Pursuing Miss Hall by Karen Thornell

Chapter Ten

Nathan startled when Meg abruptly walked away. All of his frustrations escaped him as he caught a look at her distressed expression before her skirts whipped about her legs with the force of her turn.

He ran a hand down his face, wishing he could take back every word he had just said. But to come across her and that viscount holding hands and standing far too close . . . He shook his head, trying to rid himself of the image. After the night before—his guilt, Lady Hall’s condemnation, and Meg’s near avoidance of him—to see her in such a situation was akin to a knife in the gut.

Still, Meg did not deserve his censure. It was not her fault that Nathan was in love with her and that Lord Hatfield was apparently well on his way to similar amorous feelings. Nathan could only pray Meg did not return the viscount’s affection.

“Meg—please wait!” He ran after her, grabbing her arm before she could round the bend that would bring her within sight of the house again.

She stopped but did not turn around.

He released her arm, his own falling awkwardly to his side. His next words came out quietly and, embarrassingly enough, rather hoarse. “I am sorry. That was unfair of me. But please, wait a moment.”

Still, she did not turn. “I have it on good authority that I ought not to be alone in a garden with a man. Therefore, I believe I shall return to the house.”

His mouth lifted in a hopeful grin. She could not be terribly mad at him if she were making jests, could she? He sought for similar levity. “Oh, but you have nothing to fear from me, I am sure.”

When she turned, her gaze was surprisingly focused, staring into his own as if attempting to puzzle something out. “Do I not?”

He swallowed. Did she know?

“Of course not.” His blasted voice was strangled. He cleared his throat. “I am Nathan, and you are Meg. That . . . that is all.”

For what felt like an hour, but was more likely only a breath or two, her gaze remained on him, her magnificent green eyes raking over his face. His heart rate sped up. Unconsciously, he took a step closer to her, his gaze dropping to her lips before he could catch himself.

“Of course. You are right.” She looked away, and the spell broke, leaving him feeling strangely empty.

They needed to speak of something else, anything to keep him from fixating on her eyes, the curve of her cheek, the way a few loose curls caught on every breeze . . . her lips.

“What were you doing, anyhow?” The words slipped from him, and he could nearly have groaned. He was certain he did not wish to know the answer.

“I am not sure really.” Meg ducked her head, walking past him and farther into the garden again. He followed. “I was out walking, and he appeared. A part of me had thought that if I tried a little harder, perhaps I could convince myself to care for him . . . and then it would not be so very difficult to marry him as Mama wishes. But then he asked me to call him by his Christian name and—”

Nathan cut in, unable to help himself, fear causing him to speak rashly again. “Marry him? I thought your mother just wished you to marry someone. But him specifically?” His voice hitched up oddly on the last syllable, but Meg did not seem to notice. She was studiously staring at a rose bush.

Nathan was studiously staring at her.

“Oh, that is what she says, but she has made it clear that he is the preference. More than a preference, really. She has said nearly everything except simply ‘marry the viscount, Margaret.’ But I rather imagine that command will come soon. And I had thought that if I tried harder . . . maybe . . . maybe I could convince myself to fall in love with him so I could more easily do as Mama wishes.” She laughed a little and shrugged to herself, still surveying the roses. “Though I do not know how I could possibly fall in love with a man in hardly a week in any case. But as I said, Mama seems quite set on me choosing him, so I suppose our marriage will simply be slow to cultivate affection—Nathan? Are you quite all right?”

Nathan could not do more than stare at her. Marry the viscount. Marry the viscount? It had always been a possibility, but Meg spoke as if it was decided, as if she were already engaged. His breathing ceased; he could not focus. Meg could not marry Lord Hatfield. No. There was no blasted way.

“Nathan, say something. What is wrong?”

“You . . . he . . .”

She waited, but still, he could not speak. After a second, or perhaps far longer, she put her fists on her hips and looked sternly at him. The stance was motherly, and she had taken it toward him many a time when she thought he was being stubborn to share any truth. But her eyes—her clear, green eyes—gave away her concern. “Nathan?”

Numbly, he stepped closer, and she had to look up to see him. But she did not move away. Instead, she grasped his forearms, tilting her head and thoroughly considering something.

“I do not understand. Are you teasing me? Or do you think I should not marry Lord Hatfield?”

He finally found his voice. It was, apparently, quite commanding once discovered. “Of course I think you should not marry him!”

“But why?”

His stare dropped to her lips again, then darted back up to her eyes. The breeze brought a faint hint of lavender to his nose. He clenched his jaw and shut his eyes a moment.

“Meg . . . you do not . . . you cannot marry him. You feel nothing toward him; you just said so yourself.”

