Man of My Dreams

by Johanna Lindsey

  “How unusual.”

  “It’s preposterous, is what it is,” Megan replied, some of her anger returning just thinking about it. “You wouldn’t believe the license it gives him—to be arrogant, rude, outrageous in his behavior.”

  “Did something else happen?”

  “Yes, all of the above.”

  “How strange,” Tiffany said thoughtfully. “Men don’t usually act that way around you.”

  Megan stared at her friend for a moment before agreeing. “They don’t, do they?”

  “It sounds almost like how you behaved toward Tyler.”

  Megan stared a bit longer before agreeing again. “It does, doesn’t it?”

  “Well, Mr. Jefferys is a bit more handsome than most,” Tiffany pointed out. “Do you think he has the same problem you do, of having every woman he meets fall in love with him?”

  Megan said, straight-faced, “Not every woman I meet falls in love with me.”

  Tiffany burst out laughing. “You know what I meant.”

  “Yes, but the fact remains that Mr. Jefferys isn’t the least bit lovable.”

  “Neither were you to Tyler. Just the opposite.”

  True, but Megan couldn’t see a man making use of the same ruse. Deliberate? All those insults deliberate? Even the kiss no more than a means to another insult?

  Reminded of the kiss, Megan said, “I really don’t want to discuss that horse breeder. It has occurred to me that I have somewhat of a problem that you might be able to help me with. I don’t know the first thing about kissing.”

  “Kissing?” Tiffany said blankly.

  “Yes, how to go about it. I think I should know before I meet my duke, don’t you?”

  “Not necessarily—now, wait a minute. You don’t expect me to teach you, do you?”

  “Don’t be a goose. But you do happen to know more about it than I. Did Tyler teach you? Did it come naturally? Did it take practice?”

  “Practice, yes. Tyler didn’t know he was teaching me, but he was. And no, I wouldn’t say it comes naturally, since I was too nervous to enjoy it the first few times, though now it does seem like I always knew how. But—Meg, we don’t do any serious kissing, you know, just brief kisses good-bye and hello, and that only when no one is looking, as you well know.”

  Megan was the one who, as Tiffany and Tyler’s chaperon, had turned her head away more than once so no one would be looking, so she was grinning when she asked, “But has he put his tongue in your mouth yet?”

  “Megan! However did you learn about that?”

  “Quite by accident, I assure you,” Megan replied evasively. “Well, has he?”

  “No, but Tyler has mentioned it, to warn me, he said, so I wouldn’t be alarmed if he ever got carried away and did it. He also said that after we’re married, well, that that kind of kissing is part of—”

  “That?” Megan whispered.

  “Yes, that. But it sounds rather disgusting, if you ask me.”

  “It’s not actually.”

  Tiffany’s eyes rounded. “Megan Penworthy, who put his tongue in your mouth?”

  “Did I say—?”

  “You didn’t have to.”

  “Oh, all right,” Megan grumbled. “Devlin Jefferys did, and before you ask why I didn’t mention it, it’s because I get furious every time I think about it.”

  “The horse breeder?”

  “I told you his behavior was outrageous. And he blamed it on me because I was staring at him.”

  “Were you? Staring at him?”

  “Let me ask you this first. If a man appeared before you half naked, would you turn around immediately?”

  “Are you joking?” Tiffany chuckled. “I’d probably look a bit before I turned around.”

  “Well, I forgot to turn around at all.”

  “You saw him naked!?”

  “Half naked, and I can see I’m going to have to explain everything.” It took a while, but when she’d finished, Megan said, “Maybe you’re right, that he’s doing it deliberately. Do you think I ought to tell him that he needn’t worry, that my heart is soon to be spoken for?”

  “I think you ought to tell your father instead.”

  “If I do, we’re going to lose that stallion. Father will dismiss him instantly.”

  “Well, that’s a coil, isn’t it?” Tiffany said indignantly. “Damned if you do or don’t. There has to be something that we can do to make him mind his manners.”

  “We?” Megan grinned.

