Free A Night of Secrets by Lori Brighton Page A

chicken and potatoes wafting into the air. “You must sit with us. Meg makes the most wonderful pies.”
    Blast it! Was her family completely mad? They knew the rule; do not court strangers, how often had she drilled that into their heads the last two years? Meg peered at her father and gave a subtle shake of her head.
    Her father smiled back. “Oh yes darling, don’t be modest. It’s quite good.”
    Ridiculous, utterly mad. Meg released an exasperated sigh and glanced at Mr. Bellamont. His lips quirked as if finding her obvious discomfort amusing. As if he knew exactly what she was thinking.
    “Come, settle down, no reason to hover,” Papa said.
    In a huff, Meg dropped to the blanket, tucking her legs under her brown skirt. Mary Ellen and Sally stared at Bellamont as if they’d never seen a man before. Meg didn’t know if she wanted to laugh or cry.
    “How do you find our countryside?” Papa asked.
    Bellamont settled against the elm tree that shaded them. He was a man at ease, yet his eyes told her otherwise. Always looking, always searching…for what? His gaze never remained on one thing long, but when his gaze did find you, it was as if they pierced your very soul.
    “The countryside is charming,” he said. “If one discounts the bodies.”
    Mary Ellen pressed her hand to her mouth, her gaze alight with shocked laughter. Meg narrowed her eyes in silent reprimand. But Papa, dear man that he was, noticed nothing. He scooped up a helping of pie, humming under his breath, oblivious to Mr. Bellamont’s blunt words. Their new neighbor was trying to shock them; she wouldn’t oblige.
    “Is it true you’re French?” Sally asked, leaning forward, clasping her hands in the lap of her pink gown; her awe and excitement tangible. She never had been one to hide her emotions.
    Meg silently cursed. How had her sister found out so quickly? Blasted small town.
    “My parents were French, yes,” Bellamont replied.
    He looked French, dark and arrogant and handsome…yes, very, very handsome with an elegant leanness that masked an underlying strength. Meg’s gaze traveled up his broad chest, the white linen of his shirt contrasting against the dark color of his jacket. Yes, she supposed she could admit he was attractive. Her gaze lingered at his mouth, suddenly finding fascination in the way his lips moved, the bottom lip slightly fuller than the top.
    “You’re from London?” Sally’s voice broke into her thoughts. “We have family in London. A Vicar Beazley.”
    Meg sucked in a breath. She wanted to reach over and slap her hand over her little sister’s mouth. A pale Mary Ellen, realizing the direness of the situation, jerked Sally backward. Sally fell onto her behind with a yelp.
    “Have you been to London?” Bellamont asked and those eyes were on her once more. He leaned back against the tree trunk, in the shade where one couldn’t read his face, one leg stretched out, the other drawn up. He rested his arm on his knee, awaiting their answer as if he had all the time in the world. A man at ease, but not his gaze. No, his gaze spoke of intensity, desire…for what?
    She tore her attention from him and refilled her father’s plate. “Oh, one time. Can’t remember when. Such a long while ago.”
    “A year ago?” Bellamont slowly rubbed his knuckles across his jaw line. “Two?”
    Meg furrowed her brows, pretending to think. “Can’t quite remember. Here, you must try one of my biscuits.” She leaned forward, so close she could see the gold flecks in his emerald eyes. His lips parted as if to speak. Before he could get a word out, she stuffed the biscuit into his mouth.
    Bellamont gagged.
    “Now, where did Hanna go? I should find her.” Meg jumped to her feet and rushed away.
    “Miss James,” he snapped.
    Blast, she could hear him catching up to her. Like a frightened hare, she darted left, thinking only to make her escape. Instead, she ran directly into Vicar Young. Her hands flattened against his