A Battle of Wills

New Orleans aristocrat Lucian Beaumont wants only to sell his estranged grandfather’s property and escape the backwoods of Gatlinburg, Tennessee. But a stipulation in the will brings him head-to-head with a local beauty. Megan O’Malley and the town must have access to the house. For the first time in his life the commanding Lucian finds himself at an impasse.

Clearly the worldly gentleman doesn’t fit in Megan’s quaint Smoky Mountain town. But as she glimpses the man beneath the hardened veneer, she believes Lucian is here for a purpose. To heal his soul. And maybe, with Megan’s help, to heal his heart.

Lucian trusted no one.

If not for his wealth and name, they’d all be gone in a second. He’d learned that the hard way.

What about Megan? The beauty seemed to radiate goodness. He could almost believe she truly cared about helping this town. Was it real? Or a clever act designed to make him lower his guard?

He resented this present circumstance that was beyond his control. As empty as his life in New Orleans had become, it was familiar.

Frustration surged. If not for this young lady, he would’ve already put the house up for sale and be out of this backwoods town.

“Let me make myself clear, Miss O’Malley. I plan to do everything possible to find a way around that stipulation.”

Anger flashed in her eyes. “And let me assure you, Mr. Beaumont, I will do everything I can to fight you.”

He blew out an aggravated breath. He was beginning to wish he’d never heard of Gatlinburg, Tennessee. And Miss Megan O’Malley.

KAREN KIRST

was born and raised in East Tennessee near the Great Smoky Mountains. A lifelong lover of books, it wasn’t until after college that she had the grand idea to write one herself. Now she divides her time between being a wife, homeschooling mom and romance writer. Her favorite pastimes are reading, visiting tearooms and watching romantic comedies.

His Mountain Miss

Karen Kirst

www.millsandboon.co.uk

I will turn their mourning into gladness;

I will give them comfort and joy instead of sorrow.

—Jeremiah 31:13

To my parents-in-law, Pavel and Julie Turon, who have brought such joy into my life.

I’m blessed to know you both. I love you!

A big thank-you to my editor, Emily Rodmell, for all her hard work and dedication.

This series wouldn’t be possible without you!

Contents

Chapter One

Chapter Two

Chapter Three

Chapter Four

Chapter Five

Chapter Six

Chapter Seven

Chapter Eight

Chapter Nine

Chapter Ten

Chapter Eleven

Chapter Twelve

Chapter Thirteen

Chapter Fourteen

Chapter Fifteen

Chapter Sixteen

Chapter Seventeen

Chapter Eighteen

Chapter Nineteen

Chapter Twenty

Chapter Twenty-One

Epilogue

Dear Reader

Questions for Discussion

Excerpt

Chapter One

May 1881

Gatlinburg, Tennessee

“Who are you, and what are you doing in my house?”

Jolted out of her concentration, Megan O’Malley dropped the books she was holding, and they thumped to the gleaming wood floor. She twisted around to face the unexpected visitor whose voice she didn’t recognize. Odd, she hadn’t heard the doorbell. Mrs. Calhoun normally announced company.

The stranger standing in the parlor’s wide entryway was definitely not a local. Even dressed in their Sunday best, the men of Gatlinburg couldn’t come close to imitating this man’s elegance. Glossy black Hessian boots encased his feet and calves. Muscular thighs stretched the dove-gray trousers he wore taut, and underneath his black frock coat, the silver-and-black paisley brocade vest hugged a firm chest. The snowy white, expertly arranged cravat at his throat resembled a work of art.

Nothing was out of place. No lint on his coat. Not a single speck of dust dared cling to the mirrorlike surface of his boots...which was why his hair seemed to her untamed. It was glorious hair, really, thick and lustrous and wavy, the dark brown layers kissing his forehead in a manner that must irk him so.

His eyes, she noticed at last, were watching her with marked suspicion. He did not look pleased.

His black gaze raked her from head to toe and back up again, his frown deepening at the sight of the flower circlet adorning her loose curls. Megan experienced a spurt of self-consciousness. In preparation for the children’s story time, she’d dressed the part of a princess, complete with a flowing white gown and fingerless lace gloves.

Unsettled, she clasped her hands behind her back and adopted what she hoped was a casual smile. “Hello, I’m Megan O’Malley. You must be new in town. Is there something I can help you with?”

He didn’t deign to answer. Instead, he surveyed the airy room as he stalked towards her, circumventing the wingbacked chairs arranged in a semicircle about a plush Oriental rug. Fit and athletic, he exuded an air of command. Of authority. He struck her as a man accustomed to giving orders as opposed to taking them.

A wrinkle formed between his brows. Haughty brows, she thought. His was an arrogant beauty, with razor-sharp cheekbones and a harsh jawline. His nose was unremarkable, medium size and straight. The fullness of his mouth and the small dimple in his chin offset the harshness of his features.

When he stopped very near, his sharp-edged gaze cut into her, demanding answers. “Would you be so kind as to tell me what you’re doing in my grandfather’s house?”

A great trembling worked its way up her body. This was Charles’s grandson? It couldn’t be, could it?

“Lucian?” she whispered.

He sketched a bow, his gaze narrowing. “Oui. Lucian Beaumont, at your service. I take it you were well acquainted with my grandfather?”

“Charles was a dear friend of mine.”

Sadness gripped her. How she missed the gentle, insightful older man, their lively conversations about life and love, music and books. Theirs had been an unlikely friendship brought about by a mutual love of literature. To Megan, he’d been a substitute grandfather.

“I see.” And yet, it was perfectly clear that he didn’t. Resentment came and went in his expression. “He passed away nearly three months ago. Why are you here?”

“I could ask the same of you.” She met his gaze squarely, a rush of indignation stiffening her spine. “Why did you wait until now to come? In all these years, why didn’t you visit Charles just once?”

The rift between Charles and his daughter, Lucian’s mother, Lucinda, was common knowledge among the townspeople. He’d been dead-set against Lucinda’s marriage to New Orleans native Gerard Beaumont, had rashly threatened to cut her out of his life if she went against his wishes. A threat he’d lived to regret. After their elopement, Lucinda and Gerard left Tennessee and settled in New Orleans, never to return.

A muscle in his jaw jumped. His already cool manner turned glacial. “That is none of your concern, Miss O’Malley. As to what I’m doing here, I happen to be the new owner of this house. And despite my repeated inquiries, you’ve yet to tell me what you’re doing here.” He gestured to the chairs and the books scattered behind her.

The story time! The hand-painted, gilt clock on the fireplace mantel showed ten minutes to five o’clock. She glanced out the window overlooking the front lawn. The children would start arriving soon.

Turning her back on him, she bent and hurriedly began to gather the books she’d dropped. “Every Friday afternoon, we have story time for the children. They’ll be here any minute.”

To her surprise, Lucian crouched beside her, his tanned hands deftly assisting her. “Children? Here?” They reached for the last one at the same time, his fingers closing over hers. A frisson of awareness shot through her, and she was suddenly conscious of his knee brushing hers, his bold, sweet-smelling cologne awakening her senses. Megan had the absurd notion to lean closer and sniff his clothes. Instead, she snatched her hand back. His eyes as black as midnight, he held the book out to her, waiting.

Flustered, she took it from him and pointed to the cover. “The Princess and the Goblin is our story for today. In case you haven’t noticed, I’m the princess.” She touched a finger to her crown of daisies.

“I noticed.” He held her gaze a moment longer. Then, with a fleeting touch on her arm, he assisted her to her feet. “How long has this been going on?”

“About a year,” she said, hugging the books to her chest. “Your grandfather wholeheartedly approved.”

“So this was your idea?”

“Yes.”

His open assessment put her on guard. He didn’t know her, yet he regarded her with a healthy dose of distrust.

“Here are the refreshments, Miss Megan.” Mrs. Calhoun entered the room with an oval tray piled high with strawberry tarts, stopping short when she spotted Lucian. Her mouth fell open. “Oh my!” Her gray brows shot to her hairline. “You look so much like Charles did when he was younger that I was momentarily taken back in time. Mr. Lucian, I presume?”

Setting the books aside, Megan took the tray from the older woman’s hands and placed it on the credenza beside a crystal pitcher of lemonade. Turning, she caught Lucian’s arrested expression before he smoothed all emotion from his face.

He regally dipped his head. “I’m afraid you have me at a disadvantage, madame. I—”

“Of course you wouldn’t know me.” She chuckled as she mopped her brow with a handkerchief. “I’m Madge Calhoun. My husband, Fred, and I came to work for your grandparents when your mother was just a baby. We live in the little house on the back side of the property. I do the cooking and cleaning, and Fred maintains the grounds.”

“I see.”

Her expression clouded, the lines about her eyes becoming more pronounced. “I sure was sorry to hear of Lucinda’s passing. And now Charles... I keep expecting to hear him coming down the stairs asking me what’s for dinner. Hard to believe he’s gone.”

At his low hiss, Megan’s gaze darted to Lucian. A flash of regret on his face, of deep-seated pain, mirrored what was in her own heart. Was his grief entirely for his mother? Or did he—too late—understand what he’d given up by refusing to mend things with his grandfather?

The doorbell chimed. “Oh, our first visitor.” Mrs. Calhoun stuffed the handkerchief back into her apron pocket. “It’s probably Ollie Stevenson. He comes early in hopes I’ll relent and give him a treat before all the others get here. Of course, I never do, but he’s a persistent little fellow.”

As soon as she’d gone, Lucian turned to Megan, his voice low and urgent. “How many children are coming?”

“On a good night, we have about twenty.”

“Twenty.” He visibly swallowed. “And how long will they stay?”

“About an hour. Why do I get the feeling you don’t like children, Mr. Beaumont?”

“In my world, children do not normally mingle with adults. I’ve little experience with them.”

“And yet—” she smiled sweetly “—you were once one yourself.”

His lips didn’t so much as twitch. “Miss O’Malley, I will absent myself for the duration of your...story time. It’s obviously too late to cancel. However, I’d like a word with you immediately afterward. There are matters we need to discuss.”

He pivoted on his heel and strode out of the parlor before she could respond. Cancel? Matters to discuss? Somehow, Megan sensed she wasn’t going to like what he had to say.

* * *

The children’s excited chatter, punctuated by Megan O’Malley’s lilting voice, ultimately drove Lucian out the back door and into the flower gardens. He strode along the winding stone path, past gurgling fountains and whimsical marble statues and wildflowers in every imaginable shape and hue, unmindful of his destination. His chest felt too tight. He needed air. Distance. In that house, unwanted emotions crowded in without his consent, nipping like rabid dogs at his tenuous hold on his composure.

He abruptly swung about to glare at the two-story, gabled Victorian, the late-afternoon sun bathing its yellow exterior in soft, buttery light. The stained-glass windows glowed like fine jewels. White wicker chairs situated along the porch invited a person to sit back and relax, to enjoy the view of the blue-toned mountains rising above the valley.

Had his mother sat and rocked on that very porch? Explored these gardens?

Reaching out, he fingered the velvet bloom of a purple hyacinth. Of course she had. Lucinda had been born in one of the upstairs rooms, had spent the first eighteen years of her life here. Until his father had happened into town and turned her life upside down. He frowned. No good would come of revisiting his mother’s unhappiness and regrets. Releasing the petals, he turned and continued walking in the opposite direction of the house, purposefully moderating his steps.

He concentrated on his breathing. Blanking his mind, the heavy feeling in his chest slowly began to recede. The air here was fresh and clean. Pleasant, even. A far cry from the humid, salty tang of New Orleans, the rush of the mighty Mississippi and steamboat blasts and lusty cries of the dock workers. His home.

