by Sabrina York
“There he is,” Mattingly said, pouring a glass for Jonathan as well.
“Where’ve you been?” Christian asked.
Jonathan took a sip of excellent brandy. “Tucking the girls into bed,” he said, nipping at his tongue to keep from babbling the other bit—the surprisingly scorching kiss with Meg.
Now that he was there, the others laid down their cues, and the four of them sat by the fire and got caught up. It hadn’t been long since he’d seen Mattingly and St. Clare in London, but they always seemed to have scintillating stories to tell. Indeed, they had Christian holding his sides in no time as they told a tale of a brawl in Whites last week between Peter Scofield and Reginald Busk over the debatable virtue of a known Cyprian. Love-triangles were always juicy fodder in the ton, and this one, apparently, was delighting gossips all over town. There had even been a threat of a duel.
Sadly, there had not been a duel. At least, not the pistols at dawn variety. But there had been a battle involving a half-full bottle of champagne and a napoleon—the cake, not the emperor.
“It was a damned waste of Chantilly cream, if you ask me,” Mattingly muttered, refilling his glass.
St. Clare nodded. “And champagne.”
Christian chuckled. “An appalling waste.”
“But you should have seen it,” Mattingly said. “Scofield dripping wet.”
“And Busk, sputtering, all covered with cream,” St. Clare added with a snort.
And then the two of them were off again, laughing so uproariously that Jonathan and Christian had to join in, even though they hadn’t seen it.
There were other stories, not as funny, though. The four of them talked and drank—and smoked the occasional cheroot—for several hours. It was quite grand. And a welcome prelude to the party to come, though the party to come would never be so pleasant. Jonathan resolved to savor this moment with his friends, and remember it when he wanted to tear his hair out in the ensuing days.
But then Mattingly went and said something that completely ruined his mood.
“So tell us about this girl.”
A simple question. Surely not one that should cause such an uprising of bile from his gut.
Jonathan sipped his brandy. It tasted bitter. “Girl?”
“You know.” St. Clare slapped him on the shoulder. “The one you mentioned in the invitation.”
Mattingly fixed him with a somber gaze. “We’re both dying to know more about her. Especially if she comes recommended by you.”
“Indeed,” St. Clare said. “I’ve been looking for a wife for months now, and cannot bear any of those flibberty-gibbets the mamas are proffering this season.”
Mattingly grunted. “Mindless twits. Tell me she’s not mindless.”
“No. No, she’s not mindless,” he said, but it was through tight lips.
“Good.” Both of his friends grinned.
“Is she pretty?” St. Clare asked hopefully.
Jonathan shrugged. All of a sudden, he didn’t feel like talking Meg up. Not to these two. “She’s not bad.”
“Not bad?” Christian blurted. “She’s gorgeous. Beautiful, intelligent eyes, lovely brown hair, and a face like a cameo—”
“Surely not like a cameo,” Jonathan muttered, but no one was listening to him. His friends had turned all their attention to Christian, who continued on, for far too long, singing the praises of Meg Chalmers. Over and over and over again until Jonathan wanted to scream at him to be quiet.
He couldn’t though. Couldn’t say anything.
And the damned irony of the situation was that he was the one who had welcomed these wolves to his door.
Judging from their expressions, they were going to eat Meg alive.
In a good way, of course. In a matrimonial way.
But Jonathan couldn’t still the unease in his belly or silence the howling of his soul at the thought of Meg choosing one of them. Marrying one of them.
Because then he’d have to pretend to be happy for them.
And that was a terrible prospect.
* * *
Something strange and wonderful happened the next day.
Meg fully expected to be awakened early by Beth, the chamber maid. She fully expected to spend the day helping the dowager with last-minute disasters and preparations for their guests.
But no one came to wake her up.
When she finally roused, the sun was high in the sky and Susana was sitting in the chair by the window sipping tea. She shot Meg a brilliant smile.
“Oh dear.” Meg swiped the hair from her eyes. “I’ve overslept.”
