Pursuing Miss Hall by Karen Thornell

Chapter Nine

Meg breathed in the fresh air and smell of summer blooms. Her mother had awoken with a slight headache and informed Meg she intended to rest for the morning. And so, despite her lingering fears surrounding the storm from a few days past, Meg had slipped out into the gardens.

Heat from the sun begged her to remove her bonnet, but she refrained. Mama would be beside herself if Meg acquired a few freckles in the midst of the all-important husband search.

Her hands stilled as they ran across the tops of the bushes.

The husband search.

Should Mama’s plan be successful, Meg would be engaged by the end of the month, and the closer that reality came, the more terrifying it was.

But why was it terrifying? Was this not her lot in life—the lot of all young women of her station? Marriage was what she was raised for. Everything she had learned, from running a household to dancing and serving tea, had been taught to her as an inducement for her future on the marriage mart.

But that was a bleak sentiment, indeed.

Why had she never seen it as such?

She wanted to be successful for her parents’ sake, but she was beginning to wonder if improving her parents’ happiness was worth potentially ruining her own. Could she even contemplate such questions? Never before had she thought she would choose herself over her parents. But now? What was she to do if she felt nothing more for the men of the party in a week than she did now? Try as she might, she could not feel anything beyond mild interest for Lord Hatfield. She had given him her full attention the evening before and found nothing beyond his care for his mother to recommend him. And she felt even less for the other men.

Meg squinted at a particularly beautiful bloom as if it held the answers. Perhaps she was getting too far ahead of herself. She still had just over a week left of the party—plenty of time to attempt to form a connection with one of the gentlemen. Couples formed in far less time if her mother was to be believed. If she simply applied herself better to the task, certainly she could develop some affection for one of them. And then she would not have to contemplate hurting her parents at all.

“Miss Hall, what a pleasant surprise.”

The male voice nearly made Meg jump. Could thoughts of men make one appear out of thin air? She turned with as much composure as she was capable and curtsied to the newcomer.

“Lord Hatfield, how do you do?”

He offered a crisp bow, his cheeks pushing against the points of his collar. Meg only just refrained from laughing, but she could overlook his fashion choices, certainly.

“Well, thank you,” Lord Hatfield said. “What brings you to the gardens this morning?”

“Simply a desire for fresh air and sunshine, my lord. And yourself?”

“A similar desire, to be sure. Might I join you?” He held out his arm, and Meg accepted it. Here was the perfect opportunity to begin her new plan. She would attempt to come to know the viscount more, perhaps probe her feelings for any potential attraction. Not that she had felt even an inkling of such toward the man yet, but she hadn’t really been trying.

“Tell me about your family, Lord Hatfield.”

“It is just my mother and me, and you are already acquainted with her, so I cannot imagine there is much to tell.” They moved at an incredibly slow pace, the viscount surreptitiously leaning away from any branch or leaf that protruded anywhere near his pant leg. His answer was not particularly bounteous, so she tried again.

“What do you do for enjoyment?”

“Hmm. I enjoy walking in gardens with beautiful women.” He sent her what she was sure was meant to be a charming smile, but she felt more annoyed than flattered. That was no answer at all.

“You flatter me, my lord. What else do you enjoy?”

He looked at her curiously, then cleared his throat and looked down the path again, not that he needed to watch where he was going. At the pace they were walking, even a giant stone thrown into their path could not possibly catch them unawares.

“I enjoy attending my club, the occasional game of chance, and seeing to my estate. The standard things a well-bred gentleman might, I imagine.” He waved his hand dismissively. “Far more important a topic of conversation must be the color of your dress. It sets off your eyes simply magnificently.”

Meg laughed, assuming the topic change was meant to be funny, but Lord Hatfield looked at her with confusion.

“Oh.” She sobered. “That is very kind of you, my lord.” Perhaps she ought to attempt to get to know Mr. Parking instead. But no, he clearly was developing a tendre for Miss Evans. And she was a far better match for him. Regardless, Mama had reiterated just that morning the importance of Meg furthering her acquaintance with the viscount. It was beginning to seem as if he would be the only option for her. At least, the only option to her parents.

