She shrugged and gave a halfhearted laugh. “Your sister is quite important to me. I love her.”
“Yes, Sarah is the best person in our family, by far.”
Meg smiled at that.
“What else?” he prompted.
“My books, my home, my… writing.”
He pushed a boot through the gravel. “You write?”
One small hand fluttered in the air. “Oh, nothing important. Only a bit in a journal every now and then.”
Ignoring the voice in his head that was willing him to stop, Hart continued to kick at the gravel. “What sort of things do you write about?”
She shook her head and plucked one of the small pink roses from the hedge. She brought it to her lips, closed her eyes, and inhaled. Hart had never before wished he were a rose petal. First time for everything.
“I write about things that happen in my life,” Meg replied, her eyes opening again. Allowing the hand holding the rose to fall to her side, she twisted the stem with her gloved fingers.
“What sorts of things?” he forced himself to ask, trying to ignore the virulence with which he wanted to kiss her.
“The dates of the servants’ birthdays, ideas for running a house on a slight income, the name of my friend’s brother’s horse.” She glanced up at him and smiled. “Silly things,” she murmured.
“Those things don’t sound silly to me,” he replied, still absently kicking at the gravel. Meg thought about things, saw things, remembered them. How many ladies knew the servants’ birthdays? How many worried about running their households with little money? She was no silly miss. She might not talk much, but she was listening. And she cared about other people.
“May I ask you something?” she said, surprising him.
“Of course,” Hart answered, forcing himself to stop pushing his idiotic boot through the gravel like an untried lad nervously talking to the first pretty female he’d encountered.
Meg pushed a small curl behind her ear. “Do you… do you know how much money my father owes your father? The reason they had a falling-out, I mean.”
Hart turned to search her face. It was shadowed in the darkness, but the light of the candles illuminated enough of it for him to see the serious look on her face. “You don’t know?”
“I’ve never heard the amount, no. Is it quite a lot?” Meg winced.
Hart resumed walking, looking straight ahead this time. “I’m not certain.” Did she truly not know? He scrubbed a hand through his hair. On second thought, he supposed it stood to reason. Sarah didn’t know, either.He’d made certain of that. He doubted either of Meg’s parents would be quick to share the details with their daughter.
Meg resumed walking beside him. “Sarah and I have speculated upon it of course.”
She wanted him to say more, Hart could tell. He searched his mind for a properly vague reply. It would only hurt her to know the truth, and he didn’t want to hurt her. “It doesn’t matter, does it? It’s been at least five years.”
“Something like that,” Meg murmured, still twirling the flower between her fingers.
“I doubt they will ever mend their rift, Meg.” Perhaps she was asking because she held out hope. Perhaps she was counting on the fact that one day she and her closest friend’s parents would be friendly again. False hope was a dangerous thing.
Meg had opened her mouth and was about to say something else when Lucy Hunt’s voice came floating over the hedges. “Meg, come quickly. It’s your father. He’s had an attack!”
CHAPTER FOURTEEN
Pure terror pulsing through her heart, Meg tossed away the rose, lifted her skirts, and raced back to the house. She didn’t know Hart had followed her until she arrived on the terrace with him behind her. Lucy was there, a worried expression on her face. “A footman came from your house looking for us,” the duchess explained. “We must leave immediately.”
“Is he… alive?” Meg managed to choke out of her dry, swollen throat.
“Yes, I believe so,” Lucy replied, clutching Meg’s arm.
Trembling, Meg turned to Hart. “I’m sorry. I must go.”
“Of course,” Hart replied. “Please tell me if there’s anything I can do to help. Do you have a ride home?”
