Meagan washed down a lump of toast with a gulp of chocolate, nearly choking herself. “Yes,” she gasped into her napkin. “He is handsome.”
She remembered the sinewy strength of his hand on her waist, his sure power as he moved with her on the dance floor. The same power had flowed through him when he kissed her, lips moving hard on hers, his tongue tasting every curve of her mouth. The man did nothing by halves—he’d danced and made love with the same flowing strength.
Simone rattled on. “Quite a coup for me, my stepdaughter dancing with the Grand Duke of Nvengaria. He favored no other young ladies. But all the ambitious mamas panted after him in vain, because he went home with Lady Anastasia, which was no surprise to me. She’s a beautiful woman, so sophisticated, so cosmopolitan. I heard they were clinging to each other quite shamelessly in one of the upper halls. But they are foreign.” She waved a dismissive hand.
The toast lodged in Meagan’s throat good and hard, and she coughed, spraying crumbs across the white tablecloth.
Michael moved his newspaper and gazed at Meagan in concern. “Roberts,” he said to the footman who’d just entered. “Fetch Miss Meagan a glass of water.”
Roberts slammed down his tray, knocking over a pot of cream, and hurried from the room. Simone thumped Meagan on the back as Michael quickly rescued the cream.
“Poor darling,” Simone crooned. “I am not surprised you took sick last night. Such a dreadful crush and a hot room. I am amazed we all did not swoon dead away.”
Roberts brought a glass overflowing with water and sloshed it across Meagan’s skirt in his haste to hand it to her. She gulped the water, dislodging the dry toast, tears leaking from her eyes.
“I’m all right,” she managed. “Father, may I be excused?”
“Certainly.” He got to his feet, newspaper forgotten, and helped Meagan to hers. “Are you all right, love?”
Meagan was far from all right, but if she sank into his embrace, she’d break down and possibly blurt out the whole story. That would never do. Her father was a loving, caring man, and she could not bear to witness the disappointment in his eyes when he found out what a lightskirt she was. She knew she would have to face the truth sooner or later, but at present it was too raw.
“I’ll be fine. I will lie down and be right as rain.”
Simone did not believe her. Suddenly solicitous, she helped Michael escort Meagan out of the dining room.
As they reached the hall, Roberts hurried to answer a banging knock at the front door, letting in cold March wind as he opened it. When he turned around, he staggered under the weight of two huge arrangements of flowers. The baskets overflowed with so many hothouse roses and peonies that it was difficult to tell where the flowers left off and Roberts began.
Simone pressed her hand to her heart. “My, my. Oh, Meagan, you must have won the affections of a very generous gentleman.”
“Where should I put these, ma’am?” Roberts slurred, his face full of blossoms.
“Over there.” Simone pointed to a table in the middle of the sitting room. Roberts lumbered forward, red and sweating.
“No, by the window, so everyone will see them,” Simone said. “Do hurry, Roberts.”
“Yes, ma’am,” Roberts mumbled. He rolled across the room, a mass of flowers with legs, and heaved the baskets onto the tiny table in the window.
Meagan followed him, knowing good and well who’d sent the flowers. They were meant to grab attention and hold it, just like the Grand Duke himself. As Roberts struggled to balance the arrangements, Simone searched for a card. “It must be here. A gentleman would not send flowers without a note.”
“It’s in me pocket, ma’am,” Roberts said. “If I can just…”
He held the weight of the flowers with his body, trying to poke into his pocket with his blunt fingers. Simone solved the problem by plucking a folded paper from his waistcoat and breaking the seal.
“I knew it!” She looked up, her eyes shining in happiness. “It is from him, Meagan. Look.”
Meagan snatched the paper from Simone’s outstretched fingers. The note was simple and short. In plain handwriting, he had written, “With my compliments, Alexander of Nvengaria.”
Simone whirled around and around, the tapes on her cap flying. “I knew that waltz would be worth something. He saw you across the ballroom and was instantly smitten. Are you not glad that I advised you to put buttermilk on those freckles?”