Susana laughed, a glorious tinkle. “You deserved it. Besides, Mother wants you to be fresh for tonight.”
“Tonight?” she parroted, though she knew the itinerary quite well. Tonight was the welcome party. For the guests. Of which she was now one, apparently.
“The guests have already started arriving,” Susana said. For some reason there was a frown on her beautiful face.
“Have they?”
“Yes.” A snort.
“Susana, darling, whatever is wrong?” Meg knew she should rise from the bed, but it was so warm and comfortable, she just nestled deeper into the down.
“It’s them.”
“Them?”
“The women Mother has invited. I can only assume they are for Jonathan, but seriously, Cicely Peck?”
Yes, Cicely Peck had been on the list of invitations Meg had written. “Do you not like Cicely Peck?”
“Oh, she’s all right, I suppose. But not the sort I want as a sister-in-law.”
“One cannot always choose one’s in-laws.”
“How true that is. But Cicely?”
“Tell me about her.” Cicely hadn’t been around during Meg’s season. She’d probably still been in leading strings then.
“Well, she’s beautiful.”
Lovely. Meg set her hand to her stomach, which, for some reason, had begun to churn.
“And she’s from a good family.”
“Yes. The Pecks.”
“But she’s…”
“What?”
“I don’t know. Reptilian?”
Meg burst out laughing and sat up to eye her friend. “Tell me how you really feel,” she jested.
Susana flushed. “I don’t mean to be petty. There’s just something cold and predatory about her.”
“Jonathan isn’t a fool. He will never choose a woman who isn’t warm and sincere.”
“I know.” Susan sighed. “But women often see things in other women that men miss.”
So true. “Who else is here?”
“The Pickerings arrived early. The Mountbattens and the Evertons right after.” Meg nodded. She remembered those families from her season. “And of course, Jonathan’s friends Mattingly and St. Clare arrived last night.”
“Last night?”
Susana huffed. “Christian was up with them ’til all hours and came to bed sotted with brandy and smelling of cheroots.” She put out a lip. “I made him sleep on the divan.”
“Never say you make your husband sleep on the divan!”
“When he smells of cheroots, I do. I made quite clear this nonsense is not to continue.”
“I’m sure he’ll be on his best behavior, now that the party is underway.”
Susana smiled. “Yes. It is. And I cannot wait to get started on you.”
Meg boggled. “On me?”
“Oh yes, darling. Now get up. We have a lot of work to do before tonight!”
* * *
Had she known what Susana had in mind, Meg might have run. Good lord. She’d forgotten how much work it took to prepare for a simple party. There was bathing and powdering and all manner of fiddling with her hair. Susana had brought her hairdresser, but she’d conscripted the dowager’s hairdresser as well because Meg needed to look absolutely perfect.
“Honestly,” she’d complained at one point when one hairdresser tugged her one way and the other another. “I think a simpl
e bun will work.”
They were all—all three of them—horrified.
“A bun will not do,” Susana said. “Companions wear buns. You need an elaborate coif. Remember, you are angling for a high-ranking husband.”
Meg frowned at her. “Am I?”
“Yes. Now hush and let us work.”
Outnumbered, Meg let the possibility of a simple hairdo drop. When they swung her around to face the glass, she was stunned.
It was not Meg Chalmers, companion to the dowager, who looked back. It was some kind of fanciful swan with a long, elegant neck highlighted by an impossibly intricate creation of swirls and curls atop her head.
She stared. “Surely that is not me.”
Susana beamed. “Lovely, isn’t it?” And then, she corrected herself. “Aren’t you? The men will fall at your feet. Oh. Speaking of feet…” She rushed to her dressing room and returned with a pair of blue slippers. “These will match the dress perfectly.”
“Are they yours?”
A twinkle lit her eye. “No. I found them in the attic.”
“In the attic?”
She sobered and fingered the sequins on the shoes. “I think they may have been Tessa’s.”