Over the course of the past year, Lucian had learned to avoid his darker emotions, to push aside grief and loss instead of dealing with it. A coward’s way, he admitted. But it meant survival. And right now, that was his only goal. To keep his head above the waters of disappointment and disillusionment that was his life.

This house and all it represented threatened to suck him under. He could not—would not—allow that to happen. He would sell it to the first reasonable bidder, no matter if it was at a loss. Money was not the issue here. Ridding himself of this burden was. The sooner the better.

Quiet footfalls against the stones registered behind him. Megan O’Malley.

Wearing that filmy, bridal-like gown, with flowers intertwined in the white-blond curls hanging nearly to her waist, she seemed to him a sort of woodland fairy, as insubstantial as a dream or a figment of his imagination. He blinked, wishing her far from here. But she kept coming, her movements graceful and fluid. She was beautiful, radiant even, with dewy-fresh skin that invited a man’s touch. Inquisitive eyebrows arched above large, expressive eyes the color of the sea. Straight, flawless nose. Lips full and sweet like a ripe peach.

In New Orleans high society, Megan O’Malley would be a much sought-after prize. Thankfully, he’d learned his lesson where innocent-seeming beauties were concerned. He was immune.

The determined jut of her chin gave him pause. Made him wonder if she was going to prove an obstacle to his plans.

Boots planted wide, he clasped his hands behind his back. “Story time over already?”

“I cut it short today. I saw the last child out myself, so there’s no need to worry you might bump into one later.” Amusement hovered about her mouth, but her eyes were watchful. “So, what do you wish to speak to me about?”

He gestured to the metal bench to his right. “Would you like to have a seat?”

“No, thank you. I’d rather stand.”

“As you wish. Miss O’Malley, I’m not sure exactly what sort of arrangement you had with my grandfather, but I’m afraid it must come to an end. You see, I’m here to oversee the sale of this property, and in order to do that, the house must be kept in excellent condition for potential buyers. I can’t have strangers, especially children, traipsing in and out doing who knows what sort of damage. I’m sure you understand my predicament.”

“Actually, I don’t.” Her pale brows collided. “Charles assured me that the children, and indeed the townspeople, would always have access to his home. In addition to the weekly story times, we host once-monthly performances open to the community.”

“He meant while he was alive—”

“No.” She shook her head, curls quivering. “He meant always. In those last months when he was growing weaker, he spoke of how he wanted our endeavors to continue after his d-death.” Her blue eyes grew dark and stormy, her distress a palpable thing.

Lucian couldn’t help but be suspicious. What had been her true motivation for befriending the old man? Had she assumed that, because of the rift in their family, neither he nor his father would come to claim the house? That after Charles’s death, she would have unlimited access to it?

“Must you sell?” She stepped closer, tilted her head back to gaze imploringly up at him. “Charles wouldn’t have wanted it to go to strangers.”

“What he wanted is no longer relevant,” he retorted, years of animosity born of rejection rising up within him. His only grandfather hadn’t wanted anything to do with him, so why should he care about the man’s wishes? “I am the owner now, and I will do as I see fit.”

Sidestepping her, he stalked back towards the house to order his valet to unpack enough clothing for the next week. Hopefully, that was all the time it would take to find a buyer.

“What kind of unfeeling man are you?” Megan called out after him, voice shimmering with indignation.

Lucian stopped dead in his tracks. Pivoted on his heel. Smiled a cold smile. “Unfeeling? How I wish that were the case! For without feelings, one could avoid a plague of problems, wouldn’t you agree? Good evening, Miss O’Malley.”

He left her there in the garden to see herself out, lips parted and eyes full of reproach. If he felt a pinprick of remorse for his less-than-stellar manners, he shoved it aside. This wasn’t about her. This was about unloading emotional entanglements. He couldn’t allow her or anyone else to distract him from his goal.

Chapter Two

Megan hesitated before the imposing mahogany-and-stained-glass door, her finger hovering above the doorbell. Gone was the eager anticipation that had marked her past visits to Charles’s home. Now there was only sadness. And dread. That Lucian Beaumont’s behavior had marred her pleasant memories of this place stoked her ire.

In her left hand, she clutched the missive that had been delivered to her cabin shortly before lunch. What could he possibly have to say to her? He’d made his intentions plain last night. Charles’s wishes meant nothing to him. Though it was a stretch, she could somewhat understand why he wouldn’t care about helping her or the townspeople. They were strangers, after all. But Charles was family. His only grandfather.

A grandfather he hadn’t bothered to come and meet, despite repeated invitations to do so.

Recalling the anguish in her friend’s eyes as he spoke of his failed attempts to bring his daughter and grandson back to Gatlinburg, Megan blinked away tears. Nursed the grudge she’d harbored towards his estranged family. Knowing what she did, she shouldn’t be surprised by Lucian’s selfish disregard of everyone else’s needs but his own.

The door swung inward, and there stood the object of her turmoil, looking coolly refined in a chocolate frock coat, tan vest and pants, and the ever-shiny black Hessians. Her gaze was drawn once again to his hair, the dark, unruly waves at odds with his neat clothing and stiff manner.

His black gaze bored into her, making her want to squirm. “Miss O’Malley, I see you received my message.”

Walking past him into the entrance hall, she was glad she’d chosen to wear one of her best outfits, a deep blue fitted jacket with layered skirts that skimmed the tips of her boots. Her mass of curls, too heavy to be piled on top of her head, was restrained at her nape with a matching ribbon.

“No princess attire today?”

“No, that was strictly for the children’s benefit.”

Glancing up, she caught him gazing at her hair with a look akin to disappointment. She blinked and it was gone. Must’ve been a trick of the light.

“I see.”

There was that phrase again. She gritted her teeth, fairly certain Lucian Beaumont did not see the true picture at all, his outlook tainted by cynicism.

“You wished to see me?”

“Actually, Charles’s lawyer is the one who asked for you. He arrived this morning from Sevierville and wishes to speak with us about the will.” He motioned for her to precede him. “He’s waiting for us in the office.”

“But Charles never indicated that I’d be included. I can’t imagine why he would’ve done such a thing.”

Lucian’s steady gaze assessed her. Perhaps gauging her sincerity? “You indicated the two of you were close. Most likely he wanted to leave you some things to remember him by. Your favorite books, for instance.”

Megan’s thoughts were a jumble as they passed through the hallway to the rear corner of the house where the office was located. She hadn’t spent much time there, as she and Charles had preferred to use the library or, weather permitting, the back porch or gardens. Like the rest of the house, this room was richly appointed with dark wood furniture and plush throw rugs. However, there were personal touches here. Artifacts from his travels littered his desk. Photographs lined the bookshelves. Even his scent lingered in the air, a blend of sandalwood and lemon. For the second time that afternoon, Megan blinked away moisture gathering in her eyes.

“Mr. McDermott,” Lucian addressed the man standing at the window, “may I introduce Miss Megan O’Malley?”

The distinguished older man smiled a greeting as he moved behind the desk. “How do you do, Miss O’Malley? I’m pleased you could join us. Won’t you have a seat so we can begin?”

She looked to Lucian, who indicated she take one of the two chairs facing the desk. On the low table between them rested a silver tea service.

“I had Mrs. Calhoun prepare a pot of Earl Grey,” he commented as he lowered his tall frame into the chair beside her. “Would you care for some?”

“Yes, please.” Hopefully the warm liquid would ease the sudden dryness in her throat. But when she attempted to pour herself a cup, her trembling hands managed to spill the brew, splashing it onto the tray and table. “Oh,” she gasped, embarrassment flooding her cheeks.

Half expecting Lucian to react with irritation, she caught her breath when he stilled her attempts to mop it up with his large hand covering hers, slipping the napkin from her suddenly nerveless fingers to do the job himself. Then he poured her a second cup, adding sugar and cream when she indicated her preferences.

“Here you are.” His enigmatic gaze met hers briefly as he settled the cup and saucer into her hands. “I believe we’re ready now, Mr. McDermott.”

“Charles summoned me here approximately six months before his death to add a stipulation to his will.”

Beside her, Lucian went as still as a statue. Tension bracketed his mouth. “What sort of stipulation? I was under the impression from your letter that the house is mine.”

Mr. McDermott nodded. “Indeed, it is, Mr. Beaumont. However, there’s a condition attached.” His thoughtful gaze settled on Megan. “As you are aware, he and Miss O’Malley were involved in various community projects. Charles felt strongly that these should continue under her guidance after his death.”

Megan quickly swallowed her mouthful of tea and set it aside before she dropped it on her lap. The storm brewing on Lucian’s face was on the verge of being unleashed, tempering her anticipation. This was not going to be pretty.

“Get to the point, McDermott,” he practically growled.

“If you do not allow her to continue use of the house as stated in the will, you will forfeit and ownership will transfer to Miss O’Malley.”

Megan’s mouth fell open.

Lucian clutched the chair’s armrests, knuckles white with strain. Megan sensed his control on his temper was slipping. “That’s ludicrous!” he pushed through clenched teeth. “How am I supposed to sell it, then? What potential buyer would agree to have their house available to the whole town?”

“Not many, I agree—” the lawyer began gathering his papers into a neat pile “—but then, Charles didn’t intend for you to sell it. He wanted to keep it in the family.”

“She’s not family,” he gritted out.

“True, but it was plain to see he cared a great deal about her. If you refused to honor his wishes, at least it would go to someone close to him. Mr. Beaumont, I got the feeling that your grandfather wanted you to stick around for a little while. Maybe he thought the town would grow on you and that you’d decide to stay.”

His grip on the armrests tightened. It was a wonder the wood didn’t snap in two. “That will never happen.”

Standing and rounding the desk, the lawyer shook her hand and nodded at Lucian. “Yes, well, it would seem the two of you have much to discuss. I’ll let myself out. Good day.”

Battling outrage and disbelief, Lucian shoved to his feet, paced to the fireplace and leaned his weight against the marble mantel, his back to the room. He’d known the old man was controlling and manipulative, but this... Closing his eyes, he forced himself to take deep, calming breaths. The tightness was returning to his chest.

He didn’t have to hear Megan’s approach to sense her nearness. The faint scent of roses wafted over. “Lucian—”

He stiffened at the soft, irrationally pleasing sound of his name on her lips.

“Mr. Beaumont,” she began again, “I had no idea what Charles was planning. I realize this will make things difficult—”

“You mean impossible,” he interrupted, turning to face her. “He’s made it impossible for me to sell this house.” He fisted his hands. “I don’t know exactly what he expected me to do. I have a life waiting for me back in New Orleans. I can’t stay here indefinitely.”

Her brow furrowed. “I can’t claim to know his reasons, but I’m certain it wasn’t his goal to make things difficult for you. That wasn’t his way.”

“Oh, wasn’t it? He certainly made things difficult for my mother when he cut her out of his life.”

He’d witnessed her tears, the brokenness caused by Charles’s need to control those around him. Even now, he was attempting to control Lucian from beyond the grave. Unbelievable.

“Is that why you never came?” she demanded, eyes brimming with accusation. “Because you couldn’t forgive him for what he did to your mother?”

“How could I forgive someone who wasn’t sorry?” He didn’t tell her Charles hadn’t wanted him here. It was too painful to put into words.

“But he was sorry.” She took a step forward, intent on convincing him. “He regretted pushing her away, I know it.”

For a second, Lucian got lost in her impossibly blue eyes. She seemed to sincerely believe what she was saying. He, on the other hand, wasn’t that naive.

