The Lie and the Lady by Kate Noble Page B

protest. “Surely my son can—”
    â€œI think it best—” Leticia interrupted. At least she could find a silver lining to this situation, and use it to separate Margaret and Turner.
    â€œOne moment,” Turner said, clearing his throat of laughter. His face moved not a muscle, but his eyes locked on to Leticia’s. And they lit with an angry mischief.
    â€œMay I, Miss Babcock?” he said then, with a flourish worthy of the audience. Then he took the forgotten violet from her hand and tucked it into the ribbon across the crown of her bonnet.
    â€œViolets become you,” he said with an easy nod. Then he raised her hand to his lips.
    â€œI . . . I . . . thank you.” Margaret managed this basic politeness without jumping out of her skin, as it seemed she very much wanted to.
    Turner’s gaze found hers again, and the blank stare he gave her made her veins go icy.
    He was determined to hate her.
    He was determined to not care about her.
    In that instant, she determined the exact same thing.

7
    Y ou couldn’t leave well enough alone, could you?”
    Turner found himself pacing the sitting room, that same space in which they had passed a ludicrous interlude of teacakes and tepid conversation just a few hours ago. Why the hell was he still here, listening to his mother jabber and confined to this tiny room, when he could be at the mill, doing work, calibrating weights, and pounding his fists against the walls?
    That was unfair. He knew perfectly well how he had ended up in this situation. He had provoked Leticia with that violet and by kissing Margaret’s hand.
    And Leticia had provoked him right back by insisting everyone stay for dinner.
    John didn’t quite know how it had happened. One minute he’d locked eyes with Leticia and the next Margaret was whipping her hand out of his and declaring, “I think it’s time to go back to the house!” with a voice so high and cheeks so pink that there was little else to do but follow the girl back to the house.
    He’d nodded as he passed his mother and Leticia, barely pausing to enjoy (or rather, not enjoy) the stench covering her gown from Margaret’s “tea” formula. He could feel her eyes boring into the back of his head as he moved.
    â€œWell that is certainly promising!” he’d heard his mother say in happy tones. “Although, ’tis a pity it comes at such an inconvenient time!”
    He was likely the only person who could hear the slight hesitation in Leticia’s voice. “How so?”
    â€œWe are so close to the next harvest,” his mother explained. “The mill is nearly complete, and John is determined to be open for business when the first crop of grain comes in. Usually, the crops from Sir Barty’s estate are among the first to be produced, did you know? Previously, he’s had to take his business to Blackwell’s mills—some as far as ten miles away. But with the Turner mill reopening surely he will be happy to move his business closer to home again, don’t you think?”
    Turner picked up the pace. He did not need to hear his mother’s subtle-as-a-sledgehammer sales pitch for Sir Barty’s business to Leticia. He had known his mother’s true object in wedging them into Sir Barty’s hospitality today. Certainly, she would like to see her son settle down with an eligible young lady, but . . .
    Sir Barty’s estate produced more grain than any other landowner in the county. Being the processor of said grain would mean the Turner Grain Mill would not only survive, but thrive. And courting the daughter of Sir Barty would certainly make him look favorably on their business.
    Turner told himself that he would be happy—thrilled!—to go along. After all, there was some chance he would like Margaret. True, he’d known her for years and hadn’t found himself madly in love as of yet, but