Page 8 of Appointment in Bath

Sir Frederick took a dim view of females. Much of that was owing to Lady Allendale. According to what Meg had gleaned from Mrs. Church and Mrs. Stapleton over the years, he’d been in love with the former Margaret Honeywell in his youth. He’d believed they would marry. When she’d jilted him in favor of Lord Allendale, Sir Frederick’s disposition toward women had been irrevocably altered. He’d grown bitter and angry over the decades that passed, rather like a turnip—as Mrs. Stapleton had once described him—left to stew in its own juices. What fondness he’d had for his offspring had been reserved for Meg’s older brother, Roderick.

But Roddy was gone.

Last Meg had heard, her brother was living somewhere abroad, encamped with a disreputable group of artists and other undesirable persons. She hadn’t had a letter from him in ages. Nor had her father as far as she was aware.

“You needn’t tell him,” she said. “I’ll be well enough in a day or two.”

In the end, it took Meg nearly a week to recover. At the close of it, she wasted no time in donning her warmest habit, saddling Rowena, and riding away from the stifling prison of Letchford Hall as far and as fast as she could.

Would that it could be farther!

Alas, despite her desire for freedom, Meg was emboldened to go only as far as the village. There, she stopped at the draper’s shop and bought herself a length of pink satin ribbon. It was another modest attempt at rebellion. Her dressmaker was forever insisting that Meg’s complexion was ill-suited to pink, even though Meg adored the color.

She was just tucking the parcel into the small leather bag attached to her sidesaddle when a familiar white stallion and his equally familiar rider entered the empty street.

Meg swallowed hard. She hadn’t thought to see Mr. Beresford again. Not this soon, certainly.

It was a quiet day in the high street. Approaching storm clouds were keeping most of the villagers at home. Meg sent up a silent prayer of thanks for the foul weather as she used the wooden mounting block in front of the draper’s shop to climb back into her sidesaddle.

Mr. Beresford slowed his stallion as he approached. He tipped his black beaver hat to her. “Miss Burton-Smythe. Good morning.”

For a split second, she was tempted to ride off without acknowledging him. It’s what her father would command her to do. And after all the years of animosity between their two families, surely no one would blame her.

But when it came to the point, Meg couldn’t bring herself to offer Mr. Beresford the cut direct. He’d done nothing to deserve it. Not yet, anyway.

“Good m-morning,” she replied.

“Your ankle is much improved, I see.”

The memory of his hand curving around her stockinged foot, his long fingers both strong and heart-quiveringly gentle, danced through Meg’s head. A rush of heat followed, making her blush to the roots of her hair.

That he should mention one of her limbs. And in a public street!

“Yes, th-thank you,” she managed. “It’s well recovered.”

He brought his stallion to halt. A frosty wind rustled the folds of his heavy black broadcloth greatcoat. His top boots were splattered in mud, his drab buckskin breeches hugging his well-muscled thighs like a second skin.

Meg’s gaze drifted over him quite against her will, taking in the full magnificence of his figure. The Beresford men were known for their handsomeness, but she’d rarely been privileged to view one of their number from this close a vantage point.

“Have you been Christmas shopping?” he asked.

She shot an anxious glance at the window of the draper’s shop as she gathered her reins. Those who spied her exchanging words with a Beresford may not be brave enough to report it to Meg’s father, but they’d have no compunction about relaying the news to Mrs. Church or Mrs. Stapleton. Meg would never hear the end of it.

With that in mind, she turned Rowena toward home, giving the mare an encouraging nudge with her heel. “I’ve finished m-my Christmas shopping already.”

It was only a few weeks until the holiday. She’d been accumulating small gifts for the servants and for several of her father’s tenants since September. Meg liked to be prepared. Indeed, the single present she’d bought for her father had been wrapped and hidden in her wardrobe for months. She’d struggled with choosing it. Sir Frederick Burton-Smythe was not an easy man to please.

Mr. Beresford kept pace with her on his stallion. “You’re more efficient than I have been. As it stands, I only have a few items I picked up during my travels to give my family. A small Swiss clock. A first-rate translation of Dante’s Inferno. And some very fine lace I found in Paris. The Dante and the lace will do for my mother and sister. My brothers will have to draw straws for the clock.”

Meg couldn’t tell if he was jesting. “What about your f-father?”

“Ah. There’s a dilemma. What to get the gentleman who has everything?” Mr. Beresford guided his stallion down the high street “What did you buy for your own father?”

“A tobacco box with a spring lid. It’s m-made of silver. They have them at Pinnock’s Emporium.”

“An excellent notion. Regrettably, my father doesn’t smoke.”

“I saw a silver hand warmer there as well,” Meg suggested. “Everyone’s hands get c-cold.”