“It hardly matters now,” he pushed out. “They’re both gone. And I’m left here to deal with the whims of a manipulative old man.”

She bristled. “Since you’re obviously so eager to leave, why don’t you?”

“You’d like that, wouldn’t you? Me out of the way so you can be free to come and go as you like? That was probably your goal all along. Why else would a young lady like yourself willingly spend time with a man three times her age?”

The color waned and surged in her cheeks, and when she spoke, he had to strain to hear her. “Your accusations are not those of a gentleman, sir. Charles was a fine man. Good and wise and generous. He was like a grandfather to me, something you couldn’t come close to understanding.”

Whirling away, she strode from the room with her head held high. Lucian sagged against the wall. What was supposed to have been a relatively short and simple visit to East Tennessee was proving to be anything but.

* * *

At the conclusion of the church service, Megan and her sisters, Nicole and Jane, joined their good friends, Cole and Rachel Prescott, in the shade of a sugar maple’s sprawling branches. The Prescotts’ one-year-old daughter, Abby, grinned at Megan and extended her arms, wanting to be held. The sweet little girl had captured her heart the moment she was born. Megan supervised her from time to time, and she liked to think of herself as a favorite auntie. Taking her from Cole, she hugged her close. It wasn’t Abby’s fault that her dark hair and eyes reminded her of a certain haughty gentleman.

Her heart squeezed, remembering Lucian’s hurtful words and the blazing suspicion in his eyes. She’d spent a restless night, reliving their conversation again and again. He was a hard man. Arrogant and close-minded.

“So what do you think Mr. Beaumont will do?” Concern marked Rachel’s expression.

Megan shrugged. “I don’t know. He doesn’t want to stay, yet he won’t agree to leave me in charge.” She gave a dry laugh. “And the last thing he’d want is for the house to go to me. He doesn’t trust my motives.”

Cole’s hazel eyes turned quizzical. “What motives would those be?”

“He thinks the only reason I spent time with Charles was to ultimately gain control of the house, like I’m some kind of opportunist.”

Fifteen-year-old Jane placed a comforting hand on her shoulder. “We all know that’s not true. Despite his advanced years, I found Charles a delight to be around. He always had interesting things to say.” Sometimes Jane and Kate, their cousin Josh’s wife, had accompanied Megan on her visits.

Rachel nodded, pushing her heavy sable waves behind her shoulders. “The man is obviously hurting, and he’s lashing out at you.”

“But he doesn’t even know me,” Megan exclaimed, inexplicably bothered by this stranger’s poor opinion of her. “He just assumes the worst.”

Cole placed an arm around his wife’s shoulders. “His attitude has nothing to do with you, Megan. Something in his life has skewed his thinking. If he spent a little time with you, he’d quickly come to see his error.”

Megan wasn’t so sure. Lucian seemed to want to believe her capable of such underhanded behavior. And anyway, it wasn’t as if he was going to stick around long enough for it to matter. The only time the two of them would be spending together would be to figure out this mess.

Seventeen-year-old Nicole, who’d been leaning against the tree trunk with a bored expression, straightened and brushed off her bottle-green dress. “I’m starving. Can we leave now?”

Megan was used to her younger sister’s sour attitude, but it had gotten steadily worse since their mother, Alice, and Jane’s twin, Jessica, had departed last week for Cades Cove. Their oldest sister, Juliana, was due to deliver her first baby any day now. Of course, they’d all wanted to go, but there simply wasn’t enough room in her sister’s cabin. Too many people milling about would overwhelm the new parents, anyway.

She aimed a reproving frown her way. “If you’d rather not wait for us, you’re welcome to go on ahead.”

Jane, ever the diplomat, offered to go with her.

Megan watched the two girls, so different in both appearance and temperament, head arm in arm down Main Street. Then her gaze encountered her friend, Tom Leighton, striding in her direction wearing a determined look.

With a smile at Rachel and Cole, she returned Abby to their arms. “I guess I should go, as well. I’m keeping you from your lunch.”

“No, you’re not—” Rachel smiled as she spoke “—but I can see a certain gentleman is intent on snagging your attention. Whenever you need to talk, our door is always open. Come over anytime.”

“Thanks, I appreciate that.”

Megan watched the couple stroll to their wagon, Cole holding Rachel close to his side, his smile bright enough to rival the sun. She was thrilled to see her friends happy at long last. Cole and Rachel had very nearly lost each other, but God had brought them back together in their darkest hour.

“Megan, I’m glad I caught you.”

“Hello, Tom.” She smiled at the tall and lean barbershop owner, genuinely happy to see him. His easygoing personality made it easy to relax in his presence. “How are you, today?”

“Better now that I’m talking to you.” He grinned, dimples flashing. “Josh invited me to join you for lunch at his parents’ house. Care to walk with me?” He held out his arm.

She felt a flash of momentary irritation. Her cousin Josh insisted on pushing his best friend and her together, and she didn’t like it one bit. While Tom was an extremely nice man, she wasn’t interested in more than friendship. There was no spark, only casual affection.

Growing up, she’d envisioned a dashing hero, her own personal knight in shining armor sweeping into her life and fulfilling all her childhood dreams. Older and, she hoped, wiser at twenty years of age, she realized the impossibility of those expectations. No man could be everything she needed and desired. God alone could be her all in all. Still, the romantic, idealistic side of her hoped for a man who would challenge her, thrill her, cherish her.

So far, that man had yet to materialize. She was beginning to fear he never would.

Suppressing a shudder, she met Tom’s hopeful gaze. “I’d love to, but I’m going home for lunch.”

“Are you sure I can’t change your mind?” His smile held a tinge of disappointment.

“Not this time.” She wasn’t in the mood for a crowd today, even if it was family. Her mind was too full of Lucian Beaumont.

“All right, but at least let me walk with you part of the way.” He lifted his hat and fluffed his brown hair, a habit that left him looking like a ruffled little boy. An adorable one, at that. How could she refuse him?

Placing her hand in the crook of his arm, she smiled her thanks. His conversation managed to distract her, at least until they passed the turnoff for Charles’s house. What was Lucian doing right this minute? Had he decided how he was going to handle the stipulation?

Friday would be upon them before they knew it. If he was not planning on honoring Charles’s wishes, she needed to know sooner rather than later. The children deserved to be told ahead of time, as did the people preparing for the poetry recital coming up. She would visit him first thing in the morning, she decided. No reason to delay what would surely be an unpleasant confrontation.

If Lucian Beaumont thought he could run roughshod over her and this town, she would soon prove him wrong.

Chapter Three

Rounding the curve in the tree-lined lane leading to Charles’s house, Megan was presented with an unobstructed view of the gardens spreading out behind it. Against the backdrop of gray skies, the lush grasses seemed greener than usual, the vibrant flower patches more vivid. Tree branches swayed in the rain-scented breeze.

And there, in the midst of everything, sat the lord of the manor. Eating his breakfast and perusing a newspaper as if he hadn’t a care in the world. And looking entirely too at home, she thought peevishly. He was a worldly-wise gentleman, wealthy beyond belief and accustomed to the conveniences of city life. He didn’t belong in her quaint mountain town.

Determination spurred her across the lawn.

When he noticed her approach, he set aside the paper and stood up, his expression carefully neutral. “To what do I owe the pleasure of this visit, Miss O’Malley?”

His voice, like sweet tea and molasses rolled into one, shouldn’t please her, but it did. His accent was deeper than hers, almost like a song with its French undertones. She wondered what it would sound like if he was actually happy.

She stopped a distance away, the round, white metal table between them. “We don’t stand on formality here. Why don’t you call me Megan?”

“As you wish, Megan. Please, call me Lucian.” His eyes seemed to impossibly darken. He gestured at the food spread out on the table. “Have you eaten? You’re welcome to join me.”

His invitation was born out of politeness, no doubt ingrained from birth. It was clear he didn’t really wish to dine with her.

“No, thank you. I’ve already had breakfast.” If you could call a cup of coffee breakfast. She couldn’t eat when she was nervous.

“Some tea, then?”

“Yes, thank you.”

Coming around to her side, he scooted out the chair for her and poured her tea, stirring in cream and two spoons of sugar.

“You remembered,” she blurted.

“Yes” was all he said as he placed it in front of her.

When he was seated, he rested one arm on the table, the other fisted on his hip in a relaxed position, waiting for her to explain the reason for her visit. His black gaze was too direct, sharp, for her to be at ease. His masculine appeal didn’t help matters.

Smoothing her skirts, she took a calming breath. “I came this morning because I’d like to know what you’ve decided about the house.”

“I haven’t yet.”

“Until you do, are you going to allow the story times to continue?”

“Do I have a choice?” he responded evenly, one dark brow arched.

Megan truly didn’t want to goad him, to argue, so she said nothing. Sipped her tea.

“Tell me, mon chou, why is this so important to you? Reading to other people’s children?” His gaze swept her curls, which she’d again restrained with a single ribbon. “Dressing like a princess?”

“What did you call me?”

Lucian looked startled, as if he’d made a slip. He waved it aside. “Later. For now, I’d like to hear your answer.”

Perhaps Kate knew French and could tell her what he’d said. An heiress from New York City, she must’ve learned other languages.

“Living off the land is hard work. As early as four or five years of age, children begin helping with chores. Depending on each family’s situation, there can be little time for a child to relax and just be a child. In addition to this, many families can’t afford books. Since Charles has a vast collection and ample space, he and I decided the children would benefit from a weekly story time. Not only would it be fun for them, but also educational.” She leaned forward, warming to her topic. “Books expand horizons. They entertain, inspire and enrich lives. I enjoy reading to them. Dressing the part merely adds to the experience.”

“And the strawberry tarts and lemonade? What purpose do they serve?”

She smiled then. “Incentive for them to sit still and listen. Treats are reserved for those children who behave.”

“I see.”

That phrase again. She wanted to shake him.

He was studying her, obviously trying to decide if he believed her. No one had ever doubted her sincerity before. It was not a pleasant feeling.

A raindrop splashed on her arm. Then another. She glanced up at the rain-swollen clouds overhead. “I think we’re in for a shower.”

The drops began to fall harder and faster.

Lucian surged to his feet and, circling the table, took hold of her hand. “Let’s make a run for it!”

“The dishes—”

“Forget them,” he ordered as the clouds opened up, releasing a torrent.

Tugging on her hand, they made a dash for the back porch, surging up the slippery steps to stand, breathless and soaked to the skin, beneath the sheltering roof. The rain pounded the earth in an unrelenting assault. Lucian dropped her hand. His unfathomable gaze met hers. His hair was plastered to his head, his face slick with rainwater. Megan shivered. Her white eyelet blouse clung to her body, as did her robin-egg-blue skirts. Before she could guess at his intentions, he’d shrugged out of his coat and stepped close, settling it across her shoulders and pulling it closed. His heat and exotic cologne enveloped her.

“Th-thank you.”

“Are you warm enough?”

She nodded, suddenly tongue-tied.

Several wet strands clung to her face, and before she could brush them aside, his fingers were there. Warm and featherlight. His fingertips skimming her cheek set off sparks, shimmers of light through her body. Her breath hitched.

What was happening to her?

She didn’t like this arrogant man, his polished manners and jaded view of life.

Thank goodness he moved away so she could breathe again. Resting one hip against the railing, he stared solemnly out at the rain. Without the formal coat, he looked more approachable. The white shirt molded to his athletic build, his biceps straining the thin material where he’d crossed his arms.

