Chapter 21 #2
Finally she broke herself from the spell and led him to the portrait gallery for the amber chintz dressing the windows, cascading ceiling to floor in a leafy pattern.
Mr. Sloan picked up the fabric. “There are a dozen colors here, hours upon hours of work.”
“Lovely.” Meg turned to keep herself from staring at him and came face to face with the portrait of her father. She stepped back and crunched Mr. Sloan’s foot with her heel. “Pardon me,” she said, tripping backward.
Mr. Sloan’ hands came around her waist, steadying.
Once she obtained balance, his fingers retreated, sweeping across her ribcage, his touch imprinted in lingering warmth.
How easy to forget the barriers she’d constructed between them.
She wished them away, wished to pull down impediments that kept her from leaning into him, to erase her actions that made any further intimacy an impossibility.
That house, a place so grand and infused with love as to feel almost enchanted, tempted her to forget all contracts between them and the breaking of those bonds. Inside that moment, she could pretend they were not neighbors, not master and apprentice, merely a gentlewoman with a dear friend.
His attention fell to the portrait of her father. “Do you have family beyond Samuel?”
“Is this your attempt at subtlety, Mr. Sloan?” she asked, her tone teasing.
His laugh bloomed in her chest. “I apologize. I have no business asking.”
Recklessly, she wanted to share herself with him, impart the secret she could not confide in anyone else. “That is my father. I knew him but little. His son is the better man.”
Mr. Sloan tore his scrutiny from the portrait and stepped away.
“I do not mind,” she said. “Examine it to your heart’s content, compare me to my father as much as you please. You can return to town and put an end to the speculation.” She stood next to the portrait and turned to face Mr. Sloan. “I know you mark the resemblance.”
“No, no,” he said. “I am being impolite. I beg your forgiveness.”
But she did not want his apology. The relationship—or lack thereof with her father—no longer held a sting, something she owed to her half-brother. In fact, there was some relief in telling the blunt truth of it.
She lifted a shoulder. “I have nothing to hide.” She glanced at her father’s image. “Though I do not, I admit, like to look at him.”
“Let’s go, then.” He offered his arm, an unexpected gesture.
She took it, struck to be met with such acceptance. He’d seen a raw part of her and responded by offering a bit of himself in the steadiness of his arm.
“The billiard room next, I think,” she said, smiling.
They made their way through a series of hallways and rooms until arriving in a green room with more books, blue velvet and leather furnishings, and few windows. And, of course, the billiard table standing proudly in the middle of the room.
“Do you play?” Mr. Sloan picked up a long stick with a broad, flat, shoe-shaped head.
“Why not? But you must tell me the rules.” Meg had seen billiard tables before but never watched or played a game.
“You are red and I am white.” He rolled the red ball to her.
“Using your ball, you try to strike mine. If your ball hits my ball, you receive a point. If your ball hits my ball and knocks it into a pocket, you earn two points. A turn lasts until the player misses their ball or they foul from double tapping or pushing the ball or knocking it off the table. Fouls result in the loss of a turn and one point.”
“Sounds simple enough.”
“It’s much harder than it may seem not to push the ball or miss it altogether.” He demonstrated, then handed her a stick. “Here’s your mace.”
Meg bent over the table and tried to strike without effect.
Mr. Sloan hit his ball, which collided with hers, gaining him a point. Meg tapped her foot on the carpet as Mr. Sloan earned three more points until he scraped the table, ending his turn with two points.
He straightened and grinned. “Miss Margaret, are you bored?”
At the mention of her name, the air around them closed in, everything beyond becoming distant and hazy. “Miss Margaret?”
His eyes widened. “I apologize. I keep hearing your Christian name, and it is stuck in my head. Pardon me, Miss Cooper.”
“You may as well call me Margaret.” She tried to sound casual, to move carelessly as she picked up her mace and struck her ball, which hit Mr. Sloan’s. It bounced off the cushion and into the opposite pocket. “Hah.”
“Well done. And you may call me Peter.”
This was too sharp a reminder of their relationship, one that she should have been pursuing with her valentine instead. “I do not think that would be appropriate given our relative positions.” Meg stabbed her mace in the direction of her ball but sent it flying off the table.
Peter—Mr. Sloan—swooped down and reached under a sofa to fetch the ball.
He tossed the ball from hand to hand as he returned to her side and offered it to her.
“Call me Peter only here, then.” The invitation, pronounced with feeling, seemed important to him.
And hadn’t she imagined this magnificent estate stood as an island apart from their regular lives?
Their breath mingled. She reached to take the ball, and suddenly she was cradling his hand in hers, unable to move away.
She looked up at him and knew she wanted to kiss Mr. Sloan.
Peter. He glanced from her eyes to her lips.
She suspected he fancied her, and the intense gaze they shared did nothing to absolve the notion.
The idea of a valentine became indistinct, ghostly against the solid reality of Peter Sloan.
He leaned toward her.
She lifted her chin.
His lips brushed hers—a sigh, a wish, a dream that settled her nerves and granted wings.
There was nothing bold in the action, nothing that demanded or claimed, but it held a statement.
Her hand found the nape of his neck. She nudged him toward her, proving the strength of her feelings as their kiss spread quiet warmth, turning her insides molten.
Her mouth explored his, each turn a revelation.
His palm opened over the small of her back, strong and reassuring.
The mace and ball clattered to the ground.
His touch awakened in her a tenderness she’d turned from, sensations ignored and left unacknowledged. His arms cradled and strengthened her. She felt protected and loved.
He pulled back enough to study her eyes.
Meg reached for the bookshelf to stabilize herself.
With inches between them, she could see his whole self in his eyes, and joy coursed through her.
His kindness and cheerful demeanor recommended themselves.
He’d been beside her all the time, not a mystery man hiding behind valentines, but a friend and mentor.
And she had cheated him, stolen his letter, and hid it. She’d betrayed him. Her limbs turned stiff and cold.
“I am sorry,” he said. “I shouldn’t have. I thought…”
She had invited the kiss; he had nothing to apologize for.
But she could not toy with his feelings when she used him so poorly.
“Do not worry yourself. We will forget it happened.” Meg turned and walked as slowly as she could out of the room, keeping her gaze steadily ahead, else she turn back and betray herself.
Later, long after a carriage ride that put them in closer proximity than was comfortable, Meg lay in bed and examined the day, felt again the steadiness of his eyes upon her, the strength of his proximity.
She considered his carefully spoken words about her valentine.
Not Peter, but someone conquered by her—meaning what? That her valentine loved her?
But the kiss. Their coming together meant something as well, and Peter and her valentine seemed tangled in a way she could not examine directly.
The feelings she had when she read letters from her valentine, when she examined his artwork, mirrored what she felt for Peter.
She longed for them both. She wanted them to be the same.
Peter had confirmed it was not possible, though.
She must let her feelings for Peter go, for he had likely become affectionate toward her because of his father’s death, was merely craving human connection in his loneliness and grief.
Regardless of her own desires, she must be on her guard, offering strictly friendship.
She would dedicate her heart to discovering her valentine’s identity from this moment on.