An ache swelled in her chest. Meg took them reverently and studied them, barely acknowledging the tears in her eyes.
Susana misunderstood her hesitation. “Tessa would want you to wear them.”
“Oh, I know. It’s just… I miss her.”
“We all do. But remember, she’s still with us. In spirit. And Tessa would want you to wear these shoes, dance until your feet ache, and have fun tonight. Don’t you think?”
“Dancing until my feet hurt isn’t all that fun,” she teased with a smile. She could remember that, at least, from her long-ago season.
Susana shot her a grin. “It does depend upon with whom one is dancing.”
Meg chuckled. “I daresay.”
“Come along. Now that your hair is done, let’s get you dressed. I also have some sapphires for you to wear. They will make your eyes shine.”
“Oh, I couldn’t…” It was far too much borrowed finery.
But Susana wouldn’t hear of anything less than perfection.
Chapter Six
The problem with being the host of a house party, Jonathan surmised, was that one had to attend it. Most specifically, one had to attend to the guests.
Normally, this wasn’t something he was loath to do, but at most of his parties, he invited only his friends.
This was his mother’s party.
She’d invited her friends.
And so, as the festivities began, he stood in the receiving line and greeted Lord and Lady Jersey, Buckingham, George Ponsonby, and Charles Sutton as well as many other faces from the 5th Parliament. It occurred to him that this was very much like being at work. He was surprised when Lord Castlereagh arrived with rival George Canning—he had no idea why Mother had invited them both—she was probably hoping for a sensation which would, at the very least, make for interesting conversation.
When the Pickerings stepped up, with their stunning daughter Glorianna, his mother gave him a nudge with her elbow.
Apparently, this guest had been invited for him.
He bowed over her gloved hand and murmured a welcome. She went pale, then red. Her lips moved but no sound came out.
Her mother nearly had apoplexy. “She’s very pleased to meet you,” she insisted, to which Glorianna nodded fervently.
Pickering chuckled. “A shy one, our girl,” he said, slapping Jonathan on the shoulder. “But very accomplished.”
“Very accomplished,” Lady Pickering agreed. “Wait until you hear her play the pianoforte.”
“Oh,” Jonathan said to his mother. “Is there to be a musicale?” There was hardly any chagrin in his tone. He deplored musicales.
“But of course,” Mother said, whacking him fondly with her fan. “Tomorrow afternoon at two sharp.”
Jonathan nodded. Excellent warning.
Glorianna moved on to greet his mother, and Lady Pickering leaned in and told him how much her daughter loved children, and didn’t the duke have two girls?
Egads.
After the Pickerings came the Mountbattens, and their lovely Louisa. She was pretty and young and certainly not tongue-tied. She loved living in London, she said. Adored dancing and painting and shopping. She also informed him she had an infatuation with hats. Especially hats with ribbons. Weren’t ribbons the most delightful things?
Naturally, he agreed.
But, truth be told, he was happy to move on to the Pecks.
Cicely Peck was beautiful too. His mother certainly hadn’t failed on that account. She also didn’t natter on about ribbons and hats, which was a mercy. She merely smiled at him warmly and said how pleased she was to make his acquaintance. Frankly, it was a relief to not be fawned over.
Hisdick appeared next, looking slightly uncomfortable in his suit. He’d slicked back his fly-away hair and gone so far as to wear a cravat, which was saying something. Hisdick was never fond of things tied around his neck.
“Hallo,” Jonathan greeted him. “I’m so glad you came.” Hisdick rarely went out—anywhere. He preferred to be closeted somewhere in a dark room with his books and a candle, which was probably why Jonathan had thought of him for Meg. She loved books too.
“Thank you for the invitation.” Hisdick wobbled slightly from side to side, as though the floor were moving. But then, he’d always been more at home on a frigate. Before his appointment to the House of Commons, he’d been a seaman. He’d never been completely comfortable on dry land. “I must say, your home is quite grand.”
“Thank you.”