Stop staring, she chided herself. His outward appearance may be attractive, but it hid the darkness he held inside. The turmoil she’d glimpsed on his face the few times his control had slipped. Who was he, really? All she’d ever known was that he hadn’t cared enough about a lonely old man to make the journey to see him before he died. That was hard to forgive.

* * *

Lucian’s instincts were normally right. People in his circle tended to be shallow and self-centered, motivated by greed and the lust for power and increased social standing. He trusted no one. Not even his so-called closest friends, for he knew that if not for his wealth and the Beaumont name, they’d be gone in a second. He’d spent a lot of years wishing things were different. Eventually, he’d come to terms with the state of affairs.

Until Dominique. The seemingly innocent, sweet-natured girl had resurrected his hope, his longing for something real and pure. He’d thought she was different from the conniving, scheming vipers trying to win his favor. He was wrong. In fact, she’d turned out to be worse. Much worse. And he’d fallen for her act—hook, line and sinker.

Shoving the humiliation aside, he focused on the blonde beauty beside him. Megan fairly radiated goodness, the depths of her sea-blue eyes clear and honest. Listening to her impassioned speech a moment ago, he could almost believe she truly cared about helping the children of this town. Was it real? Or a clever act designed to lower his guard?

“How did all this come about?” He circled a finger in the air. “With Charles, I mean.”

“It started with a simple invitation to borrow books,” she said as her features softened into a smile of remembrance. “He was a bit reclusive, your grandfather, coming to town only for church services and an occasional visit to the mercantile to catch up on local news. It was there that he overheard me complaining that I’d read everything I could get my hands on more than once, and that I longed for new reading material. He remarked that he had a houseful of books. I was welcome to borrow as many as I liked.

“My first few visits, he left me to my own devices. Then one day, he seemed particularly down. I joined him in the parlor—uninvited, mind you—and we wound up talking for hours. He wanted to be a writer. Did you know that?” Huddled inside his overlarge coat, her pale hair clinging to her skin, she looked small and vulnerable. Sadness tugged at her mouth.

“No, I didn’t.” He forced himself to look away from her, to watch the continuing storm that mirrored the one inside him.

It sounded as if she and Charles had shared a special bond. Of course he hadn’t been privy to his grandfather’s dreams, his likes and dislikes, or anything else remotely personal. He had never even met the man! The spurt of jealousy took him by surprise.

Why should he care? Charles had written his mother and him off years ago. They had ceased to exist in his grandfather’s mind. This will stipulation only served to prove Charles’s dislike, one final thrust of the dagger. It hadn’t been enough to ignore Lucian during his lifetime. He’d had to go and complicate matters with this house, just to underscore his loathing.

“He tried his hand at poetry,” she continued, “and he even penned a couple of short stories. I think it kept the loneliness at bay, if temporarily.”

He chose to ignore the censure in her voice, the unspoken questions.

“Lucian, your grandfather was a good man. He—”

“Stop. I do not wish to discuss him anymore today.”

“But—”

“Megan, don’t.” He shot her a warning glance.

“Fine.” She jutted her chin. “Then how about we address the poetry recital coming up?”

“Poetry recital?”

“You know, when people stand up and recite poetry by rote?”

“I know what it is,” he told her drily. “How many people are we talking about?”

“We average between twenty-five and thirty.”

He sighed. Thirty strangers parading through his house. He didn’t like it. Resented this present circumstance that was beyond his control. As empty as his life in New Orleans had become, it was his home. Comfortable and familiar. Predictable. He knew what to expect from those around him, and they him.

Frustration surged. If not for this young lady, he would’ve already put the house up for sale and been well on his way out of this backwoods town.

“By all means, proceed with your plans as you’ve always done.”

Surprise flickered.

“But let me make myself clear—I plan to do everything possible to find a way around that stipulation.”

She jerked her head back. Anger flashed in her eyes. “Why am I not surprised? You don’t care about the children or the people of this community.” Yanking off his coat, she thrust it at him, and he fumbled to catch it before it fell to the floor. “You care only about yourself—” she poked him in the chest “—what you want and what you need. Well, let me assure you, Mr. Beaumont, I will do everything I can to fight you on this.”

Then, to his shock, she pivoted and dashed out into the rain. Though it had slacked off, the rain was still steady. Did she plan to run the entire way home?

“Megan!” He rushed to the top step. “Wait!”

He wasn’t sure if she heard him or not. She didn’t hesitate, didn’t slow down, just kept going. Across the grass and down the lane, until she disappeared around the bend.

Shoving his hands through his hair, he blew out an aggravated breath. The woman was a danger to his sanity. And control? Hah! She had him so mixed up, he couldn’t tell up from down.

He was beginning to wish he’d never heard of Gatlinburg, Tennessee.

Chapter Four

Lucian couldn’t in good conscience allow Megan to leave without some sort of protection from the elements. Ignoring the fact he was dripping water all over the floors, he went inside in search of his umbrella. Seizing one propped against the wall, he tossed his coat on the hall table and hurried back out into the rain. There, at the end of the lane, was a flash of white and blue.

As he sprinted across the sprawling lawn, bits of mud splashed up on to his boots. His pristine, clean-as-a-whistle boots. And since, in his haste, he hadn’t bothered opening the umbrella, his vest and shirt were now soaked. He ground his teeth together. If the woman had an ounce of sense...

Drawing closer, he noticed she’d slowed, her head bent and shoulders hunched. Her heavy skirts impeded her progress. His annoyance evaporated at once, and he was glad he’d followed her.

“Megan, wait!”

She ignored him. Still angry, obviously. The woman certainly had spunk. She didn’t fawn all over him like the young socialites in his circle, which he found refreshing. It was growing tougher to stomach their batting eyelashes, coquettish smiles and honeyed words. Their thinly veiled attempts to garner his favor.

Megan, at least, gave the appearance of being straightforward with him.

Opening the umbrella, he caught her upper arm and moved to bring them both beneath its cover.

“What are you doing?” she demanded, eyes still smoldering and chin lifted in defiance.

She was strikingly beautiful, even more so when angry. With his finger, he outlined her chin, dislodging the water droplets. “Has anyone ever told you that you have a stubborn chin?”

Her lips parted. “Actually, you’re the first.”

Lucian dropped his hand. He really needed to stop touching her. He wasn’t what one would consider an affectionate man. In fact, Dominique had complained at his lack of attention. Accused him of being an ice sculpture. He’d shrugged off her comments.

So why would he be any different with Megan? Why did he feel compelled to connect with her every time she was near?

Releasing her arm, he offered her the umbrella handle. “Take this. It doesn’t look like the rain will let up anytime soon.”

Her pale brows rose. “You followed me in order to give me this?”

His smile was grim. “Despite popular opinion, I’m not completely unfeeling.”

“I—” She paused, her brow furrowed. “Thank you.”

When she shivered, he pressed the handle into her hand. “You should go. Too much longer in this weather, and you’ll become ill. Good day, mon chou.”

He pivoted on his heel before he touched her again or made another inane remark about her person. Not smart, Beaumont. As the cool rain slid over his skin, he reminded himself of his purpose. He couldn’t allow Megan to distract him, or worse, trick him into giving her control of the house.

As soon as he got out of these wet clothes, he was going to sit down and draft a letter to his lawyer. One way or another, he would find a way to rid himself of Charles’s house and all the emotional baggage that went with it.

* * *

Friday afternoon, Jane handed Megan the basket of tea cakes. “Are you sure you don’t want me to come with you? What if he’s hateful?”

Megan touched the red silk jacquard scarf tied about her head. It was a bit too snug, but she didn’t want to take it off. The kids would enjoy her pirate costume. She could only imagine what Lucian’s reaction might be. “Lucian can be difficult, that’s for sure, but he isn’t hateful.”

Infuriating, yes. And bewildering. The man made it practically impossible to stay mad at him! Scooping up the umbrella he’d loaned her, she recalled their exchange and how his nearness, the intensity of his black eyes, made rational thought impossible.

“Would you mind opening the door for me?”

Clearly not convinced, Jane complied. “When will we get to meet him? Do you think he’ll come to church on Sunday?”

“Oh, I hope he does.” Nicole looked up from her latest sewing project, violet eyes shining. “From the way you described him, Megan, he sounds like a dream. Just think, a wealthy aristocrat in our midst. All the way from Louisiana!”

Megan couldn’t help but smile at her younger sister’s enthusiasm. Nicole was enamored with the idea of big-city life. As soon as she had enough money saved, she planned to open up a clothing boutique in the city of her choice.

Not Megan. She loved East Tennessee, the mountains and streams and forests. The peace and quiet, the fresh air and space to roam. To daydream. She couldn’t imagine being content anywhere else.

She hesitated in the open doorway. “How about I ask him outright whether he plans to or not? That way your minds will be at ease.” And hers, as well.

“Yes, do!” Nicole urged.

“Only if he’s in an agreeable mood,” Jane cautioned.

Lucian, agreeable? She didn’t expect him to be, not with her and the children invading his territory. I can handle whatever he dishes out. I have to. For the kids and the town.

“I’ll see you both later.” She turned and headed out into the late-afternoon sunshine, soaking in the hum of life all about her. Birds chirping. Squirrels darting up and down the trees on either side of the lane. The breeze swelling through the tree canopy far above her head. Ah, spring. Her favorite time of year. If only it could last forever.

If only Charles was still here. Waiting for her and the children with eager anticipation, his weathered face smoothing into a welcoming smile, the loneliness in his eyes fading for the short time they were there. It was highly unlikely that Lucian would welcome them. If anything, he would take himself off to another part of the house in order to avoid their presence. That was fine by her. Why wouldn’t it be? She didn’t care one way or another.

However, standing on his front porch a quarter of an hour later face-to-face with the man, she realized that was a lie. Lucian Beaumont was not the sort of man who inspired indifference. Quite the opposite, in fact. The strong emotions he invoked within her were foreign to her experience. Sure, her sisters and cousins sometimes irritated her, but they’d never made her furious enough to want to punch something. And yes, she was naturally curious, but she’d never been driven to discover the inner workings of a person’s mind. And never, ever had she felt this crazy, inexplicable, overwhelming attraction to a man.

Well, you’re just going to have to control yourself, because he is not hero material. Far from it.

“Here’s your umbrella.” She thrust it at him, uncharacteristically flustered.

He, on the other hand, appeared coolly poised in a deep blue cutaway coat and vest, a brilliant sapphire tiepin nestled in the folds of his snowy white cravat. Black pants and his Hessians completed the ensemble. Way too formal for the occasion and even for the town, but she supposed that was the way he was accustomed to dressing in New Orleans. And he pulled it off beautifully, she had to admit. Masculine and formal. In control.

Except for the hair. There was no taming those luxurious, dark brown waves that insisted on falling forward to rest on his forehead.

“Merci.” He stepped back to allow her entrance, his intense gaze sweeping her scooped-neck white blouse, full black skirts and wide black belt that accentuated her waist. “Where’s your eye patch and wooden leg?”

“Isn’t this enough?” She pivoted in the entryway and indicated her scarf.

After looping the umbrella on the coat stand behind him, he settled his hands on his hips and appraised her appearance. “You need an eye patch. The wooden leg, not so much, but definitely some gold jewelry—loot from the legion of ships you’ve besieged.” Amusement shone in the depths of his eyes.

Was he teasing her? Her palms began to sweat. “I’m, uh, fresh out of gold. Sorry.”

“That’s too bad.” He tipped his head towards the basket dangling from her fingers. “May I take that for you?”

“No, thank you.” She tightened her grip. She didn’t want him to discover the tea cakes now and forbid the children to have them. Better to wait until the book had been read to pass them out. He wouldn’t be around to intervene.

