean to be disobedient,” she said, “but I won’t let you bully me any longer. I am your daughter.”

He stared at her as though seeing her for the first time. “So it would seem.”

“And I am n-no fool,” she added for good measure. “Though I am only just out of the schoolroom. And though I haven’t seen anything of the world.”

His mouth curled in a perturbed frown. He glanced down at the letter he’d been writing. “This is to an employment agency in London. I write to inquire after another governess for you.”

Meg’s temper sputtered out like a vanquished candleflame. “Another governess?” She formed the hated words, but no sound came out to voice them.

“After learning of your dinner with that Beresford boy, it seemed to me you were in desperate need of one. Miss Adams has been gone but half a year, and look at you.” He regarded her, his frown deepening. “Just look at you.”

She unclenched her fists, using her damp palms to smooth her skirt. “Nothing is wrong with me. I am as God—and m-my family—has made me.”

“So you are,” he muttered. Abruptly, he crumpled up the letter.

Meg held her breath. She didn’t dare ask his motives. And he made no effort to explain them.

“My leg is aching,” he grumbled. “Have Church send for Spragg. The bottle of tonic he’s given me has only a single drop remaining.”

“Yes, f-father.”

“As for that Beresford boy…” He tossed the crumpled letter into the hearth. It burst into flame, swiftly shriveling away to ash. “You may tell Colfax to send him to me after Christmas. I’ll speak with him then. But not in a secretive roundabout fashion, with that damned vicar providing neutral ground. If young Ivo Beresford desires words with me, he can apply at the front door of Letchford Hall.”

Chapter Twelve

The next morning, the first flakes of snow fell on the frozen West Country landscape, as delicate as white gossamer feathers fluttering down to earth.

Ivo met Meg at the river. They didn’t dismount this time. It was too cold for walking, much to Ivo’s regret. He’d have liked to hold her hand again. To smell the faint fragrance of her rose perfume. Instead, he settled for a gallop across the moor, the two of them neck-and-neck, both laughing as the wind whipped at their faces.

It was only after they’d slowed to a walk to rest their horses that she told him about her interview with her father.

At least, she told him what she deemed fit to tell him. Ivo had the distinct suspicion the interview hadn’t been as pleasant as she conveyed.

“So, he’ll see me?” he asked.

“He will.”

“All he requires is that I stop by the Hall?” It was hardly a concession. Indeed, it was what Ivo had intended to do in the first place.

“Yes. That’s all. But it must be after Christmas. He enjoys the holiday too much to allow commercial matters to intrude. He doesn’t ever entertain business until after Twelfth Night.”