His Mountain Miss (Smoky Mountain Matches) (4 page)

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

M
egan 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?