Her Favorite Duke (The 1797 Club #2)(8)

She smiled at Emma before she returned to the instrument. “Let me play for you now, Mother.”

She took her place, set her fingers on the keys and began to play her mother’s favorite song. Emma let out a soft sigh before she walked over to join the dowager beside Meg. As Meg played, she could feel her friend’s stare burning into her back.

For once in the longest time, her mother had actually saved her from herself. From whatever would be caused if she lost her head and admitted her heart. Now as she played, she remembered herself.

Because she had to.





Many nights, for many suppers, Simon had been placed beside or across from Meg. He had played the role of her good friend for so long that everyone expected them to chat and smile and rib each other good-naturedly. Even in gatherings outside their inner circle they were sometimes placed together. It came so very naturally.

Except for tonight. Tonight was different. Meg sat beside him, but she was not engaging in conversation with him. She wasn’t smiling or laughing or teasing with him. She was staring at her plate, at her uneaten food, and seemed to be doing her level best to just get through this supper so she could leave his side.

That truth stung, especially after their intense encounter on the terrace two nights before. He’d thought it meant something. Now he wasn’t certain.

“You are avoiding me, Lady Margaret.”

She glanced up and met his stare, but her dark eyes darted away just as swiftly. “How can I avoid you when you loom up everywhere you go? Even now your elbow is in my space,” she said.

He would have smiled at her statement, for this was a conversation they often had. Of course normally her words were said playfully. It was a game. Tonight her voice was dull and her body language closed and turned away from him so it brought him no pleasure.

He moved the offending elbow slowly. “Are you looking forward to the games tonight?” he asked.

She jerked her face back toward him, her eyes lighting up with something akin to…anger. Meg was angry with him? Why? He had done nothing to her that he could recall.

“Shall we retire to the parlor for cards?” Emma said, rising with a smile for James. “The gentleman will take their port after.”

The crowd rose, pairing off as one did at these things. Simon glanced down to see Graham taking the Dowager Duchess of Abernathe’s arm, which left him free to escort Meg. He stood as she did, holding out his elbow.

“Walk with me?” he asked.

Once again there was a flicker of dark emotion across her face and she shrugged. “I suppose.”

She didn’t take his arm, though, as she had a dozen times, a hundred times. Instead she stepped out, trailing behind the others and leaving him to hustle to catch up with her. When he fell into step, he looked at her from the corner of his eye.

“Have I done something to offend you?” he asked.

She barked out a humorless laugh. “Never. Never once, Simon.”

He wrinkled his brow at her sharp tone. He didn’t understand it. He didn’t want it. “Meg,” he said, catching her arm and turning her toward him. “What is it?”

She blinked up at him, and once again there were tears sparkling in the corners of her eyes. She shook her head. “You are so blissfully unaware, Simon. I wish I could be like you.”

“What does that mean?” he asked, his tone sharpening as his defenses came up. Her voice was so strained, her expression so hard and accusatory, but she would not explain herself, only make veiled accusations.

She carefully pulled her arm from his grasp and took a long step back. “It means nothing, Simon,” she said with a sigh. “You have done nothing wrong. I am out of sorts. I apologize. Now I must catch up with the others. Just…just good night.”

He watched her as she turned away and hurried up the hallway. He bent his head, uncertain if he should follow and continue this conversation or let her go. It was obvious she wanted nothing to do with him at present.

“Going to stand there all day or do you want to sneak into the parlor and have a bit of a drink with me?”

He turned to find Robert Smithton, Duke of Roseford, grinning at him. Once more Simon looked down the hall where Meg had gone, then he shrugged.

“It might be more fun than watching the games,” he said.

“Might? You underestimate me, Crestwood,” Robert said as he slung an arm around Simon’s shoulder and all but dragged him to one of the adjoining rooms.

Simon shut the door as Roseford went to the sideboard and bent to shift the bottles beneath around. When he found what he sought, he let out a triumphant cry and lifted the bottle.

“Abernathe’s best scotch,” he said. “The one he hides away for special occasions.” With a wicked grin, Robert poured them both a large portion and then set the bottle aside.

“And what special occasion are we toasting?” Simon asked, trying to drag his thoughts from his encounter with Meg and failing.

“The fact that when Abernathe comes in here and sees the bottle nearly empty, he’ll curse our names?” Roseford teased. Then he lifted his glass with a shrug. “Or we could toast Northfield’s upcoming marriage to Margaret, if you prefer to be more traditional.”

Simon didn’t lift his glass but took a long slug of the scotch wordlessly. Roseford arched a brow as he did so and then took his own sip. “You’re pouting, Crestwood.”