It was, therefore, unfortunate that Lord Hatfield seemed so entirely . . . boring. How would she live out her days without an ounce of entertainment? Could she marry a man who never had a desire to climb through a study window?

Meg’s breath faltered. She didn’t necessarily desire to marry Nathan or a man like Nathan for that matter. Never mind that lately he seemed to set her heart racing in a way that none of her suitors were capable of.

“You may call me Arthur. In fact, I insist upon it.”

Meg gaped at him. Oh dear. She had nearly forgotten he was still there, lost as she was in her own thoughts. And he wished her to call him by his Christian name? The very idea felt wrong.

“I couldn’t possibly, my lord. But I thank you.”

He stopped, turning to face her, his intent stare colliding with her bewildered one. “As I said, I insist.”

Meg fought to keep a pleasant expression. “And as I said, I could not possibly. It would imply a relationship we do not have.”

His hand found hers, and he brought it slowly to his lips, his eyes never leaving hers. “But,” he spoke in a low voice, making Meg wish to pull her hand free and run away from whatever it was he was about to say, “such a relationship is not impossible, I believe.”

“I . . .” Meg looked around, frantic. The thorny branches of rose bushes pushed into the thin fabric at her back as she attempted to maintain distance between her and the viscount. How had this situation gotten so out of her control? “Excuse me . . .”

“Miss Hall—there you are! Your mother asked that I relay a message to you, then send you in to her.”

Meg could have wilted with relief at the familiar sound of Nathan’s voice. He strode confidently around a hedge bush, though he might have been atop a white steed for how well-timed his interruption had been.

“Oh, Lord Fatfield, I did not realize you were there. If you do not mind, Lady Hall asked that I relay a message to her daughter. I will see her inside.”

The two men exchanged charged stares, and Meg had a brief moment to survey and compare them. They stood at nearly identical heights, both only three or four inches taller than herself, but that was where the similarities ended. Nathan’s shoulders were broad where Lord Hatfield’s were lean. His dark hair was streaked with caramel while the viscount’s was nearly yellow. Nathan’s clothing fit him in an easy, masculine way; the viscount’s appeared to be confining works of art more than apparel. Lord Hatfield’s eyes were a dark brownish color, and Nathan’s were so light a gray they almost seemed blue in daytime.

There was really no comparison. None at all.

Lord Hatfield finally relented, bowing stiffly to Nathan before turning to Meg. “I certainly hope we will have the opportunity to continue this conversation at a later time, Miss Hall.” He again took her hand—Meg again repressed the desire to pull away—and brought it to his lips while bowing with far too much dignity. For a moment, the imprint of his collar points remained in his cheeks. Then he spun on his heel and fairly marched back to the house.

Nathan made a sound akin to a gust of wind. “That man is certainly . . . something.” He stared at the viscount’s retreating back, his jaw strangely tight.

“Yes,” Meg agreed. “Thank you for your impeccable timing. What is it my mother needed?”

“Nothing. Well, I shouldn’t say that. She may need something, but I would not know as I only just arrived.”

“Then . . . why . . . ?”

His eyes darkened as they pierced her, his jaw tight. “Why did I save you from that man and his ridiculous actions? Because even if you appreciated his advances, I am certain your parents would not. And without even a maid, Meg? What were you thinking? And what are you doing out here, anyhow? I would have guessed your parents would wish to keep you indoors after the picnic. You are not one to flout their dictates.”

Meg stared at him in shock, her mouth dropping farther with each of his words. The white steed upon which he had fictitiously sat disappeared in a puff. She rather wished it had bucked him off into the rose bushes.

He caught her look, and his eyes narrowed.

“Do not look at me like that. You should know better than to be caught alone in a garden with a gentleman. Meg, such an action could force you two into an engagement. Though, perhaps that is what you wished.” His arms crossed tightly, and his focus settled anywhere but her face. Dissatisfaction, frustration, and disgust were apparent in every aspect of his form.

Meg felt a stinging begin behind her eyes. So much for being saved from an uncomfortable conversation. Incapable of even forming words to adequately express her disbelief, she turned around and began walking toward the house. If she were lucky, she would make it to her room before tears started.