“We will send them back,” Meagan said.
Simone stopped whirling. “What on earth for?”
Meagan couldn’t very well explain that Alexander was trying to make up for what they’d done by overwhelming her with an overpowering gift. She should, like a silly miss, gush with gratitude. But she wasn’t a silly miss, panting for any word or gesture from him. Sending the flowers back would tell him so.
She groped for an explanation Simone would understand. “You said yourself he departed with Lady Anastasia. I should not accept gifts from a libertine, should I?”
Simone paused. “Oh, but Meagan…”
Meagan’s father said from the doorway, “I agree. I am not certain I like this.”
Michael’s presence seemed to reinforce Simone’s first impression. “Nonsense. Did not dear Penelope write us that Alexander has reformed and is now Prince Damien’s right-hand man? Sent as ambassador to chum up with kings and sign treaties or whatever it is ambassadors do. So trusted now. How could he help but take a fancy to our Meagan?”
Meagan fell silent. She knew Alexander was making a gesture, and Meagan would not be able to make a gesture back with Simone so excited. Her stepmother busily moved the blossoms this way and that, Roberts still trying to keep them balanced on the too-small table. She hummed a happy tune in her throat. Michael watched, his brows lowering, but he made no move to stop her.
True, Penelope had written that Alexander was now sent on missions Damien trusted no others to do, but that did not mean Alexander was tamed. Meagan remembered the hard blue of his eyes as he had glared at her across the ballroom, the preemptory way he’d dragged her into the waltz, and his cool, clipped tones when he told her he’d get her home unseen if she obeyed his instructions to the letter.
No, Grand Duke Alexander was not tame.
“He is polite to send flowers, but it is a bit overdone,” Michael said, still concerned. “Likely he does not understand that such a gesture will draw attention.”
Oh, he understands, Meagan thought darkly. She had no doubt that Grand Duke Alexander knew exactly what he was doing.
“This means that he will call on you, no doubt.” Simone whirled again, then stopped and looked about her in horror.
“Heavens, this sitting room is an atrocious mess. Roberts, call Jane up here and help me rearrange things. And Meagan, you cannot wear that. Change into your best morning gown, darling, and tell Rose to do something with your hair. All must be perfect when the Grand Duke arrives!”
Except the Grand Duke did not arrive. Simone forced Meagan to sit with her for hours, then jumped at the sound of every carriage until Meagan thought she’d scream. The clock ticked through the hours while Meagan pretended to sew and Simone fussed and Michael, with a wary frown, went to his study. But the Grand Duke never came.
Instead, he sent a letter.
The missive arrived by carriage, brought in by a stiff Nvengarian servant dressed in blue military-looking livery. The servant stood straight and tall, handsome and blue-eyed like all Nvengarians, and argued loudly with Roberts that he must present the letter to the honorable Miss Tavistock’s father in person.
He pushed past Roberts, went down on one knee, and lifted a folded letter to Michael, who’d emerged from his study at the noise. “My master, he bade me bring this to you,” he said, his accent thick.
Michael took the letter and opened it, Simone crowding to read over his shoulder. After a moment of intense silence, Simone squealed and put her hand over her mouth.
“I knew it! I knew he was smi
tten with our Meagan.” She snatched the letter from Michael’s hands and thrust it at Meagan, eyes shining in triumph. “Read that.”
Hands shaking, Meagan took the paper.
It was a formal and elegantly written proposal of marriage. It addressed Michael, as the father, asking his permission to pay court and outlining Alexander’s extensive lands and wealth in Nvengaria.
“Is it not beautiful?” Simone breathed over her shoulder. “ ‘I wish to extend the honor of inviting Miss Tavistock to become Grand Duchess of Nvengaria and my wife.’ How utterly divine. If I were a debutante I would swoon in delight. How clever of you to make him fall head over heels during your little waltz, darling.”
“He must be mad,” Meagan said faintly.