  “Well, now that you’ve told me—”

  “You aren’t to worry about it. I’ve decided to ignore him, and if that doesn’t work, then I will tell him that I’m going to marry St. James. No one in their right mind would dare tempt the ire of an all-powerful duke, even an unprincipled rogue like Jefferys. For whatever reason they began, the insults will stop immediately with that disclosure, you mark my words.”

  “You’re undoubtedly right. You might even get some groveling out of him in his haste to make amends to the future Duchess of Wrothston.”

  “Groveling isn’t necessary. I’ll settle for seeing his shocked expression along with Lady O’s the day I return in the ducal coach.”

  Tiffany suddenly gasped. “I almost forgot my news—which, by the way, is going to get you closer to that day of reckoning. My mother received invites to a pre-Season masked ball from her old friend Elizabeth Leighton. And my father’s Times that arrived yesterday had a mention of the very same ball because of the notables on the guest list, which includes—”

  “Him?” Megan squealed in delight. “And here I’ve been agonizing on how I would manage to meet him. Your mother is going to accept, isn’t she?”

  “I believe she can be persuaded.”

  “And I can go with you?”

  “Would I go without you?”

  “There, you see? Fate is pushing me in the right direction. It’s almost as if it weren’t my decision a’tall, but preordained. Where is it? When?”

  “The Leightons live in Hampshire, and the ball is next week—now don’t look so horrified, Meg. That’s plenty time to prepare—”

  “Not for a new gown.”

  “You’ve plenty—”

  “This one has to be special. I’m catching a duke, Tiff, a duke.”

  “You’re right,” Tiffany conceded. “There’s no point in taking chances with this preordained stuff. I’ll race you to—”

  “I’ll meet you,” Megan called over her shoulder as she took off. “I’m too anxious to hold Sir Am—”

  Tiffany couldn’t hear the rest, but didn’t need to, just as she didn’t need to have it clarified that she would find Megan at Miss Whipple’s shop, their village seamstress. Mind reading was only one of the benefits of having a very close friend.

  Chapter 10

  Having found a lovely green poult-de-soie silk along with white tulle to fashion a stunning new ball gown, Megan was in high spirits when she returned home late that afternoon. Understandably, she was loath to ruin her good mood with a trip to the stable, even to return Sir Ambrose. But grooming her horse was a joy to her that she wasn’t going to give up either. So for the first time, she sent a servant around to the stable to collect Sir Ambrose’s grooming apparatus, and proceeded to tend her horse right there in the front yard in the shade of a hickory tree.

  Ten minutes after she began, Devlin Jefferys showed up. “Just what do you think you’re doing?” he demanded without preamble.

  His appearance wasn’t as detrimental to Megan’s good mood as she’d thought it would be. His own mood seemed to have soured with her presence, however, or had he been brooding all day? He certainly looked irritated at the moment. The thought brought a half smile to Megan’s lips.

  “Why, whatever does it look like I’m doing, Mr. Jefferys? Surely it’s rather obvious, isn’t it?”

  Her half-condescending, half-effervescent tone had him gritting his teeth. “Timmy can do that.”

  “Certainly he can, but I enjoy doing it my
self. Didn’t I make that clear this morning?”

  “Then why aren’t you doing it where it should be done, instead of making a spectacle of yourself on your front lawn?”

  “Spectacle? Without an audience? Come now, let’s not exaggerate. And why I’m not in the stable should also be quite obvious. I was trying to avoid your very unpleasant company. So just what are you doing out here, ruining a perfectly good plan?”

  He stared at her for a long moment before he shoved his hands in his pockets and said in a low mumble, “It was not my intention to run you out of your own stable.”

  That was an outright lie, but Devlin had spent the afternoon bored to tears; the only thing he’d had to look forward to was Megan’s return. He hadn’t thought she would try to avoid him entirely. He had counted on her entrenching and fighting to the bitter end—as anyone with that red hair would—and he had bloody well been looking forward to it.

  But now? “Perhaps I owe you an apology,” he said, the words a mere whisper, sour on his tongue.