Hisdick leaned in. “Which one is she?” he asked, eyeing the groupings in the salon.
Something lodged in Jonathan’s throat. “Ahem. She?”
“The woman you mentioned in the letter?”
“Ah. Meg. She’s not come down yet.” Jonathan forced a smile, but it cost him. He needed to remember why this party was being thrown. It was for Meg. To meet a man. Gads, how the thought irked him.
And now, seeing Hisdick here, in this company, a horrifying prospect occurred to him. Surely he hadn’t invited his friend because he wasn’t a handsome, charming, wealthy lord? Because he was a little quirky and something less than a romantic figure? Surely he hadn’t chosen him in the hopes that he would be one fewer man Meg might fancy?
A lowering thought. And one that posed more questions than he was capable of entertaining at the moment.
Fortunately, he didn’t have to.
Hisdick’s gasp forestalled any ethical dilemma he might have been tempted to confront.
He turned and followed his friend’s gaze, and his lungs locked.
A woman stood at the top of the stairs. A vision in blue.
It took him a moment—longer than it should have—to realize it was Meg.
He hadn’t seen her like this, in a fancy dress with her hair done up, since her season. But even then, she hadn’t been so…magnificent. Her stance was regal, her expression serene. She looked like… Well hell, she looked like a duchess.
It poleaxed him.
He barely even noticed Christian and Susana—with a smug smile—on either side of her as she floated down the stairs. His heart thudded, his head went woozy. Something in his breeches tightened.
Good glory, she was exquisite.
Had he really invited men here for her?
What a fool.
Because it was only now that he realized the truth of it.
He wanted her for himself.
“Who is that?” Hisdick asked. “She’s stunning.”
“That is Miss Meg Chalmers,” Mother answered.
Jonathan was incapable of speech. But he was capable of glares. He offered one to Hisdick for asking and one to Mother for answering. They both ignored him. Both were utterly entranced by the sight of his Meg coming towards them.
She smiled when she saw
him. A warm, bright greeting that made his cockles tingle. He wasn’t sure where cockles were, but he had his suspicions.
“Your Grace.” She gave a curtsey and put her gloved hand in his. He didn’t want to let go.
“Meg,” Mother said with a sigh. “Don’t you look lovely?”
“She does,” Christian said, earning a glare as well. “It was a Susana’s doing,” his friend said when he noticed the frown.
Susana laughed. “Hardly. All I did was loan her a dress.”
“And the sapphires, of course,” Meg said, touching the bluer than blue stones at her throat.
“You look…” He couldn’t finish the sentence. Words failed him.
“Doesn’t she though?” Susana said with a smile. “Now come, darling.” She hooked her arm in Meg’s and towed her off into the room, presumably to make introductions. Jonathan didn’t want her to go. He wanted her to stay here by his side. Where she belonged.
But what could he do?
There was propriety to follow after all.
He hated bloody propriety.
Once Meg had arrived, the last thing Jonathan wanted to do was stand in the receiving line, but there was nothing for it. Mother wouldn’t let him leave. Not until all the guests were accounted for.
Was it wrong to be peeved that Mattingly and St. Clare were late?
By the time they came down the stairs, the party was in full swing. It was a small crowd, for a London soiree, but an absolute crush for a house party with over fifty guests. Mother had arranged for a string quartet to play in the niche, and a full buffet featuring her favorite holiday offerings. But Jonathan had no desire to eat.
Once his friends appeared, all he wanted to do was go find Meg. She had disappeared into the throng.
He worried that she would be out of her depth with the mavens of the ton, and the mothers of the young girls Mother had invited. He hated the thought that she might be uncomfortable, or feel out of place. She hadn’t been to a real party in…
Well, he had no idea.
“So,” Mattingly said, rubbing his hands together. “Where is she?”
The question was beginning to annoy him. “Who?”
“Who?” St. Clare chuckled. “This woman we’ve come all this way to meet. You must introduce us so we can take her measure. Oh, I say, is that Hisdick?”
