Touch the Sun (31 page)

Away from Meagan, Lion reviewed their argument in his mind and found that the more he thought of it, the angrier he became.

He had left her room without another word after she had flung that latest threatening ultimatum at him. If he could have produced a suitably scathing retort, he would have employed it, but as it was he had to try for the last word with a well-timed exit. In his haste Lion had forgotten discretion; fortunately no one else seemed to be about except for the inevitable housemaid scrubbing the front steps.

Back in his own rooms, he had again stripped off last night's clothes. The covers on the testered bed were neatly turned back; a brass bed warmer lay cold beneath them. Lion had thought to sleep for an additional hour or two, but his active mind betrayed a suddenly tired body. Wide-eyed, he had watched the sun come up until the sound of Wong's staccato patter in the hall reached his ears. The butler had been startled to hear his master bark an order for hot water at such an hour, especially when he knew that he had been out until very late the night before.

Now, clean-shaven and half-dressed, Lion yanked on supple riding boots, gripping the leather so hard that tendons stood out on his hands and wrists. Just who in the hell does she think she is? he wondered for the hundredth time. The chit is a blasted serving-girl and she's got me feeling guilty half the time for not treating her like the Queen of France, and the other half of the time I behave as though she is!

Standing up, he flicked an ash from his biscuit-colored breeches and reached for a fresh muslin cravat. As he tied it with swift, practiced movements, Lion stared into the mirror on his shaving stand, but his gaze was fixed on his own face. The lean line of his jaw hardened; his keen blue eyes took on an icy resolve. I'll be damned, he thought angrily, if I'll turn cartwheels for that little vixen! I should have known better than to ever turn soft toward any woman. She thinks she has me backed into a corner, but she'll learn yet that I am not so easily tamed—or bewitched!

He crossed the dressing room, and after donning a buff waistcoat with narrow walnut-colored stripes, he extracted a soft, nut-brown coat from the armoire. Superbly cut, it fit against without a wrinkle. He barely glanced in the mirror. Lion possessed an innate sense of himself and of classic style, focusing on his physical self only long enough to be assured that his body and the clothes that covered it were flawless. Thoughts in excess of those were a waste of time.

* * *

An irresistible aroma wafted out from the kitchen. Meagan rounded the corner to find Prudence, the young cook, crossing the floor with a tin of hot croissants. They were Lion's breakfast favorites and one of the girl's few specialties; exquisitely tender, the rolls were iced with sugar and loaded inside with plump raisins.

"Prudence! Are you aware of the time? Why have you baked the croissants so early?"

Blank, dishwater-gray eyes glanced up and the cook paused in the midst of transferring the rolls from pan to serving plate. "The master be awake," she replied.

"What do you mean? Has he requested breakfast in bed?"

"Nay. He be in the dining room, drinkin' coffee."

Meagan pondered this news as she moved about the kitchen, seeing that everything was organized for the day ahead. A tiny smile tugged at her lips as she realized he'd been too shaken to go back to sleep!

Her perversity did not extend to the point of ignoring Lion's order not to wear the black uniform anymore. Vanity had won out and she was now happily clad in the soft dove-gray gown she had worn the day they departed from Virginia. Crisp white ruching trimmed the deeply scooped bodice and elbow-length sleeves, and the soft gray fabric complemented her creamy skin while lending a smoky cast to her violet eyes.

An adolescent kitchen maid had materialized with a silver tray. As Prudence set Lion's breakfast on it, Meagan heard herself blurt, "I will take that in this morning. Do you have the butter?"

The other two females appeared rather startled as she whisked the tray away and departed. Entering the dining room, Meagan saw Lion from behind. He was totally absorbed in a copy of the
Pennsylvania Mercury,
eyes riveted to the fine black print as he absently sipped his coffee.

There were seven newspapers available in Philadelphia, staggered throughout the week so that one of them appeared each day. Lion subscribed to all seven, devouring the articles with total assimilation. So deeply involved was he now that even the tantalizing fragrance of the croissants did not break his concentration.

Meagan set the tray down and proceeded to lay a place before Lion and the paper barrier. It almost irked her that he hadn't noticed her presence, for she had rather fancied him to be in an emotional turmoil; it seemed that the
Mercury
provided a quick cure! Out of the corner of one eye, she noticed his handsome attire and gleaming sweep of hair now neatly refastened at his neck. Even through the smells of fresh ink, croissants, and coffee, Meagan could detect the masculine essence of the man, and hated herself for being so stirred by it.

Loudly she clattered silver against china, longing to pierce the newspaper with a fork. No reaction. She cleared her throat, then stamped a foot. The
Mercury
moved up a fraction. Meagan peeked under the table to locate Lion's leg and proceeded to deliver a sharp kick to one booted calf. Her thin silk slipper crumpled on impact; her toes felt as though they had struck some tree trunk and it took her last scrap of spirit to refrain from letting out a yelp.

"Is something bothering you, Meagan?" Lion inquired calmly, his face still hidden behind the newspaper.

Her throbbing toes combined with indignant chagrin to set her cheeks aflame as he snapped the
Mercury
into fourths and set it next to his coffee cup. One brow arched while his mouth twitched with ill-concealed amusement.

"Do sit down and catch your breath," he advised, yawning lazily as he stretched out an arm to pull the nearest chair away from the table. Meagan obeyed without a word.

Lion broke a croissant and buttered the middle, confident enough of his own advantage to allow her a moment to cool down. Then, taking a bite of the raisin-studded roll, he turned to meet her eyes and they measured one another in silence.

Several scalding rebukes hovered on Meagan's lips; she itched to wipe the self-satisfied smile from his face. However, she swallowed every epithet.

"Could you spare a few minutes?" she inquired primly. "I do want to discuss that household matter which I mentioned—"

"Never say that we still haven't gotten around to that! My dear Miss South, please do not leave me in suspense another moment!"