“As you wish.” The amusement faded, replaced with a subtle knowing.

His open scrutiny unleashed a flurry of butterflies in her middle. “I always come half an hour early to set up the chairs and get my books in order. May I?”

“By all means.” He motioned for her to precede him into the parlor on their left. Megan stopped just inside the room.

“I took the liberty of arranging the chairs for you.”

“Oh.”

“This is the way it was set up last week.” He stood close beside her, his exotic scent stirring the air. “Did you prefer it done another way?”

“This is fine. I—”

“Well, hello there, Miss Megan.” Mrs. Calhoun entered the parlor bearing a tray of delicate-looking pastries and fresh strawberries. “Doesn’t this look delectable? I was all prepared to make a batch of sugar cookies when Mr. Lucian suggested I do something special. I’m so glad he did. The children will enjoy these.”

Mouth hanging open, Megan’s gaze followed the older woman’s movements. Lucian suggested? But—

Mrs. Calhoun spotted her basket and pointed. “Oh, what do you have there? More goodies?”

“Y-yes.” She avoided looking at Lucian. “My sister and I baked tea cakes.”

“That’s wonderful,” she said, bustling over to take it from Megan, “they’ll go fast.” To Lucian, she said, “That Jane O’Malley has a way with food. Her twin, too. Whenever there’s a church social, folks flock to the table to try and snag a sampling of their desserts. There’s never enough to go around, though.”

When they were alone once more, Megan finally looked at him. Spread her hands wide. “I don’t understand. Why are you being so...agreeable?”

Folding his arms across his wide chest, the corners of his mouth turned down. “Just because I don’t happen to like the situation I find myself in doesn’t mean I should make things difficult for you. What did you expect I would do? Blockade the door?”

“No, not that.” She shook her head. “But neither did I think you would help me.”

His dark brows winged up. “My grandfather didn’t?”

“He was too feeble to do any heavy lifting,” she said defensively. “As to the other preparations, he left everything to me and Mrs. Calhoun. Which was fine by me,” she rushed to add.

Dropping his arms to his sides, Lucian’s expression turned pensive. “I must inform you that I’ve written my lawyer asking him to find a way around the stipulation.”

She wasn’t surprised. Still, disappointment spiraled through her, as did a prick of anxiety. “I doubt he’ll be successful.”

But what if he somehow found a way? A loophole of some sort?

“We’ll have to wait and see, won’t we?” His gaze flicked to the window behind her. “For now, it appears you have an early arrival.”

Turning, she spotted Ollie Stevenson trudging up the lane, gesturing and talking to himself. She suppressed a mischievous smile. “Would you care to greet him? I have to retrieve my book from the library.”

“Me?” He followed on her heels. “How about I go and get Mrs. Calhoun?” A slight undercurrent of anxiety wove through his words.

With a dismissive gesture, she shot over her shoulder, “She’s busy getting the drinks. Don’t worry, Ollie doesn’t bite. Not often, anyway.”

Leaving him behind, she heard him mutter something about her enjoying this. A thrill lightened her step. Upsetting Lucian’s reserve could become addictive. Good thing he couldn’t see the wide grin splitting her face.

* * *

Lucian had initially intended to secrete himself in Charles’s study for the duration of the evening. Those plans changed. Megan knew children made him uncomfortable and yet she’d purposefully left him to face the unpredictable creatures alone. Well, two could play at that game.

One arm propped against the mantel, he couldn’t stop a satisfied smile as he recalled her dumbfounded reaction to his announcement that he’d be sticking around to observe story time. If her frequent, darting glances his direction were any indication, his presence made her nervous. Good. Served her right.

Ollie, the precocious, persistent seven-year-old whose earlier stream of chatter had given Lucian a headache, kept raising his hand despite Megan’s calm assurances that there’d be time to ask questions later. He had to hand it to her, the woman had a seemingly endless supply of patience. And she was an adept storyteller. Her lilting, musical voice pulled one into the adventure, her enthusiasm transferring itself to the audience.

Watching her, Lucian’s gaze was naturally drawn to her white-blond hair. Rays of waning sunlight slanted through the window to glisten in the loose curls, and his fingers itched to bury themselves in the silken mass. Careful, Beaumont. She’s as pretty as a picture, for sure, but you’ve no idea what lies beneath the surface. Remember Dominique.

How could he ever forget? She’d convinced him of her sincere affection, had even claimed to love him, while all along she’d been biding her time. Holding out for the true prize—his father. Why settle for the son of a shipping magnate when she could have the man with all the power?

His chest seized up, and he absentmindedly rubbed a flat palm over his heart in an effort to soothe away the discomfort. The smothering sensation had started not long after his mother’s death a year ago. Had worsened a few months later with Dominique’s trickery. Being in this house didn’t help. There was no escaping his grandfather’s indifference and worse, the constant reminders of his mother and the fact she was lost to him forever.

When he glanced up and caught Megan looking at him with concern creasing her brow, he dropped his hand. There was nothing to worry about. At least, that was the family physician’s conclusion, who’d declared Lucian fit as a fiddle. Mentioned something about anxiety and getting more rest. Right. Lucian wasn’t one to sit around. When he wasn’t working in the shipping offices or attending social functions, he was at the country estate, hunting and fishing and assisting his staff with repairs and the like. Lately he’d entertained passing thoughts of leaving the city behind to take up permanent residence there. But the prospect of rattling around in that big manor all alone stopped him from seriously considering it.

Just then, a small hand slipped into his, startling him out of his reverie.

Straightening, he stared down into the pixie face of a little girl he’d noticed simply because she reminded him of Megan with her long blond hair and big blue eyes.

“I’m Sarah.” She didn’t smile, only studied him with a seriousness that unnerved him.

Lucian glanced around the parlor, belatedly realizing Megan had finished the book. She and the parents were assisting the children swarming the dessert table.

“Uh, hello.”

What did one say to a child? Her warm fingers clutched his, and he marveled at their fragility. If he had to guess, he’d say she was about five or six.

“What’s your name?”

“I’m Lucian.”

She scrunched up her nose, which only made her look more adorable. “Huh?”

Squatting to her level, he repeated, “My name is Lucian.”

Reaching out, she touched the tip of her finger to his sapphire tiepin. “That’s sparkly. I like pretty things. Can I have it?”

He cleared his throat to cover a chuckle. There was no guile in this little one’s eyes, merely simple curiosity. “Well, I doubt you would have use of it. It’s for gentlemen, and you are a lady.”

She seemed to ponder that for a minute. He held his breath, wondering what he’d say if she insisted. He had no experience with this sort of thing.

“Are you Mr. Charles’s son?”

He jerked his head back at the unexpected question. “No. I’m his grandson.”

Tilting her head, a tiny line appeared between her fine eyebrows. “Mr. Charles was a nice man. Are you nice, too?”

Lucian sucked in a breath.

“Sarah,” Megan said as she appeared at their side and placed a gentle hand on the little girl’s shoulder, “wouldn’t you like a treat? They’re going fast.”

With a nod, Sarah slipped her hand from his and hopped to the table without a backward glance. Lucian stood, grateful for the intervention and wondering what Megan had seen in his face that had induced her to take mercy on him. Could she read his moods that easily?

“She didn’t intend to make you uncomfortable.”

“I know.” He watched her at the table, solemnly debating what to put on her plate. “Is she always that serious?”

A heavy sigh escaped her. “She’s had a rough year. Her ma died in childbirth, as did the baby. Her father hasn’t coped well.”

Lucian’s mouth turned down. Such a tragic loss couldn’t be easy for a young child to process. His gaze returned to Megan to find her studying him with an inscrutable expression. One pale brow quirked.

“So, are you?”

“Am I what?”

Her voice went soft. “Are you a nice man?”

He exhaled. “That’s impossible for me to answer, Megan.”

She stepped closer, smelling of roses and, more faintly, strawberries. He clasped his hands behind his back, away from temptation.

“Well, I’ll answer it, then. I think you are nice.”

His jaw went slack. Pleasure reverberated through him, followed quickly by misgivings. “I’m astonished you’d say that, considering.”

“You’re simply acting under false assumptions concerning your grandfather.” Her blue eyes darkened. “And me.”

“Is that so?” He fought the pull of her innocent appeal.

“Don’t go all haughty on me,” she challenged, not in the least fazed. “We’re going to have to discuss this sometime.” Her mouth softened as genuine confusion settled on her face. “I’d really like to know why you didn’t come to see him. You don’t strike me as someone who’d deliberately hurt another person.”

Lucian didn’t often find himself without a ready response. Megan thought he was nice? If that was her true opinion, then she was one of the most charitable women he’d ever met. So was she really that bighearted? Or just very clever?

Chapter Five

Megan could tell she’d shocked him. No doubt he wasn’t accustomed to anyone questioning his behavior, especially females. New Orleans socialites likely tripped all over themselves to gain his favor, to be linked with such a man as he—wealthy, influential, articulate, gorgeous. Not her. She may be a romantic at heart, but she wasn’t about to allow herself to be impressed by superficial charms.

She wanted to know the man beneath the brooding reserve and smooth manners. His innermost thoughts and feelings. His motivations. And she wasn’t sure if that was possible, or even wise.

Abbott and Ivy Tremain, grandparents of one of the kids, took the silence stretching between them as a sign to interrupt.

“Mr. Beaumont,” Abbott interjected, thrusting out his hand, “it’s an honor to finally meet you.”

As Abbott introduced himself and his wife, Lucian shook his hand and nodded to Ivy. “Likewise. Please, call me Lucian.”

Was Megan the only one who noticed the tension jumping along his jaw? She mentally kicked herself. She shouldn’t have brought up the volatile subject while the house was crawling with guests.

“Lucinda, Ivy and I grew up together. Your mother was a delightful girl. Fun to be around.”

“Oh, yes.” The attractive brunette nodded with a nostalgic smile. “She was as sweet as could be. Growing up, she never caused Charles a bit of trouble, and so we were all taken by complete surprise when she up and ran off with Gerard. Terrible time, that was.”

Megan’s stomach dropped to the floor. Lucian’s face appeared carved in stone, his eyes as black as the forest on a moonless night. Beneath the blue coat, his shoulders went rigid.

Oblivious to his turmoil, Abbott continued, “Charles was never the same after that, was he, my dear?”

She shook her head sadly. “He missed her something fierce. I know a lot of folks around here hoped she’d come back and visit, but she never did.”

“But we’re glad Charles’s grandson is here, at long last,” the older man said with a grin. “How long are you in town for?”

Megan held her breath. Would he tell them about the will stipulation? If he did, the whole town would be buzzing about it within the hour.

“I’m not certain.” Their gazes locked, but she couldn’t tell what he was thinking. “For a couple of weeks, at least.”

“Good, good. It’s awful nice of you to continue your grandfather’s traditions. The children really enjoy themselves when they come here.” Abbott cocked his head at Megan. “This young lady is a gifted storyteller.”

Lucian’s dark brows met in the middle. “Yes, she certainly is.”

Now, why didn’t that sound like a compliment?

“She’s going to make some lucky man a fine wife someday,” Ivy piped up. The sly wink she sent Lucian’s direction made Megan long to run for the door. Her cheeks grew hot. She kept her gaze trained on the colorful rug beneath her feet.

“I believe Tom Leighton’s already figured that out,” her husband joked.

Enough humiliation. “If you’ll excuse me, I should go and help Mrs. Calhoun with the cleanup.”

