But Meg did not need to see his face; she knew that long, lithe body, the straight, imperial stance. “I shall take my leave, then,” Meg said hurriedly. “Good-bye, Lyn—” “Oh, no, stay.” Lynette laid a hand on her arm. “My father will want to greet you. See, he is coming down now.” Meg glanced at the stairs. Damon was indeed walking down the steps toward them. He looked, she thought, every inch the aristocrat, from his starched and intricately wrapped neckcloth pierced with a stickpin of the deepest red ruby down to his gleaming Hessian boots. Meg braced herself, her stomach churning. She dreaded the anger she knew would be in his eyes, the biting words that would dismiss her from his daughter’s presence. But only coldness was there, she saw as he drew closer, the remote, impersonal gaze of a stranger. Somehow that was even worse. “I see the prodigal daughter has returned,”
