Her Favorite Duke (The 1797 Club #2)(6)

He’d often thought that same thing, but he never followed through. Maybe it was time to finally do what was right. He bent his head and stared at his fingers, clenched against the stone wall of the terrace. He’d have to make a good excuse to go. He certainly couldn’t tell Graham and James that he was desperately in love with Margaret.

He was still pondering that notion when he heard a faint sound echo from another part of the terrace. He turned, looking around as he did so. He was alone out here, or at least he’d thought he was. But now that he was attending, he heard more sounds. Sounds of…weeping.

He moved forward, toward the dark part of the terrace that was away from the windows and doors, around the corner and away from where anyone would easily find a person.

“Hello?” he called out as he stepped into the darkness and stopped, allowing his eyes to adjust now that light no longer filtered from the house. When they did, he gasped.

A woman sat at a table in the shadow of the house, her head resting down on her arms, and she was crying.

He rushed toward her. “I say, are you all right?”

For the first time, the unknown lady seemed to recognize his presence. She jerked her head up, turned her face toward him, and he screeched to a halt.

“Meg?” he whispered.

She didn’t rise, but just stared up at him, her eyes unreadable in the half-dark. “Of course it would be you,” she said, her voice thick with tears before she set her head back down.

He should have walked away. He should have gone inside and found her brother or her fiancé and let one of them comfort her as was appropriate.

But Meg had always been his friend as well as his obsession. And he wasn’t about to walk away in her time of need.

He took a seat at the table, sliding it closer so that their legs brushed beneath the tabletop. Slowly, gently, he slid an arm around her shoulders and guided her toward him until she rested her cheek against his chest.

She let out a shuddering sigh, and the feel of her moving against him shot through him, waking every nerve ending, forcing him to face how desperately he wanted and adored her.

“What is it?” he asked, shocked he could form words when he was so damned aware of her in his arms.

She lifted a trembling hand and rested it against his heart. She could probably feel it pounding, even beneath all the layers of his clothing. He certainly felt the pressure of each and every one of her slender fingers.

“It’s nothing,” she said, her tone a little calmer now. “I was just overwhelmed for a moment.”

He looked down at her and caught a whiff of the honeysuckle fragrance of her hair. God, how he loved that smell. He’d planted fourteen honeysuckle bushes around his estate in Crestwood five years ago just to have a tiny piece of her there with him.

“Did someone say something untoward to you?” he asked. “Because I’ll go in there and—”

She tilted her face up toward his and his heart stopped. Her lips were three inches from his. Close enough that he could feel the faint stir of her breath against his mouth. Close enough that kissing her would be easy.

He wanted to kiss her. He wanted to do more than kiss her.

She swallowed, her eyes going a little wild as she gently extracted herself from his arms, stood and walked out of the dark and into the safety of the light from the house.

“No one said anything,” she whispered, her voice barely carrying.

He should have thanked her for moving them back into safety. What he wanted to do instead was catch her by the velvet sash around her waist and draw her back into the corner.

He got up and followed her. “You and I have been…friends…for a long time,” he choked out. “You know you can tell me anything.”

She stared up at him, and then her hand moved. He watched it as she lifted it and pressed in against his chest once more. Her fingers slid up and she brushed just the tips along his jaw. There was no breath between them, no space, and in that moment, there were no lies.

He could see something he’d spent years convincing himself didn’t exist. Meg wanted him.

She pulled her hand away with a soft sound in the back of her throat and whispered, “I can’t tell you everything, Simon.”

“Meg,” he ground out, moving to take her hand.

Before he could, the door opened behind them. Meg spun away, turning her back to him, her slender shoulders lifting and falling on panting breaths.

“Ah, there you two are.”

Simon turned to smile as her brother stepped out onto the terrace with them. “James.”

“We’ve been looking for you. Come inside, will you? We’ve an announcement.”

Meg turned around and Simon caught his breath. She had composed herself to the point that no one would ever guess she had been weeping in the corner not five minutes before. She smiled brightly at her brother.

“Of course, James.” As she passed Simon, she shot him a brief look. “Thank you for the—for the talk, Crestwood.”

He nodded as he followed brother and sister into the house. “Of course, my lady.”

James took her arm, leading her toward the small dais where the orchestra was playing. When he said something, they stopped, causing the dancers to halt and turn toward the cause of their interruption.

James shifted Meg so that she was standing beside Graham on the dais, and took Emma’s hand, helping her into a place beside his own. Simon pushed through the crowd, coming closer as he tried to figure out what James could have to say. It was clearly a family announcement. Perhaps of Emma’s pregnancy? James had already told his friends the happy news, but was this the proper forum to make it clear to the world?