Leaving them to their conversation, she attempted to bury her embarrassment by seeing to the children’s needs, wiping crumbs from sticky fingers and chocolate-rimmed mouths, refilling drinks and trying to ensure the furniture didn’t get soiled. Though she refrained from looking directly at Lucian, she noticed many of the parents had drifted over to chat with him. She swallowed back concern. Was it too much to hope no one else brought up the subject of his mother?

A frown pulled at her lips. What if he found this evening so unpleasant that he did decide to blockade the door next time?

No. She sincerely believed that, despite his intentions to thwart Charles’s wishes, Lucian was a good man. Misguided, definitely. A bit selfish and stubborn, maybe. But didn’t everyone have faults? His actions tonight had softened her opinion of him. He didn’t have to lift a finger to help her, but he’d anticipated her needs and acted accordingly. He’d suffered through Ollie’s onslaught with fortitude, nodding at all the right times and answering the boy’s questions with careful consideration. Watching his gentle interaction with Sarah, Megan’s heart had squeezed with a curious longing. A longing she didn’t dare examine.

Lucian is not responsible for these feelings, she assured herself. It’s just that, with both Juliana and Josh reveling in wedded bliss, you’re dreaming of your own happy-ever-after.

Besides, Lucian Beaumont didn’t strike her as a man who believed in such a thing. He wouldn’t willingly be any girl’s knight in shining armor.

* * *

Lucian bade good-night to the last guest and, closing the door, sagged momentarily against it. He’d survived his first story time. While this evening had had its trying moments, there’d been interesting ones, as well. What surprised him most was how friendly everyone had been. It seemed Megan was alone in feeling betrayed by his absence all these years.

Going in search of her, he found her scooting a heavy wingback chair across the thick multihued rug towards its rightful place beside the settee. He strode to intercept her.

“I’ll take it from here.”

“That’s all right. I’m used to doing this without help.”

He placed a stalling hand on her shoulder. The warmth of her skin beneath her blouse, the slender grace of her, prickled his palm. He had the ridiculous urge to knead the stiffness from her muscles. “I don’t mind. You’ve been on your feet for most of the night. Why don’t you sit and rest for a few minutes?”

Her red scarf askew, she reluctantly nodded and, moving away from his touch, settled on the settee. Her hands folded in her lap, her gaze followed his movements as he quickly replaced all the chairs. The lamplights cast a cozy glow about the room, which, with its navy-blue-and-green accents and dark walnut woodwork, gave it a masculine feel that was echoed throughout the house. He wondered if it had ever had feminine touches, or if Charles had removed all reminders of his late wife and his absent daughter.

When he’d finished, she asked, “How do you think it went tonight?”

Standing in the middle of the rug, arms crossed, he gave her his frank opinion. “I think the kids are fortunate to have someone who’s willing to give of their time and energy on their behalf.”

Her chin went up. “I enjoy it.” There was force behind the words.

On this point, he didn’t doubt her. He’d seen her nurturing touches, the easy care of the children as if they were her own. Affection like that couldn’t be faked.

“I know you do.”

Surprised relief flickered in her eyes before her lashes swished down, cutting off his view. She began to pluck at the ruffles on her skirt, her trim, shiny nails winking in the light. “I noticed many of the parents made a point to introduce themselves to you. Was everyone...welcoming?”

The hitch in her voice lured him closer. She must be thinking of the Tremains and their guileless comments. He eased down beside her on the cushion, a respectable twelve inches away, and rested his palms on his thighs. “They were indeed.”

Welcoming and genuinely glad to meet him. Effusive in their praise of Charles. He’d had trouble reconciling the man they’d described as good as gold with the cold, unfeeling grandfather he’d envisioned all these years. The discrepancy troubled him. If Charles was the man they made him out to be, why had he ignored his own family? If he regretted the rift he’d created with his pigheaded stubbornness, why hadn’t he come to New Orleans and attempted to make amends? It wasn’t as if he couldn’t afford to travel. And his health problems hadn’t presented themselves until recent years.

He looked up to find her studying him, trying to decipher his thoughts.

“I received several supper invitations,” he continued, “as well as a request to come to church on Sunday.”

Interest bloomed in her expression. She angled towards him. “Will you come?”

“I haven’t been to church in more than a year,” he admitted. “My mother and I used to attend services together. Then she became ill, and I...” He shook his head, reluctant to think of his beloved mère and her swift decline, the bloom of health stolen from her without warning and without mercy. His wealth had garnered her access to the best medical care available, yet in the end, it hadn’t mattered. No amount of money could’ve prevented her death.

His utter helplessness had nearly destroyed him.

“I understand how it would’ve been difficult for you to go, especially since it was something the two of you did together.”

Megan’s compassion threw him off-kilter. He’d gotten precious little of it back in New Orleans. In the face of his grief, his friends and acquaintances hadn’t known what to say, so they’d avoided the subject altogether. And his father, well, he’d been relieved at his wife’s passing. Gerard was finally free of the unsophisticated mountain girl he’d made the mistake of marrying all those years ago. To him, her love and adoration had been a burden. An embarrassment.

His hands curled into fists. Shoving down the familiar anger and bitterness that thoughts of his father aroused, Lucian nodded. “I couldn’t bring myself to go alone. Besides, all those years I’d gone in order to make her happy. After her passing, there didn’t seem to be any more reason to go.”

Megan’s brow furrowed in consternation. “What about deepening your relationship with God? Learning more about His Word?”

“Relationship? With God?”

“Haven’t you ever shared with Him what’s on your heart? Your hopes, dreams, failures? He already knows, of course, but He wants us to express it through prayer.”

He’d prayed before, on occasion, but it had been brief requests for help. Nothing like what Megan was talking about. “You speak as if God cares about the details of your life. I don’t see Him that way. While I believe He exists and that He created this world for our use and pleasure, I find it difficult to imagine He’d bother Himself with our problems.”

“David wrote in Psalms, ‘O Lord, you have searched me and you know me. You know when I sit and when I rise; you perceive my thoughts from afar. You are familiar with all my ways. Before a word is on my tongue you know it completely, O Lord.’ Does that sound like a God who can’t be bothered with us?”

The gentle curve of her smile, the utter lack of judgment in her eyes, compelled him to be truthful. “It sounds like you’re much better acquainted with the Scriptures than I am. In fact, I can’t recall the last time I opened a Bible.” He thought of his mother’s black Bible tucked safely in his trunk, a tentative link that eased somewhat the ache of her absence.

“It’s not too late to start,” she said encouragingly.

His gaze fell on a small portrait on the side table, one he hadn’t noticed before. Standing, he stepped around her and picked it up, fingers tight on the gilt frame. His grandparents, Charles and Beatrice, in the prime of their lives. And his mother, who looked to be about eight years old, dressed in a simple dress and her dark hair in pigtails. She wasn’t smiling. No one really did for portraits. But her eyes were clear of the familiar shadows, and curiosity marked her rounded face. How might her life have been different—better, freer, happier—if Charles had handled the whole situation differently?

“Tell me something,” he said quietly, still staring at the images. “Did my grandfather believe as you do?”

“Charles loved the Lord,” she answered, matching her tone to his, perhaps sensing the turn of his mood. “He tried to model his life after His teachings, a life pleasing to Him.”

Replacing the frame with a bit more force than necessary, he pivoted to glower down at her, unable to mask the cold fury surging through his veins. “Then surely God wasn’t pleased with his coldhearted treatment of his own daughter. And what of his only grandchild? He didn’t even acknowledge my existence! Isn’t there something in there about loving your neighbor as yourself?”

Surging to her feet, Megan adopted a fighting stance—shoulders back, chin up, hands fisted. A not-so-friendly pirate. “And what of your mother’s behavior? She refused Charles’s numerous pleas to return. He desperately wanted to meet you, Lucian. How could she deny him that? How could you?”

He snorted. Sliced the air with his hand. “What are you talking about? What pleas? The night before she married my father, Charles warned her that if she went through with it, not to bother coming back. Ever.”

“Charles apologized more than once for his past behavior. He sent letters begging her to come and visit. To bring you so that he could spend time with you. Show you around town, introduce you to all the townspeople, take you fishing. She flat-out refused. Charles didn’t tell me why.”

Lucian turned away, shoved a frustrated hand through his hair. No. No, this couldn’t possibly be true. His mother wouldn’t have hidden such a thing from him.

“I don’t know anything about any letters,” he ground out.

He startled when her fingers curled around his biceps, a slight pressure. “Lucian—”

The chime of the doorbell derailed her train of thought. “Would you like me to get that for you?”

“No.” He straightened, and her hand fell away. “I’ll get it.”

He didn’t recognize the brown-haired, green-eyed man on the other side of the door. “Good evening. May I help you?”

He looked to be about the same age as himself, maybe a year or so younger, and was dressed like the local men in casual pants, band-collared shirt and suspenders. While his expression was pleasant, his eyes were assessing, his fingers crushing the brim of his hat he held at his waist.

“Evenin’. The name’s Tom Leighton. I own the barbershop on Main.” He stuck out his hand. “You must be Charles’s grandson.”

He shook his hand. “Lucian Beaumont.”

“Pleased to meet you.” His gaze searched the entryway. “Is Megan still here? I came to walk her home.”

“Yes, she is.” Lucian stepped back and motioned him inside. “She’s in the parlor.”

Following Leighton, Lucian ignored a twinge of dislike. He had absolutely no grounds for such a reaction. He didn’t even know the man. It bothers you that he appears to have a relationship with Megan. The banker let slip earlier that Tom Leighton saw Megan as a prospective wife. Question was, how did she feel about that? Did she want to marry the barbershop owner? Were they courting?

As the two exchanged greetings, Lucian watched her expression carefully. Was her smile a bit forced? Her eyes a little tight? Or was he being ridiculous? He puffed out an irritated breath. Definitely ridiculous.

He had absolutely no romantic interest in this woman. Or any other woman, for that matter. The misery of his parents’ mockery of a marriage had carved deep scars on his heart, creating within him an aversion to anything resembling an intimate relationship. He would not repeat their mistakes. He would marry because it was expected of him to produce heirs and further the Beaumont legacy. For duty and social connections, not fickle emotions or fleeting attraction.

He’d had a near miss with Dominique. Had begun to entertain the notion that perhaps pure love could exist for him, that he wouldn’t have to endure a marriage that was more business arrangement than anything else. Thank goodness she’d revealed her true nature before his heart had succumbed.

Watching Megan, he reminded himself of his charted course. She was a diversion, and, albeit delightful and intriguing, one he didn’t want or need.

* * *

“Tom!” Megan wasn’t sure why his arrival had disconcerted her. It wasn’t unusual for him to show up to walk her home. She’d been so immersed in the conversation with Lucian, deeply attuned to his turmoil, that the interruption had thrown her.

“I had a couple of late customers. I wasn’t sure if you’d still be here.” He seemed a touch nervous, which was unlike him. He lowered his voice. “How’d it go?”

“Wonderful.”

Surprise flitted across Tom’s face. “Really?”

Movement beyond his shoulder meant Lucian had entered the room, holding himself back, his dark gaze hooded.

Stepping to the side in order to include him, she touched Tom’s arm in a silent request for him to turn around. “You’ve met Lucian already?”

He nodded curtly. “Yes.”

The two men regarded each other in silence. She glanced askance at her friend. He was normally talkative and friendly, even with strangers. Why was he acting like this?

She cleared her throat. “Tom is a close friend of the family. We’ve known each other practically from birth. He and my cousin Josh used to take great pleasure in tormenting me.”

