“…Rejoice each mother’s child.
And it is tidings of comfort and joy…”
Bloody hell. He shouldn’t have come.
His nape pricked.
“…Now to the Lord sing praises”
With all the McQuoid-Smiths now joined in the show of happily celebrating kin, he looked for the one paying him notice.
“All you within this place”
Seated at the adjacent corner of the Axminster carpet, near one of the four thistle medallions woven to match the gilded one at the center, his cousin Meghan watched him.
“…Like we true loving brethren,
Each other to embrace…”
Eye contact proved folly. Meghan took that connection for an invitation to quit her seat and head for his.
Bloody hell.
He’d managed to avoid direct conversation with the whole of the McQuoid-Smith clan. With their big brood, it was all too easy to distract and slip off. Divert. Avoid.
They’d avoided him.
In actuality, for as much as they’d avoided him, he’d avoided them just as much.
Of all the confrontations, one with Meghan Smith, Linnie’s devoted sister, was not the one he’d been eager to have.
All hope she’d take a turn for the games and carols at play died a swift death.
Meghan dropped into the seat beside him. “Hullo, cousin,” she greeted with a confounding amount of normality.
“Cousin,” he returned.
Meghan settled beside him. Kicking her legs out like the hoyden she’d always been, Meghan crossed her feet at her ankles. She folded her arms at her chest.
The collective singing voices came to a rousing conclusion. Barely a breath later, a new carol rang out. This time, Dallin’s wife, Lady Alexandra, and her sister, Lady Cora, broke into song.
“…My true love sent to me…”
Cassia lent her voice the loudest.“…A Partridge in a pear-tree…”
Ah, the charade continues.
Together, he and a silent Meghan stared out at the festive tableau.
All right then. It was clear Meghan wouldn’t be leaving any time soon. And it was all Arran could do to keep from dragging his hands over his face.
He’d be forced into small talk.
“Shouldn’t you be up there singing in joy, Meg?” Arran gently nudged Meghan’s arm with an elbow. “We are soon for London and your grand winter wedding to Hartwell.” Hartwell, the best friend of Arran’s former best friend, Captain Culross. “That day you’ve been waiting for since you were but five.” He’d long teased her over that pronouncement she’d made as a young girl. “As such, I’d expect you’d be over there with Hartwell.” Instead of me. He rubbed the top of Meghan’s auburn head and stopped.
Of note, Meghan neither responded with an answering laugh, an affirmative glow, or beamed the way a soon-to-be bride ought.
So little Meg wasn’t the eager bride the other McQuoid-Smith girls had been.