She shrugged, still peering at him through narrowed eyes. “Yes, but perhaps those kinds of feelings are simply made up by novelists. Perhaps they are all a farce.”

“They are not.” He spoke the words clearly, decisively.

She stilled, and this time he distinctly saw her gaze drop to his mouth. Could she feel even a fraction of the pull that he felt?

Her voice was quiet. “How do you know?”

He was surprised at his lack of hesitation. “I have felt them—these feelings you speak of. I have felt the racing of a heart, the tingling of a touch, the mind’s inability to think of anything beyond one person. These feelings are not made up, Meg. Surely you realize this.”

“I have felt no such thing.” Her gaze dropped to his cravat.

He did not believe that. She had to feel this between them. Even if he could not hope for her to love him as he loved her, in this moment there was no denying she felt the pull, the attraction that he felt toward her. Not with the way a blush was rising in her cheeks or how she had not stepped away from his nearness.

She could not marry Lord Hatfield no matter what her parents wished. Not when she could marry him.

And something inside him snapped. Some medieval impulse took over. He had to convince her.

He caught one of her hands in his and brushed the pad of his thumb across the back of it. She stilled, and he tightened his hold.

Lavender filled his senses again as her head raised, a question in her eyes. But still she did not pull away. The light summer breeze swirled between them, rustling the leaves on a nearby rose bush. Slowly, he turned her hand over, running his thumb across her palm in slow, soft strokes. His heart pounded with more force than Cavallo’s swiftest run. Then, with a soft touch, he ran his hand up her arm, over her shoulder and neck, coming to a stop to cup her cheek. He raised the other to mimic the movement, cradling her face in both his hands. The action made his own breath hitch.

Could he be similarly affecting her? He had to be similarly affecting her.

He did not move, simply stared at her, their breaths coming in tandem. Her eyes flicked between each of his. Then, almost imperceptibly, she leaned in, her hands finding the polished buttons of his coat and, more than likely, feeling his thunderous heartbeat.

At this promising indication, he spoke, his voice low and, hopefully, persuasive. “Tell me you do not feel anything, Meg. Tell me these sensations are false, that you can marry a man without them.”

For a moment, she seemed to lean into the palm of his hand, her eyelids fluttering closed. But then she stiffened, and her eyes flew open, becoming accusatory. Nathan’s hands fell from her face in alarm.

“You’ve made your point, Mr. Blake.” Her voice was hard.

“I was not . . .” Well, truly, he was making a point. “I did not intend to. . .”

She stepped back, folding her arms over her midsection like an embrace. This was not going at all as he’d planned.

“Meg, I only wished to make you see you cannot marry Lord Hatfield. I did not mean—”

“Oh? Then what would you have me do? Tell my parents I will not see to their happiness by marrying him simply because he has not managed to make my heart pound as you seem well-practiced at doing? Would you have me marry you then, Nathan? After such a display?”

Yes!

But he never had the chance to respond, for she continued. “You take your jests too far. These are my feelings you are toying with; it is not some funny quip or witty rejoinder.” Her voice was low, he could hardly even hear her, but her words cut him regardless. She took several steps away. “I can hardly believe this lack of decorum. This . . . this . . . indecency.”

“Meg, you must know I would never toy with your feelings. You do not understand.” His palms lifted in supplication.

“No, Nathan, I do not.” She watched him with a guarded expression, and it nearly sent him running back to her side. Where had he gone wrong? “Please, explain to me what you meant to do with that.” She gestured wildly with her hands.

He opened his mouth, but nothing came out. Could he tell her he loved her? Would she even believe him with how he had just acted? Because, truly, he had acted like a cad. Like a coward. He had been unwilling to voice his own feelings, so he had attempted to convince her to voice her own. Everything was wrong. He had done it all wrong. How could he repair this damage? How could he erase that look of mingled pain and disgust from her face?

He straightened, attempting to convey his sincerity with a look. “I am sorry, Meg. Again. I acted dishonorably, and I do not blame you for your anger.”

She sighed, some of the lines disappearing from around her mouth and some of the tension seeming to leave her shoulders.

“Only, please. Please do not marry Lord Hatfield if you do not love him.” He had resorted to begging, and he couldn’t bring himself to care.

Her gaze grew sad. “I am not angry with you, Nathan. I could never be angry with you. But I am afraid I may not have much of a choice in the matter of my marriage. Excuse me. I ought to see to my mother.”

She turned to leave, and this time, Nathan did not call after her. Instead, he raked a hand through his hair and watched until she disappeared around the bend. Then he paced, unseeing, down the path. He had just overstepped the boundaries of their friendship horrendously, and he did not know how to fix it. Nor could he fix the fear rising within him like fire. Never had the possibility of Meg marrying another been so imminent, and never had he felt so hopeless to stop it.