Laughter erupted from Tom, and, ignoring her arched brow, he slung an arm around her shoulders. “Like hiding frogs in your lunch pails.” Tucking her close to his side, he grinned at Lucian. “Made her so mad, she could hardly speak. But she’d eventually cool off and talk to us again. Megan and I know each other very well, almost as well as an old married couple. We have a lot in common.”

“Sounds like it,” Lucian responded drily.

Stunned and irritated by Tom’s familiarity, his insinuations, Megan shrugged off his arm as unobtrusively as she could. “Well, I believe we should be going.” Before he embarrassed her further.

She paused before Lucian, wishing they could’ve finished their conversation. Hating to leave him to deal with his confused anguish alone. Longing to reach out and comfort him. He seemed in desperate need of a hug. “Thank you for everything.”

He stared at her for so long that Tom approached and took hold of her arm.

“Ready?”

She jumped, having forgotten for a split second that there was anyone else in the room besides the two of them. “Y-yes, I’m quite ready. Good evening, Lucian.”

His nod was almost imperceptible, his low drawl a caress. “Bonne nuit, mon chou.”

It wasn’t until they’d reached the end of the lane that she rounded on Tom.

“Why did you do that?”

He held up his palms. “Do what?”

“You know perfectly well what.” She jammed her hands on her hips. “Why did you try to make Lucian believe something about us that isn’t true?”

Grasping her upper arms, he peered down at her with an intensity he rarely displayed, making her stomach clench with dread.

“I can’t deny that I want it to be true. Surely you know by now how I feel about you, Megan.” His green eyes blazed with conviction. “I would like to court you properly.”

Megan squeezed her eyes tight. What could she say that wouldn’t hurt his feelings? She’d been so careful not to encourage him!

“If you don’t open your eyes, I’m going to take it as an invitation to kiss you.”

“Don’t you dare!” Her eyes popping open, she wriggled out of his grasp and strode briskly down the lane. He easily kept pace with her but didn’t speak, allowing her time to sort through her response.

When she stopped at the split-rail fence that signaled the beginning of her property, he stopped, as well, expectant.

“I can’t think about this right now.” She took the coward’s way out, opting to delay what would be an extremely difficult task, one that would alter their friendship forever. Feeling lower than pond scum, she rushed ahead to explain, “I’m in charge of my sisters while Momma is away, you know. This is the first time in the twins’ entire lives that they’ve been apart, and Jane is having a tough time of it. Nicole is even more unpredictable than usual, and now I have the issue with Charles’s house to contend with. I’m sorry, but I—”

“It’s all right.” He held up a hand. “This wasn’t the best time to spring my feelings on you, but I’m not sorry it’s finally out in the open. Take all the time you need.”

His consideration made her feel even worse. “Thanks, Tom,” she murmured, toeing the grass with her boot.

“Just remember, I’ll be waiting.”

With a slight smile and a tug on his hat’s brim, he turned and walked back the way they’d come, headed to his farm on the opposite side of town. Sagging against the fence, she watched until the shadowed lane swallowed him up. I don’t know what to do, God. I need to be clear with him about my feelings, but I can’t bear the thought of wounding him. He’s been such a dear friend.

Friend. That’s all he’d ever be. All she’d ever want him to be. Tom was easy to be with, funny and interesting, as well as dependable and an all-around great man. But he wasn’t the man for her.

Thoughts of Lucian crowded in, prodding her. Sure, he could make her tremble with merely a look. Release a storm of butterflies in her tummy with the slightest touch. Stir her heart with emotion. Despite all that, he wasn’t the one for her, either.

Chapter Six

Lucian missed his predictable life. His comfortable routine. Coffee and croissants in the estate gardens, mornings at the waterfront overseeing his family’s shipping offices, afternoons devoted to social responsibilities and evenings dining and dancing with the upper crust of society. Every day was pretty much the same, and he liked it that way.

The inactivity here was killing him. Too much time on his hands. Time to think.

Megan’s assertions had circled through his mind like ravenous vultures until the wee hours of the morning. The prospect that his grandfather hadn’t been indifferent, had actually yearned to meet him, weakened the grip of resentment in his soul. But it also brought heartache and disillusionment. For if Megan was right, that meant his mother had lied to him. He couldn’t bear to entertain such an idea, so he forced his thoughts elsewhere...to another tangled coil.

Tom and Megan. Megan and Tom.

He kept picturing them in his parlor, tucked together like two peas in a pod, all the while wanting to protest that he should be the one holding her—not some backwoods mountain man. Okay, that wasn’t exactly fair. Tom Leighton seemed nice enough, appeared to honestly care about her.

These feelings have nothing to do with Megan, specifically. You’re accustomed to women throwing themselves at you, and now that you’ve encountered one who doesn’t, you don’t have a clue how to react. She’s a challenge, that’s all. One he wouldn’t pursue, for both their sakes. Not only were they from disparate worlds, they had different expectations where relationships were concerned. A man would have to be blind not to know Megan O’Malley craved what many other women in the world craved—love and romance and happy-ever-after. He’d seen it in her eyes, that starry, hopeful light not yet dimmed by betrayal or misfortune. She wanted it all...adoring husband, bouncing babies and a cozy home. He wasn’t prepared to give that to anyone, especially her.

He still hadn’t made up his mind about her. Whether she was the genuine article or an exceptional counterfeit.

His fingers closed over her reticule.

He’d noticed the lacy, beribboned article lying on the entryway table this morning. Megan had left in such a hurry last evening that she’d accidentally left it behind. He’d toyed with the idea of allowing his valet to return it to her, but in the end, his curiosity about her home and family had won out. Getting directions had been a simple task. As Charles Newman’s grandson, the locals accepted him more readily than he expected they would a complete stranger.

Now on his way to the O’Malley farm, he found himself wondering what he’d find there. He knew nothing about her family, except that she had a cousin named Josh. Had her parents grown up with his mother? Did they, like Megan, think he was heartless for staying away all these years?

This lane was unfamiliar, the forests on either side thick and endless yet somehow welcoming.

Amid the sea of coarse bark and lush green leaves, splashes of vivid pink caught his eye. Phlox. The delicate flower blanketed the forest floor in this particular area, a pleasing respite from the verdant landscape. Farther on, yellow lady’s slippers decorated a mossy slope. And later, white-and-pink painted trillium. The peaceful, majestic beauty reminded him of his estate outside New Orleans. Not that these mountains could compare to his beloved lowlands, but he felt the same sense of serenity here, of freedom and completeness, that he did there. Curious.

By the time he’d reached Megan’s farm, his mind was blessedly clear.

Taking the worn path veering from the lane, he passed a fair-sized vegetable garden and a crude, open-air shelter fashioned from four sawed-off tree trunks topped with a slanting, wood-slat roof, under which sat a wagon. The barn, while sizable, had seen better days. Boards were warped or missing altogether. Beyond sat a corncrib and smokehouse in much better condition. Diagonal from the barn, its roof sheltered by the branches of a towering magnolia tree, sat a two-story, shingled-roof cabin with a long, narrow porch running the length of the dwelling. Stacked river rock formed the supports. Flowers spilled from crates on either side of the door, spots of color in the porch’s shadow. Two rocking chairs waited, still and silent, for someone to relax and enjoy the view.

Nearing the barn, Megan’s voice drifted out through the open doors, and he stopped to listen.

“Mr. Knightley,” she all but crooned, “we can’t go for another jaunt in the woods today. It’s almost time for supper.”

Lucian frowned. Who was Mr. Knightley? Another suitor? Treading silently, he edged closer to the shaded opening, craning his neck for a glimpse of her and her companion.

“How about tomorrow afternoon? If the weather cooperates, that is.”

There was no response. Seeing a flash of her blond hair, he moved into the barn itself and saw that her Mr. Knightley was in fact a beautiful bay dun.

“Bonjour.”

With a gasp of surprise, she pivoted his direction. Her eyes were huge and dark. “Lucian! I didn’t hear you come in.”

“That’s a fine horse you have there.” He advanced farther inside, noting the neatness and order, gardening tools and pails stacked in one corner. A dairy cow shifted in her stall as he passed. Fresh hay littered the earth floor.

When he reached her side, he placed a hand on the horse’s powerful neck, inches from where hers rested. She didn’t speak at first, simply stared at him as if trying to absorb the fact that he was actually here, on her property. The air around them shimmered suddenly with energy, sharpening his senses. She was so very close. Adrift in blue eyes that reminded him of the mysterious ocean deep, Lucian found his ability to speak failed him. As did his common sense.

He covered her hand with his own. Edged closer. Inhaled the faint rose scent that clung to her. Captured a wayward curl and wrapped it around his finger.

“Lucian?” Her whisper caressed his neck.

His heart thundered inside his chest. “Has anyone ever told you that your hair is like moonlight?” he murmured, his gaze freely roaming the silken mass. “So pale it practically glows luminescent?”

Her peach-hued lips curved sweetly. “Actually, you’re the first.”

That smile nearly felled him. His gaze homed in on her lush mouth, and he bent his head a fraction. Her breathing changed. He stilled.

What was he doing?

“I’m sorry. I—” What could he say? That he’d temporarily forgotten all the reasons he mustn’t fall prey to her charms?

Uncoiling his finger, he put distance between them. Focused on the horse. Mr. Knightley. “I take it you’re an admirer of Jane Austen? Emma, in particular?” Averting his face, he grimaced when his voice sounded more riled bear than human.

Megan didn’t move. “Y-yes, I am as a matter of fact. You’re familiar with her works?”

“You sound surprised.” He dared a glance at her, watched her expression change from bemused to contemplative.

“Not surprised, exactly. Pleased would be a more apt term. Some men consider female authors inferior and, as such, unworthy of their attention.”

“And here I thought you’d be surprised that I read at all.”

Lifting a shoulder, she averted her gaze and stroked her horse’s neck. “Charles mentioned he’d passed his love of books on to Lucinda. I surmised she taught you to do the same.”

Lucian didn’t respond. She was right, of course. His earliest memories were of sitting on his mother’s lap, snug and warm, listening to bedtime stories. She’d read to him until he’d learned to do it for himself. Growing up, he’d passed countless afternoons hidden away in their estate’s library, immersed in one adventure or another.

“I have to admit, I never did warm to Emma and her matchmaking. I prefer Mansfield Park.”

“Indeed?”

“Megan—” they turned as one at the feminine intrusion barreling into the barn “—what’s taking you so...long?”

The raven-haired beauty’s momentum faltered when her wide-eyed gaze encountered him. She pressed a hand to her chest. “Oh, I didn’t realize we had company.”

Once Megan made the introductions, Lucian nodded in greeting, surprised that, besides their striking eyes, the sisters didn’t share any other physical similarities. He instantly recognized the calculating gleam in Nicole’s, having witnessed it in scores of other young ladies’ gazes. What schemes was this young minx entertaining? He had a feeling she caused her poor parents a fair share of grief.

“Supper’s on the table,” Nicole announced brightly, smoothing her lace-and-ribbon-embellished purple skirts. “Please say you’ll join us, Mr. Beaumont.”

He glanced at Megan, uncertain of her feelings on the matter. He wanted to accept, not because he was particularly hungry, but because his curiosity had only increased in the time he’d been here.

Her hesitation lasted a fraction of a second before good manners kicked in, and she smiled her agreement. “Yes, please do. You can meet our younger sister, Jane, and taste her fine cooking. It’s simple fare,” she hastened to add, “nothing like you’re used to, I’m sure.”

“Not all of my meals are seven-course fanfares,” he said leaning towards her, a slight smile playing about his lips. “In fact, when I’m out hunting, I sometimes make do with a can of cold beans and hard biscuits.”