“To fall in love with you? Likely you were a refreshing change from all those sophisticated European women. Why should he not fall for a quaint English rose?”
Michael broke in. He was not a fool, and Meagan knew he smelled something wrong in this proposal. “We do not know for certain what his motives are, Simone.”
“Of course we do; his motives are perfectly clear. He wants to marry Meagan and make her a Grand Duchess. She’ll live in that beautiful mansion on Berkeley Square and no doubt have a palace of her own in Nvengaria. Think of it, my love. We’ll visit Nvengaria and be invited to two palaces now. We must be off at once.”
Michael stared at her. “Off? Off where?”
“To Berkeley Square to see Grand Duke Alexander. Meagan, darling, your hair is frightful. Rose! Quickly, you must dress Meagan’s hair and get her into something presentable. Hurry now.”
She thrust Meagan at Rose, who’d come up from the servants’ hall to see what the fuss was about, and started to shoo them toward the stairs.
Michael stood firmly in the way. “Simone, he has extended no invitation for us to call.”
Simone looked surprised. “Do not be silly. He would not have sent the carriage otherwise. He expects us to answer this letter in person.”
“I want to go,” Meagan interrupted.
Her father and stepmother turned in surprise, almost as if they’d forgotten her presence. “Meagan,” Michael began in his kind, reasonable tone.
“No, Papa, I want to go,” she said firmly. “I truly need to speak to Grand Duke Alexander.” And explain that I am not a quivering Nvengarian subject succumbing to his might.
She recalled his words. “I swear to you on my honor, you will not be wronged by this.” This was what he meant—a hasty marriage? And then what? His English wife hidden away in some country house like the Prince of Wales had hidden away Princess Caroline? No, thank you, Your Grace. Alexander and she needed to have a firm discussion.
“You see?” Simone rattled. “She wishes to go. Come along, Michael, darling, it will all be glorious and my stepdaughter will be Grand Duchess of Nvengaria. You will see.”
In less than an hour’s time, Meagan stood with her father and stepmother in front of the most intimidating door in London.
The Grand Duke’s opulent, porticoed mansion lay in the heart of Berkeley Square, opposite lush gardens that reposed behind iron railings in the middle of the square.
Maysfield House, built seventy-five years ago by a duke and hired for the Season by Alexander, was one of the most ostentatious houses in London. The décor inside was a marvel, or so the magazines and newspapers that had discussed it claimed. Every member of the ton wanted to get a look at the house, but the Grand Duke’s invitations were few and far between. He might be an ambassador, but without a wife to act as hostess, the ton pined for admission in vain.
The front door itself was enough to make Meagan turn around and run all the way back to Oxfordshire. The tall double doors with arched fanlight, shining black paint, and knocker carved like a many-toothed serpent haughtily proclaimed that the casual visitor was not welcome.
Simone never considered herself a casual visitor. She’d ridden regally in the carriage with the Grand Duke’s coat of arms emblazoned on it, making certain her face appeared in the window so any acquaintance who happened to be out and about would see her. The carriage was not the one in which Meagan had ridden home the night before, which implied the Grand Duke kept two or possibly more conveyances. Meagan had grown up in the country with a father who could afford one rather elderly barouche and count himself fortunate.
Simone waited impatiently for the servant, whose name was Gaius, to open the door to admit them to the house. Gaius seemed just as happy as Simone with the visit, and smiled broadly as he gestured them inside.
The first thing Meagan saw upon stepping into the oval entrance hall was a spiral checkerboard tile floor that stretched a long distance to a sweeping flight of stairs. The second thing was a haughty English butler whose nose was raised so high he couldn’t help but look down it.
“Yes?” he said in tones of chill disapproval. “How may I help you?”
Gaius snapped his fingers, his look just as haughty. “You, inform my master the great lady has arrived.”
The butler skewered him with a freezing glance. “His Grace does not wish to be disturbed this morning.”
Gaius spluttered. “He sent me to take a letter to the honored lady, the love of his existence, the…”
“Yes, he sent a letter,” the butler interrupted. “He wished the matter to be settled in writing.”