Pretending to ignore his mockery, she began, "It is about Prudence, your so-called cook. I suppose she is competent enough, but obviously there is much room for improvement. I would like your permission to hire someone with real skill—"

"I am flattered that you do not wish to share me... After all, the girl is at least as young as you are! However—"

Lion found it difficult to keep a straight face as he watched Meagan spring to take the bait. Gone was the stiff formality of moments before, replaced by hot cheeks and a familiar pulse at the base of her throat.

"Your conceit is ludicrous! Do you imagine that I could actually be jealous of that paper-brained ninny? Why—" She broke off, angry and humiliated, as she realized his game.

Lion proffered one of the remaining croissants. "I'm sorry; I shouldn't tease you." He chuckled softly. "Have a croissant. Prudence does have a way with them."

Meagan realized that she was ravenous. It seemed years since she had eaten.

"Thank you. Now, if you are done making sport of me, I would appreciate the opportunity to finish what I wanted to say,"

"I promise to behave."

"My idea is to keep Prudence in your employ; she can assist the new cook, for heaven knows there is ample work for two. You see, Lion, I happen to know that Mrs. Bingham is getting a French chef any day now, which means that Bramble will be demoted."

He let out a low whistle and raised both eyebrows. "Bramble! That woman's culinary talents are nearly as sharp as her tongue! And I'll wager that sheer vengeance would prompt her to leave the Binghams' flat out—even to work for a miscreant like me." One side of his mouth quirked. "Wouldn't Anne be in a state! It would almost be worth putting up with Bramble's dour manner just to watch Anne squirm."

"Honestly, you are as mischievous as a child." Meagan tried to sound disapproving, but a grin broke through. "I must agree, though... it would serve her right. If there were justice in this world, she would lose Bramble to us and then discover that her precious Frenchman was a clod in the kitchen!"

Lion tilted his chair back, and at the sight of his knowing smile, Meagan realized the telling slip she had made. Us. Well, let him gloat, she thought, while he still has the confidence to do so.

"This gown is a distinct improvement," he commented, appraising not only the dress but its wearer. "I have to go out this morning and will send Madame Millet to fit you for a new wardrobe." His gaze touched the swell of her breasts. "Though I heartily approve of this design, I do think we could use more color. Perhaps a bit of lace? Stripes? What is your opinion?"

"You are absolutely dissolute. A lecher.
That
is my opinion."

"Meagan dear, you are obviously still overwrought from your ordeal at the hands of Major Gardner."

"If you are suggesting that I have confused you with him, I suppose that is possible. You do have that one previously mentioned trait in common."

Lion's brushed a napkin across his mouth and stood up. "I do hate to leave in the midst of such a rousing spar, but the morning's duties beckon."

He inclined his head in farewell, but Meagan found herself trailing behind into the entry hall, unwilling to lose sight of him until the last possible moment. Though the sun shone outside, there was a bracing east wind from the river and vestiges of the night's frost still sparkled along the edges of the fanlight.

Lion turned at the door to face her. "Well..." he ventured, a trifle bemused by the artless way she had followed in his wake. "I shall do some discreet investigating today concerning Bramble. I'll let you know what I turn up and we can decide on a course of action."

"You might talk to Smith. She is the one who told me the secret plans for the French chef."

"Fine. I will if the opportunity presents itself."

Impulse urged him to take Meagan in his arms. Somehow he managed to force one hand to the doorknob, but as it turned, she caught his coat sleeve.

"Surely you aren't going out like
that?"

"Why? Did I neglect to fasten my breeches?"

"It is freezing and you must have a greatcoat! Gloves, and a hat—"

"You warm me well enough with your solicitous concern. It plays traitor to your frequent declarations of hatred, I think." He touched a finger to her blushing cheek. "You would bundle me up like an infant in its first winter?"

"I only wish that you would be sensible! I have no desire to nurse you through an illness."

"Ah—so your motives are selfish?"

"Lion, stop teasing me. You play like a cat with a mouse. Will you put on a coat or won't you?"

Opening the door, he gave Meagan a last grin that shot to her heart like a burst of sunfire. "No."

Bitter wind caught her skirts and sent goose bumps up her arms; then the door whipped shut and she was alone.

Chapter 26

Madame Millet breezed in like a tiny, fluttering moth. She was a blend of tans, from her drab brown hair to the hem of her nondescript taupe gown, but her warm manner attracted as many customers as the genius of her work.

Meagan was drawn to the woman instantly. They spent the entire morning closeted in her bedchamber as Madame Millet measured, then scrawled notes on a sheet of parchment. She had brought a voluminous bag that, once opened, seemed to overflow with material, most of which had been previously chosen by Lion.

Meagan soon perceived that the two of them were old friends. Madame Millet could not praise him enough; his generous nature made it seem natural to her that an ordinary housekeeper should be fitted for a wardrobe that more closely resembled a trousseau than anything else. Her enthusiasm for the task at hand was contagious and Meagan felt her spirits rise as the dressmaker described each potential gown in vivid terms.

The fabrics were perfect. Lion had chosen them with the same unerring taste that showed in his own clothing. There were silks in dusky shades of plum and blue, a light carnation-tinted muslin and several which were sprigged with flowers against white backgrounds. There were striped patterns; black and white, ivory and wine. Madame Millet showed her how a simple white muslin would become elegant with the addition of a wide sash of berry-tinted watered silk. She displayed samples of costly lace which Lion had chosen to grace the gowns as well as the underclothes that would match each creation. Meagan blushed as the little dressmaker detailed the bedgowns Lion had ordered, declaring that it was a stroke of brilliance on his part to think that they should be sleeveless and fashioned of the sheerest batiste.