  “More than one, but who’s counting?”

  Oh, she’s asking for it. Give her an inch, and she thinks she can walk all over me.

  “Very well, accept my apology in duplicate.”

  Megan managed to conceal her surprise over this amazing about-face. Of course, he didn’t sound the least bit sincere in his apology, sounded more like it was being forced out of him at the point of some gruesome consequence. She took a moment to wonder what he found so loathsome that an apology to her was the lesser evil. And in that case, why even bother?

  But on the oft chance that he really was offering her an olive branch and was merely being churlish about it, she said, “I’m not sure a simple apology will suffice for what—” She paused, noting the tensing of his body, the drawing together of his black brows. This round to me, Mr. Jefferys, she thought smugly to herself before giving him a bright smile. “But on the other hand, I am presently in much too good a mood to hold grudges, so I accept your apology—in duplicate.”

  Devlin barely heard her. He was still trying to recover from the staggering effect of the smile she’d just given him. Who would have thought two dimples could be such disarming weapons? He was bemused, his thoughts gone adrift, his tongue tied in knots. He felt as if he’d been knocked on his arse.

  That girl ought to have freckles, he thought in pure disgruntlement. Why the devil didn’t she? There ought to be something to counteract a smile like that, which made a man want to wrap his arms around her and protect her for the rest of his days.

  Devlin shook himself mentally. At her expectant expression, he merely nodded, and curtly at that, annoyed now that he wasn’t even sure if she’d accepted his apology or not. But he wasn’t going to ask her to repeat what she’d said. He moved around her to lean against the tree trunk and watch her. If she’d refused his apology, she’d have more to say, wouldn’t she? At the very least, she’d ask him to go away. She didn’t. What she did was ignore the fact that he was still there.

  The devil. Now that he’d got the temporary cease-fire that he hadn’t really wanted—if he had got it—he didn’t know what to say to the girl. The normal conversation he’d offer one of her class would sound ridiculous coming from a “horse breeder.” Besides, he rather liked being the horse breeder with her. It gave him freedom in his speech that he ordinarily wouldn’t have. A rare pleasure, that, not having to guard his tongue or his temper.

  “I’m going to a ball this week in Hampshire, a masked ball.”

  Devlin’s brows rose at that unsolicited statement. “Now, why are you telling me that?”

  Megan shrugged. “I’m just excited about it. I felt like telling you.”

  “You mean you felt like rubbing my nose in it, since it’s not something I’d be invited to.”

  “That, too.” She peeked at him from beneath her lashes. “Is your nose especially sore?”

  Devlin just managed to choke down a burst of laughter. “Not especially. I’ve been to a ball or two.”

  “What?” she scoffed. “Those public masked balls at Covent Garden?”

  “How did you guess?” be replied dryly.

  “That’s not the same as rubbing shoulders with dukes and earls.”

  “You have me there, brat—now, don’t get your hackles up, Miss Penworthy. That just slipped out.”

  She didn’t comment. She went back to rubbing down the mare with a bit more vigor. Devlin grinned, watching her pointedly ignore him again. She sparkled when she was mad. Her cheeks bloomed, her eyes brightened. He imagined she would look just so in the heat of…The tightening in his loins forced him to squelch that thought.

  “What’s so special about this ball in Hampshire?” Devlin thought to ask. “I’d think you’d be more excited about your Season in London, which is shortly to occur.”

  Megan turned to give him her full attention. “How did you know I am to have a Season?”

  “Doesn’t every young girl your age hie herself off to London in search of a husband?”

  “Not every one, no. I may not go myself if everything goes well in Hampshire—oh, except for Tiffany’s wedding. I’ll have to go for that, but—”

  “If what goes well in Hampshire?” Devlin asked a bit more harshly than he realized. “Are you anticipating a proposal?”

  “Good heavens, no.” Megan laughed. “I’ll only be meeting him for the first time. My hopes are high, but not that high.”

  “In other words, you’ve already picked him out, but he doesn’t know it. Who is this poor sod you’ve set your cap for?”