“You dare keep His Grace from his beloved?” Gaius said, Nvengarian blue eyes flashing.
“It is all right,” Meagan said hastily, stepping between them. She’d witnessed explosive Nvengarian tempers last year with Prince Damien’s entourage and knew they could start a blood feud over who went first through a door. “We will leave.”
She made to pivot out the door, but Simone blocked her way.
“Nonsense, my dear. Grand Duke Alexander will be ecstatic to see you. He wants to marry you, after all.”
She pushed past Meagan and the startled butler and trotted toward the stairs that wound upward in a marble spiral. “Halloo, Grand Duke! We are here, Miss Tavistock and her family.”
“Simone,” Michael hissed, starting after her.
Meagan debated making a run for it.
But part of her knew that running would do no good. Alexander would simply send another efficient Nvengarian servant after her and drag her wherever he wanted her to go. He had arranged everything last night, and no doubt he had arranged everything today.
His high-handedness already sparked the rebelliousness inside her. He expected her to bow her head and accept his arrangements without question. Well, he would just have to learn that Meagan Tavistock would not be pushed about by the gale that was Grand Duke Alexander. She would not be like Nikolai, trembling before his might. She might shake a little, but she wouldn’t let him know that.
Above them a door banged, and Nikolai appeared on the first landing. “Ah, you have come. Miss Tavistock and honorable father and mother, please to follow me?”
Gaius gloated, and the butler gave him a weary look. Meagan suddenly wanted to pat the butler sympathetically and fix him a cup of tea. Living with all these Nvengarians must be trying.
Simone had already made it to the top of the stairs, Michael just behind her. “What a beautiful house,” she exclaimed, running her hand along the carved railing. “Just think, Meagan will live here, and I shall visit every day.”
If the prospect dismayed Nikolai, he made no sign. He waited for Meagan to reach the top of the stairs and gave her an inquiring look. His friendly sympathy made her want to burst into tears, but she bravely held them in and whispered, “I am fine. Thank you, Nikolai.”
Her father shot her a sharp glance, clearly wondering how she knew Nikolai’s name. Meagan blushed but kept her eyes averted as she slipped past him.
The upper hall encircled the lower one in a ringed gallery supported by fantastic marble pillars and arches. Carved and painted double doors led off of this balcony into rooms described in detail in the magazines—the Asia Hall, the India sitting r
oom, the Marble Salon, and others.
The study Nikolai led them to was high-ceilinged and decorated in shades of dark red, lit by tall windows that overlooked the square. Bookshelves covered the walls and the cavernous room ended in a desk placed before an enormous and ornate fireplace.
Behind this desk sat Alexander, Grand Duke of Nvengaria.
It was an audience they’d come to have with him, no less. He rose to his feet as they entered, every inch the Grand Duke with his dark coat, medals, and blue and gold sash of office stretched across his chest. He wore no gloves today, and the rubies on his fingers reflected the red of his earring.
Meagan swallowed the lump in her throat. She’d managed not to think of his blue eyes and broad shoulders all morning, letting worry drive away the memory of Alexander the man. But as she entered the room, the memories returned thick and fast.
Alexander’s ragged voice as he whispered endearments in Nvengarian, his kisses that possessed her, his hands firm on her body. Alexander holding her on his lap, his eyelids heavy, his long hair brushing her skin. Alexander inside her, making her feel wild and wicked and free for the first time in her life.
Her face warmed under her bonnet and her fingers went ice cold. From the look in Alexander’s hard blue eyes, he remembered every moment of their encounter too, and was less than happy about it.
Gaius dashed to armchairs placed about the room and dragged three into a line before Alexander’s desk. He gestured Meagan to the first chair with a flourish. “Honored lady, please to sit.”
Alexander said nothing, neither inviting them nor rejecting them. He simply waited for them to obey his servant.
Gaius gestured again. “You must sit. An honored lady cannot stand.”
The Mad, Bad Duke Page 6
