invitation to you. She is very pleased with herself.'
'Good Lord. Actually, though, I wished to attend.'
'But not for the wailing soprano?'
'No, I didn't attend because of the music.'
Meggie hoisted up an eyebrow.
'My name is Thomas Malcombe.'
The eyebrow remained hoisted.
He laughed, couldn't help himself. She appeared to be utterly uninterested in him. Without conceit, he realized she was the first female to be indifferent to him since he'd come to manhood. It was a rather appalling realization, this unconscious conceit, and one that made him want to laugh at himself.
'All right. I came because I wanted to meet my neighbors, people who had known my father.'
'I'm Meggie Sherbrooke,' she said finally, and hoisted her left eyebrow again. 'You aren't telling the truth, my lord. If I may risk offending you, I daresay you don't care a fig about anyone in Glenclose-on-Rowan.'
'Meggie, it's a nice name. You're quite wrong.'
'It's short for Margaret. No one has ever called me Margaret, thank goodness. That's a Mother Superior's name. I would have preferred something exotic, like Maigret, but it was not to be. No, I really don't think I'm wrong. If I am wrong, then I have offended you, and I apologize.'
'You really are a Meggie, never a Margaret. I accept your apology, for it is merited. I understand you train racing cats.'
'Yes.' She saw a glass sitting beside an orchid that looked overwatered. Its leaves were suddenly trembling. Probably the soprano had hit more high notes. 'Actually, my little brother Alec is a cat whisperer.'
'I have never known of a cat whisperer.'
'It is a very rare occurrence, and all agree that Alec is blessed. It still remains to be seen if the gift will mature with him. But ever since he was a very small boy, the cats in our mews would gather around him, very happy to just sit and listen to him talk, which he did, all the time. He is at present assisting my brother Leo train our calico racer, Cleopatra, to improve her leaps. Alec believes she doesn't yet have the proper motivation. As a cat whisperer, he will determine what it is she wants and provide it, if possible.'
'I should like to see him in action. How old is he?'
'Alec is seven now.'
'Cat racing is an amazing thing, really unknown outside of England. I understand that some French devotees of the sport introduced cat races there, but the French were, evidently, too emotional, too uncontrolled, and so the cats never could get the hang of what was expected of them.'
Meggie laughed, then shrugged her shoulders as if to say, what can you expect? He smiled again. She said, 'At the McCaulty racetrack, all the cats would desert their owners in a moment if Alec called to them. He must be very careful not to unwittingly seduce them.'
'When are the cat races held? Surely now it is too cold.'
'They begin again in April and run through October.'
'And you are a trainer.'
'Oh yes, for a long time now. You can call me the boss.'
'Ah, you're the one who makes all final decisions, decides which techniques are the most efficacious, the overlord trainer?'
'I like the sound of that. I will tell my brothers that my new title is overlord. They can drop the trainer part. I will demand that they use my new title or I will make them very sorry.' He looked very interested, and so Meggie added, 'As a matter of fact, I did spend one entire summer at Lord Mountvale's racing mews being tutored by the Harker brothers.' She lowered her voice into a confidence. 'They are the ones who developed the technique of the Flying Feather.'
'I have heard of the Harker brothers. I understand they have a special intuition when it comes to selecting champion racers. What is the Flying Feather technique?'
'Curled feathers are tied to the end of a three-foot pole. It is waved in a clockwise motion-it must always be clockwise, at no less than a six-foot distance. It evidently has a mesmerizing effect. Goodness, I hadn't intended to tell you all about the Flying Feather technique; it is still supposed to be a secret. I am considering adopting it when I have a proper candidate. Ah, listen, I don't hear anything. It is a good sign,' she added, pointing to the orchid, 'its leaves are no longer quivering from the vibrations of her voice.'
He laughed, just couldn't help himself. He couldn't recall having laughed so much with one single human being. Life had always been rather difficult.
And Meggie thought it was as if he laughed only when he planned to and surely that was rather calculated and cold-blooded. She watched him closely as he said, 'Actually, I set that glass there beside the orchid so I would know when it was safe to return to the drawing room. It isn't trembling either now.' He smiled down at her. 'Let's see if your finger has stopped bleeding yet.'
He unwound the handkerchief and lifted her hand to inspect the finger. 'Yes, it has.'
Meggie said, 'Thank you, my lord. Perhaps I don't know all the ways of the world, but I have never before had anyone suck my blood. Or lick my finger.'
He felt a lurch in his gut; it was lust and it hit him hard. He looked at her closely, realizing that she didn't understand the teasing promise of her guileless words, didn't realize that they promised, on the surface at least, a woman's very pleasurable skills. No, she was outspoken, a vicar's daughter, just turned nineteen. 'No?' he said slowly, then added, 'Then I have added to your education.'
She said abruptly, 'My father will wonder where I am,' and she turned to go. 'Sharing sanctuary was pleasant, my lord.'
She was just going to leave him? Another blow to his manhood. 'Miss Sherbrooke, a moment please. Will you ride with me tomorrow morning?'
That got her attention, but she didn't hesitate, just said pleasantly, 'I thank you for the invitation, my lord, but no, I don't want to ride with you tomorrow morning.'
He looked as she'd slapped him, as if he simply couldn't believe her gall in turning him down. He looked, quite simply, flummoxed. She wanted to smile at his obvious male conceit, but she didn't. She just wanted to leave. She realized now that she shouldn't have remained in here, alone with him. He had gotten the wrong idea about her. She didn't want any attention from him, she didn't want any attention from any man. She wouldn't have stayed in here with him if she'd been in London, but this was her home. No matter, she'd been wrong.
He saw her withdraw completely from him. He didn't understand it. She'd been so confiding, so natural. But no longer. Despite her lack of enthusiasm, he persevered. 'I understand from my steward, a very old man with fingers that tap by themselves when the weather is going to turn bad, that it will be unseasonably warm tomorrow morning, a fine morning for a ride.'
'Mr. Hengis is famed for his weather predictions in these parts. I did not know about the tapping fingers. I hope it will be a fine morning and you will enjoy yourself. As for me, no thank you, my lord. I must go now.'
He said as she turned to leave the conservatory, 'I understand you enjoyed your first Season in London last spring. Do you intend to return to London in April?'
'No,' she said, not turning to face him. She could feel his frustration, pouring off him in waves, and something else. Why did he wish to be with her so badly? It made no sense. 'Goodbye, my lord.'
'My name is Thomas.' She would swear she heard a
'Yes,' she said, 'I know,' and left the Strapthorpe conservatory with its dizzying smells and hair-wilting heat.
He stood there, watching the back of her head as she walked quickly out of the overly warm room. Lovely hair, he thought, blondish brownish hair with every color inbetween thrown in, the same hair as the vicar's, her father. Their eyes were the same light blue as well. He sighed, then left the conservatory some minutes after her. Truth be told, he was getting nauseated from the overpowering mix of all the flowers.
He met several guests in the large entrance hall. Meggie Sherbrooke wasn't among them. Damn her. He wasn't a troll. What was wrong with her? He was polite and charming to everyone before he took his leave.
Perhaps she didn't ride. Yes, perhaps that was it and she was ashamed to admit it. He would think of something else. She was nineteen years old; for a girl she could have been long married by now, well, at least a