  “I’ll thank you to keep a respectful tone when you speak of my future husband.”

  “So don’t thank me,” Devlin snapped, then: “You aren’t joking, are you? You really intend to marry a man you haven’t even met?”

  “Yes,” she replied stiffly. “So you can stop worrying, Mr. Jefferys. My heart will soon be spoken for.”

  “Oh, you intend to fall in love, too, with this faceless—do you know what he looks like?”

  “Well, no, but—”

  “Aha! You’re after a bloody title, aren’t you?”

  “So what if I am? You think it’s never been done before?”

  “It’s done all the time, but the titled gent usually gets something he wants out of the arrangement. What have you got to offer?”

  She was mortified by his sneering tone. “Well, that was a short truce, wasn’t it?” She turned away to lead Sir Ambrose to the stable.

  Devlin stubbornly fell into step beside her. “I’m sorry. That was uncalled-for.”

  “What’s one more insult to add to all your others? Maybe Tiffany was right and it’s a habit with you, to keep women from ‘falling at your feet.’ But as I said, you needn’t worry about me doing any ‘falling,’ Mr. Jefferys. It was a ridiculous assumption on your part that I would—if you made it. I’m not the least bit attracted to you.”

  Red flag—bright, bright red. “That statement can be easily disproved. Shall I show you how?”

  “Are you thinking of causing a spectacle on my front lawn?”

  “We’ve already reached the side lawn, if you haven’t noticed, and yes, I’m bloody well thinking about it,” he growled.

  “Well, don’t. My father, who will be sure to hear about it after I scream my head off, won’t like it one bit. Neither will my future husband, and the Duke of Wrothston is no one to trifle—”

  “Who?”

  Megan looked back, because Devlin had stopped in his tracks. She was delighted by his shocked expression. “I thought that might give you pause,” she said smugly.

  “Did I hear you right?”

  “You did. I will be married to Ambrose St. James, the present Duke of Wrothston, before the year is out. And you, Mr. Jefferys, will not be invited to the wedding.”

  “Why…him?”

  “Why not? I happen to like his stable.”

  “You like his—”

  He ended up sputtering, so Megan shrugged and went
on without him. The little man Devlin had arrived with was at the front of the stable as she led Sir Ambrose to his stall.

  “Good day to you, miss,” he said respectfully, doffing his hat.

  “Good day to yourself, Mr.—Browne, isn’t it?”

  “Yes, Miss.”

  “And how is our fine stallion today?”

  “Caesar is in fine fettle, just fine.”

  She turned to Devlin, sensing his presence behind her. She decided to take advantage of the present regret and anxiety she was sure he was experiencing, now that he knew what a powerful man she would soon be married to.

  “I want to ride the stallion.”

  “No.”

  “Just like that? No?”

  “Your hearing is excellent.”

  So much for her assumption. “You’re impossible!” she told him before she stalked out of the stable.

  “I’m impossible?” Devlin said, glancing at Mortimer. “She’s got her husband all picked out, Mr. Browne. Hasn’t met him yet, but she’s got her cap set for him. Guess who it is.”

  “Someone you know?”

  “Yes, I know him. I bloody well know him. She thinks she’s going to marry the Duke of Wrothston.”

  “But—” Mortimer’s eyes rounded. “You are the Duke of Wrothston.”

  “So I am.”

  Chapter 11

  Ambrose Devlin St. James, fourth Duke of Wrothston and a slew of lesser titles, was at the moment immersed in physical labor of the menial sort. He was pitching hay, and doing it with a vengeance, but also with a mindless sort of detachment that made him unaware of the soreness developing in his hands or the sweat soaking into his fine lawn shirt.

  He had begun the labor in an effort to keep from smashing his fist through a wall, which was what he’d had the urge to do after his latest encounter with Megan Penworthy—and her most startling revelations. Pitching hay, however, did not take his mind off the encounter as he’d assumed it would. Just the opposite. The exertion seemed to fuel his anger with every pitch.