Page 68 of Appointment in Bath

And to you, he might have added.

Meg could practically hear the unspoken words echoing in the air around them.

His parents would object to her. And Ivo loved his parents. He would never go against them. Perhaps in small ways, such as meeting her for rides or calling on her father, but he’d never connect himself to the Burton-Smythes in any permanent capacity.

This was surely the reason he’d insisted they remain friends and only friends. Not because he didn’t care for her, but because he knew that anything else between them was impossible. She consoled herself with the thought, though it was poor comfort.

“I considered talking to my mother about it in advance,” he went on as he made short work of his cake. “To prepare the way, so to speak. But there’s been no opportunity. Christmas had everything in chaos. And now we’ve guests to contend with. I don’t expect things will calm down until they leave.”

Meg raised her porcelain teacup for another sip. “Guests?”

“A friend of my sister’s from London. A gentleman by the name of Lieutenant Charles Heywood. He’s the grandson of the Earl of Gordon.” Ivo dusted the cake crumbs from his hands. “He’s brought his younger sister, Miss Heywood, with him. A charming girl. She’s nearly as reticent in company as you were when first we met.”

Her lips stilled on the rim of her cup. She forced herself to continue drinking. The hot liquid scalded her tongue. It burned almost as much as the knowledge that Ivo’s family was presently entertaining a fashionable young lady.

“My sister has all sorts of activities scheduled for them. Rides, walks, cutthroat games of charades. She’s even planning a dance tomorrow evening.”

Meg’s chest constricted. She carefully lowered her cup back to its saucer. Somehow, she mustered a politely inquisitive smile. “A d-dance?”

He returned his empty cake plate to the tea tray. “Nothing formal. But there will be waltzing, I’m told.”

Waltzing.

The knot in Meg’s breast tightened on an inexplicable wave of sorrow. She wasn’t prone to self-pity, but…

She had never waltzed with a gentleman before.

Though she’d been taught the steps and could perform them creditably enough, she’d only ever danced with Miss Adams. To be sure, at the rate it was taking her father to come to a decision about her having a season, Meg despaired she’d ever properly dance with any man.

But she’d dearly love to dance with Ivo. Even if it was only just once. And even if it would only be as his friend.

She imagined him holding her in his arms as they moved across the floor. She was wearing her new apricot figured silk. It had just come back from the dressmaker yesterday—a simple but elegant gown made with a fan-pleated bodice. Not a ball gown, admittedly, but suitable enough for a dance in the country. Quite beautiful, really. If only…

Ivo studied her face. “You should come,” he said abruptly.

Meg sharply returned to the present, having lost the thread of the conversation. “I’m sorry. To where?”

“To Beasley Park. It would do you good.”

She stared at him blankly. She feared she hadn’t heard him correctly. “Are you inviting me to c-come to your sister’s party?”

“It’s not a party, as such. We’re just clearing the drawing room. But there will be dancing. I would have you be there for it, to partner me at least. We’re well short of ladies, and a fellow can’t spend the whole evening dancing with his mother and sister.”

“What about M-Miss Heywood?”

“Ahh. Miss Heywood.” Ivo’s eyes gleamed behind his spectacles. “I suspect—indeed, I very much hope—that she may do for my older brother.”

Meg blinked. His brother?

At one time or another, every girl in Maidenbridge, and surely in all the West Country, had set their cap for the gorgeous Viscount St. Clare. He’d been coolly indifferent to all of them, blind to their enticements and too clever for their traps. It was widely accepted that he would eventually marry a lady of extraordinary wealth, rank, and beauty.

“Miss Heywood m-must be very beautiful to tempt Lord St. Clare,” Meg remarked.

“Not as beautiful as you are,” Ivo said. “But she’s singular. Her eyes don’t match, for one.”

“Indeed?” Meg inquired faintly. How else was she to respond when he’d just told her he thought her beautiful?

“I daresay you’d like her,” Ivo went on, seemingly oblivious to the impact of his words. “She appears a genteel kind of girl, with no airs about her. And you already know my sister. Kate’s as jolly as they come, providing you don’t engage her in competition. My brother Jack is quite merry as well. He’ll gladly dance with you, too, if I relinquish your hand—which I won’t.”