“I can scarcely believe it,” she responded with mock horror. “Lucian Beaumont, lord of the manor, eating out of a can? What would people say if they knew? I hope you at least had a fork and weren’t forced to use your fingers.”

Lord of the manor? Was that how she saw him? As some stuffy stick-in-the-mud?

“Well, beans aren’t on the menu tonight, thank goodness!” Nicole said with relief. “Jane’s fixed pot roast and all the trimmings. Let’s go eat before it gets cold.”

With a shrug and a smile, Megan fell into step beside him, explaining the whereabouts of her mother, Alice, and sisters Juliana and Jessica. There was no mention of a father, which meant the man had either abandoned his family or passed on. The question would have to wait until later.

Preceding Megan into the cabin, he stepped into a rectangular, low-ceilinged room crammed with furniture. Oval-backed chairs surrounded one long, chocolate-brown settee and a yellow-gold fainting couch. Two oversize hutches monopolized the wall space opposite him, while sewing baskets, fabrics and supplies occupied a low table in the far corner. To his left, impossibly steep stairs disappeared into an opening in the second floor. Beyond the living area, he glimpsed a narrow passageway that contained the dining table laden with dishes and, past that, the kitchen.

The rich aroma of succulent meat and fresh-baked bread hit him. His mouth watered. Perhaps he was hungrier than he’d thought.

As he understood it, until recently, six females had shared this cabin. That number was now at five. Despite the crowded nature of the space, they did a remarkable job of keeping it clean and clutter-free.

Auburn-haired Jane, he found, did resemble Megan to a degree. While her hair and eyes were different, she had the same cheekbones, nose and chin, though that last part lacked her older sister’s stubbornness. That could be due to her young age. Jane exuded the same gentle sweetness, but she lacked Megan’s spark, the inner fire that drew him unwillingly to her. Ignore it or fight it. If you don’t, you could wind up getting burned.

Beside him at the table, she was unusually quiet. She didn’t have to utter a word, however, for him to be aware of her every movement. Did she resent having him here?

He should’ve felt awkward, outnumbered as he was by unfamiliar females. However, the delicious meal and the younger girls’ eager inquiries about city life put him at ease, as did the realization that Nicole didn’t have her sights set on him. In fact, the thoughtful glances she slid between he and Megan indicated she had ideas about the two of them.

Pity she was bound to be disappointed.

* * *

Tonight Jane’s pot roast didn’t melt on Megan’s tongue. It was difficult to chew and even harder to swallow, and it was all his fault. Every time Lucian shifted in his seat, his shoulder brushed hers and her stomach took a dive. Once, when his knee bumped hers, she nearly toppled her lemonade. His masculine presence filled the room, robbing her lungs of air. All she could think about was that scene in the barn. He’d almost kissed her! The worst part was the acute disappointment she’d experienced when he didn’t. If anything, she should be relieved.

Kissing Lucian would have disastrous consequences. One kiss from him and she’d be planning their wedding. Risking a sideways glance, she tried to imagine him in formal black wedding clothes. His unruly waves slicked back...

Lowering her gaze to her still-full plate, she swirled the potatoes through the gravy with her fork. Have you forgotten the children? He’s made it plain he seeks to circumvent Charles’s will. I guarantee he won’t be quite so attractive if you have to cancel story time and explain to them that their fun is over.

Besides, his home was hundreds of miles away. If she allowed herself to get close to him, to care for him, he’d take a part of her heart with him when he left. Could she endure that? Pining hearts made for great fiction...why else would she have pored through the pages of Pride and Prejudice half a dozen times? She wasn’t so certain she wanted to experience it in reality.

“Megan,” Jane’s voice intruded, “would you like a slice of pie?”

“No, thanks.” She dredged up a smile, laying her fork aside when she noticed everyone had finished. “I’ll help clear the dishes.”

Rising, she began to stack them.

“Jane and I will clean up,” Nicole protested, rising and taking the plates from her hands. “Why don’t you and Mr. Beaumont have a seat on the front porch while we dish up dessert?”

Megan stared. Nicole didn’t volunteer to do anything unless it suited her purposes. What was she up to?

Lucian stood, as well, and placed a hand against his flat stomach. “That was a fine meal, ladies. I enjoyed this evening very much. Thank you for your generous hospitality.”

Jane flushed. They’d all noticed he’d eagerly accepted second portions. “It was our pleasure, Mr. Beaumont.”

After inviting her sisters to call him by his first name, he turned that intense focus on her, waiting for her to lead the way. Where they’d be alone again. Her nerves zinged with equal parts anticipation and dismay. Would he touch her again? She hoped not. Really, she did.

Outside, darkness blanketed the land, obscuring the distant mountain peaks. Moonlight cast the yard and outbuildings in a muted glow, glancing off the treetops while the thick forest below remained cloaked in impenetrable blackness. The nearby stream’s hushed journey over and around moss-covered rocks formed a backdrop to the cicadas’ calls and frogs’ songs. The night air was pleasant against her skin, not too warm and not too cold. Perfect.

Lucian stared into the night, one shoulder propped against a wooden support. She moved to rest her back against the one opposite, arms crossed over her chest. She studied his proud profile, wondered if he ever truly let go and allowed himself to relax. Lost the brooding tension humming along his body.

“What’s the city like at night?”

He didn’t answer immediately. “The air is humid, almost sticky, and sweet with the scent of magnolias and beignets. Buggies and people roam the streets at all hours, the sounds of horses and wheels clattering over bricks, laughter and jazz flooding the night. It’s a vibrant place.”

If it was so wonderful, then why did he sound dissatisfied? Wistful for something else?

“What are beignets?”

“Fried dough dusted with sugar.”

She smiled. “Sounds delicious.”

“They are, indeed, especially when accompanied by café au lait. We use chicory in our coffee, which makes it stronger, more bitter than what I’ve tasted here.” He angled his face to study her. “I think you’d like it there, Megan, especially the waterfront. The nonstop activity. Interesting characters. The boats and the water.”

“I’ve yet to leave these mountains. Not sure I ever will.”

He shifted so that his stance mirrored hers, his back against the support. “You surprise me. I would’ve guessed that a young lady such as yourself yearned for adventure, hungered to see the world you read about in all those books.”

“I’ll admit I’ve often wondered what other places are like. I’m realistic enough to know, however, the opportunity will probably never arise.” She shrugged. “That’s all right with me. I’m content right where I am.”

“The mountains are all right,” he agreed offhandedly.

“Just all right?” She dropped her arms, indignation pushing upward. “How can you say that—”

“There’s no need to get huffy, mon chou,” he responded, amusement deepening his accent. “I was merely teasing. While I prefer the lowlands, I can’t deny East Tennessee is lovely. In fact, it sort of reminds me of my property outside New Orleans. The landscape is vastly different, of course, but the feeling I get is the same. A feeling of freedom. Free of constraints, of expectations. I can let down my guard there.”

During supper, she’d found his descriptions of his life in the Crescent City fascinating, if somewhat confining. The thought of all those strict social rules and expectations, not to mention the head-spinning whirl of parties and engagements, made her break out in a cold sweat. Made her grateful she wasn’t part of a prominent, wealthy family like the Beaumonts.

No wonder he was coiled tighter than a copperhead about to strike. How much time would it take for him to let his guard down here?

“Do you go there often?”

He paused. “Not nearly as often as I’d like.”

“Have you ever considered leaving the city behind?”

“I have.” He heaved a sigh. “This last year, especially.”

Because his mother was gone.

Lying in bed last evening, she’d prayed for him, asked God to comfort him as he sorted through the truth. His instinctive denial, his difficulty in accepting that his mother might’ve deceived him in this matter, revealed how deeply he’d loved her. Treasured her, even. Recalling his pained denial, outrage had bloomed inside Megan. How could Lucinda betray him that way? Deny both men a chance at a close relationship? She couldn’t begin to understand the woman’s reasoning or motivations.

With tears wetting her pillow, it had dawned on her that she no longer blamed Lucian for not visiting Charles. Lucinda had led him to believe his grandfather was apathetic. And perhaps worse. Her actions had inflicted deep hurt on two men. Charles, her friend and substitute grandfather. And Lucian, someone who, if the circumstances were different, she could come to care a great deal about.

But they’re not. Remember that. He’s not the hero you’ve been dreaming about your whole life.

Needing to divert her treacherous thoughts, she grasped blindly for a change in subject.

“Did your house sustain any damages last night? I trust you didn’t discover any handprints on the furniture.” She hoped he didn’t detect the breathless strain in her voice.

“I didn’t find any when I inspected the parlor in the morning light.”

Oh, why did the man have to have a sense of humor beneath that brooding reserve? Where was the haughty arrogance she despised?

“No misplaced children after I left?”

“No,” he said with mock sternness. “I can assure you that if I had, I would’ve brought them straight here for you to deal with.”

“Aw, but look at how well you handled Ollie and Sarah.”

“If you dare to leave me alone with that boy again, there will be dire consequences.”

She couldn’t hold back her laughter, the thrill his subtle teasing sent rushing through her.

“Go ahead. Laugh. You think I’m jesting when in fact I’m completely serious.”

“Right.” The tremor of humor belied his words. Holding her stomach, she laughed harder, recalling his look of strained patience when dealing with the boy.

When Lucian pushed away from the post and stalked towards her, black eyes burning, the laughter died in her throat. Uh-oh. Every nerve ending stood to attention. What were his intentions?

He came very close, clasped his hands behind his back even as his upper body bent towards her. A good three to four inches taller than her, his broad, muscled chest and capable shoulders blocked the moonlight. His nearness didn’t trouble her in the least. She welcomed it, felt sheltered by him. She pressed her arms tighter around her middle to keep from reaching up and weaving her fingers through his brown locks, from pulling him to her. That would be unwise. Extremely unwise.

That didn’t mean she didn’t long to do so. This enigmatic man tugged at her heart, her soul, like the pull of the moon on the ocean’s waves.

“Has anyone ever told you that your laugh is like a song? A merry tune brimming with unbridled enthusiasm?”

“Has anyone ever told you that you’ve a heart of a poet?”

Surprise flashed across his face. “No. Never. It must be your influence.” His gaze roaming her face was like a physical touch. “You are so incredibly beautiful.” His warm breath fanned her mouth.

Her lungs hung suspended. Was he going to kiss her?

The door opened then, and Nicole appeared, interrupting them a second time. Megan didn’t know whether to be irritated or relieved.

He straightened, his eyes hooded. Unreadable. The air whooshed from her lungs. Why did she feel as if she’d just missed something special?

“Dessert’s on the table,” Nicole announced brightly, unaware of what she’d interrupted.

“I, ah, am sorry to have to decline, after all.” Lucian backed towards the steps. “But it’s later than I realized. I need to be going.”

“Oh.” She blinked, glanced between them. “Next time, then.”

“Good evening.”

“Wait!” Megan ducked inside for a kerosene lamp. Their fingers brushed as she handed it to him and an unexpected pang shot through her. There was such strength and warmth in those hands. Gentleness, too. “To light your way,” she said.

His features tightened briefly. “Thanks.”

Then he turned and walked away. And Megan was glad she was smart enough to know not to fall in love with the man. Something deep inside warned that it wouldn’t be the happy-ever-after kind of love. More like the Romeo and Juliet, tragic kind of love. For them, there could be no happy ending.

Chapter Seven

Standing in the flower garden Monday afternoon, Lucian turned at the sound of angry footsteps.

“Cabbage?” Megan marched his direction, her pastel-pink skirts skimming the stone path and swiping the blooms unfortunate enough to be too near the edge. “That’s what you’ve been calling me?”

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