Page 89 of Appointment in Bath

Meg felt a distinct twinge of guilt. “Father.”

Sir Frederick rose with the aid of his cane. Whatever Miss Adams and Mrs. Philips had said to him had done little to assuage his anger. His eyes blazed as he looked at Meg. But there was something else in his expression too. It lurked there, a shadow so faint, she might not have recognized it if she hadn’t been regarding him so fixedly.

It was relief.

“I would have a moment of privacy with my daughter,” he ground out.

Miss Adams and Mrs. Philips stood. “Ring the bell if you require me,” Miss Adams said to Meg. She curtsied to Meg’s father. “Sir Frederick.”

“Sir Frederick.” Mrs. Philips inclined her head to him before withdrawing from the room with Miss Adams.

Meg sat down in the empty chair across from her father. Her spine was very straight, her hands folded in her lap. She maintained her composure through sheer strength of will. “Do sit, father,” she said. “You shouldn’t b-be on your feet.”

Sir Frederick remained standing a moment, fingers clenched, white-knuckled, on the carved ebony knob of his cane, before he grudgingly lowered himself to the settee. “Have you anything to say for yourself?”

“No, sir.”

“No excuses? No pleas for forgiveness?”

“N-No.”

He stamped his cane onto the floor with a resounding thwack. “Impudent girl!”

She held his gaze. “If I am, you’ve driven m-me to it.”

“I? I drove you to Beasley Park? Into the arms of a Beresford?”

“The Beresfords have nothing to do with m-my being here,” she said.

He leaned forward in his seat. “Do you think me soft in the head, girl? I suppose it was a coincidence that you fled to Bath at the first opportunity after attending their infernal party.” His expression darkened. “If that Beresford boy has offered you the slightest insult—”

“He hasn’t,” she said at once.

“Then what?” A dawning look of understanding came over him. “Don’t say you’re infatuated with the lad.”

Meg’s cheeks burned, but she gave no answer. Her feelings for Ivo were too raw. The last thing she wanted to do was discuss them with her father.

“And he doesn’t return your regard?” Her father uttered a derisive snort. “I might have predicted it.”

The words sent a crack through Meg’s rigid composure. “Because I’m so lacking in grace or charm?” she retorted. “Yes, I know very well what you think of me, sir.”

“You know nothing. If that boy has shunned you, it isn’t because of you. It’s because he’s his father’s son. The whole world smiles upon him. And in exchange, does he respect his betters? Does he behave as he should to a young lady of good family? To my daughter, by God!”

“Ivo Beresford did nothing to me. He was respectful and kind. He was—” She broke off, her voice fracturing on a spasm of emotion. “He is m-my friend.”

“No friend would have permitted you to traipse across the darkened countryside unescorted in the snow, merely to attend his family’s party.” Her father’s face reddened with anger at the very idea of it. “Oh yes, my girl. Church and Stapleton have told me all.”

“If you must know,” Meg said, “he offered to send a carriage to collect me at Letchford Hall. It was my idea to sneak away as I did. It had nothing to do with him and everything to do with you.”

Her father’s brows flew up to his hairline. “My fault, is it?”

“Your hatred for his family is a p-poison. You’ve poisoned m-me with it all my life. From birth, you inflicted it on me. Even m-my name is not my own.”

Her father failed to conceal a flinch. “That tiresome charge again,” he grumbled. “Margaret is a common enough name.”

“I know why you gave it to me. You admitted it yourself.” She gazed at him, her mouth tugging downward. Years of suppressed hurt threatened to break through. “How was I ever to thrive without an identity of m-my own?”

Her father looked back at her. Conflicted emotion warred with the depths of his gaze.