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Heaven help me.
If he’d been somewhere more private, he would have closed his eyes, blocking out the sights that tempted him more than he feared he had strength to endure. Even that wouldn’t have been able to stop his mind from wandering, however, and unseen beneath the table he balled his hands into closed fists.
I’ve done it now. How am I to survive sharing a room with her—and perhaps even a bed?
Chapter Five
The following days were torturous.
Meg’s eyes ached as she tried to focus on the needlework in her hand. The tiny cap she was embroidering for Celia was required to be perfect, but she was so tired she could hardly see her own stitches, the neat rows blurring every time she blinked. Sleep was currently a precious commodity and one she was having difficulty obtaining, the nightly knowledge that Jacob was lying such a short distance away making it impossible to drift off.
She stifled a yawn, hoping none of the ladies diligently sewing around her would notice. Every evening had been the same since Isabella had decided to pry where she wasn’t welcome, and if something didn’t change soon Meg feared she might run mad.
How am I to sleep when he’s on the floor beside the bed, his hair tousled and his nightshirt keeping so few secrets? What woman could be at ease when such a man is within touching range, if only she could reach out?
The parlour buzzed quietly with genteel chatter. Still claiming a delicate throat, she hadn’t been required to contribute much, but even finding a polite smile was difficult while thoughts occupied her mind of how Jacob looked first thing in the morning. He was almost too enticing with the dusting of stubble that crept up overnight, and when he greeted her with a deep just-woken-up growl, it made her want to slip from the bed and into his tangle of blankets on the floor instead of demurely averting her eyes.
I won’t do that, of course. When he kissed me it was a momentary slip. One tiny brush of the lips doesn’t amount to anything.
That it hadn’t strictly been tiny or a brush wasn’t to be dwelt on. There was nothing to be gained by repeatedly picturing the scene, although she couldn’t seem to make herself stop…
‘Ouch!’
She snatched her hand up to her mouth. In her inattention she’d driven the needle into her finger and she quickly set down her work before any blood could spoil the pristine white lace.
The woman sitting beside her peeked over her shoulder. ‘Oh dear. Have you pricked yourself?’ At Meg’s nod she smiled. ‘Here. Take this. It’s the best cure.’
She passed across a slice of cake perched precariously on a dainty plate, slipping Meg an unexpectedly mischievous wink. ‘Don’t tell Isabella. The only person usually allowed second helpings is her.’
Meg flashed a smile of her own. To her surprise, she’d found the real ladies weren’t anywhere near as frightening as she’d feared. Most of them were good company, a few even so pleasant she’d even begun to wonder if they might actually become real friends. Whether they would feel the same in return if they ever found out she wasn’t ton born and bred was another matter, but for the time being spending afternoons with them was no hardship—even if they knew when to use the correct fork at dinner and exactly how low to curtsey to a baron’s youngest son, all things she’d had no reason to learn, yet now mattered more than she’d ever dreamed.
Isabella’s strident voice cut through the soft babble. ‘I’m positively parched. Won’t someone pour more tea?’
Choking down the last few crumbs of her illicit cake, Meg bent over her work, trying to look busy, but unfortunately luck was not on her side.
‘Perhaps you’ll oblige, Margaret? I don’t think you’ve poured yet. I’ll take two pieces of sugar in it.’
Seated in the most comfortable chair in the room, Isabella held out her empty cup, evidently too exhausted from supervising her guests to rise and bring it to the tea tray herself. Left with no choice but to take it, Meg stood up.
No one else requested a refill, although one or two of the ladies shot her sympathetic glances as she moved to the tray. Dispensing the tea was easy enough, despite the enormous size of the gilded pot, and she was about to congratulate herself on avoiding the disaster of a spillage when her heart abruptly sank.
At home at Lark Cottage, sugar was carefully rationed. The conical loaf was kept securely in the larder and rough pieces broken off as needed with a pair of heavy iron nippers it took both hands to use. It was the way every household in the village dealt with their sugar, and she knew no differently, so to be confronted with a bowl of ready-carved pieces and a set of impossibly dainty silver tongs made her pause.
Tentatively, she picked them up. How could such flimsy things be at all useful? Her first attempt at securing a piece of sugar was unsuccessful, as were the second and third, and every time the sugar slipped out of her grasp she felt her frustration rise.
Why do these people make things so hard for themselves? she grumbled inwardly as another powdery fragment fell back onto the table. What’s the point of using these fiddly little things when it would be so much easier to just—?
‘Is something wrong with my tea?’
Isabella’s impatience made her start. ‘Not at all. It’s almost ready.’
She tried again. The delicate silver tongs just wouldn’t cooperate, however: she didn’t possess whatever upper-class skill was required to make them work, and as the seconds ticked by pressure began to mount.
She gave up. Isabella’s annoyance would continue to build if she was kept waiting, and without a second thought Meg took two pieces of sugar between her finger and thumb and dropped them with a plop into the cup.
‘What on earth are you doing, Margaret?’
Meg started again as Isabella appeared at her shoulder. Evidently the Viscountess had come to see the reason for the delay, although this time she sounded astonished rather than irritated. ‘Using your fingers like some navvy’s wife! Didn’t you see the tongs?’
