Man of My Dreams

by Johanna Lindsey

  There was a vanity replete with perfumes, cosmetics, and everything necessary to repair her hair, but Megan was starting the day in a peevish mood because of her embarrassment over the rumpled state of her attire, especially since the expensive furnishings in her room declared the inn to be an elegant establishment that only the rich could afford.

  It didn’t help her mood any to realize, when she left her room, that she had no idea which closed door along the corridor would lead her to Devlin. And she couldn’t just go knocking on each one until she happened to find him. The other guests certainly wouldn’t appreciate that.

  She was forced to go in search of someone who could direct her, but she slowed her steps halfway down what was a grand staircase, amazed at the opulence below. So much for thinking this was merely an inn. It had to be a hotel, though she certainly hadn’t noticed the size of it last night. Of course, the lower lobby had been dark when they’d arrived at dawn, with only one light burning.

  The more Megan looked around, the more her reasoning faltered. It didn’t really look like a hotel; it looked like the foyer of someone’s home. In fact, the innkeeper who had admitted them could have been a butler. Admitted? Devlin had knocked to gain entrance, now that she thought about it.

  “Good afternoon, Your Grace. May I direct you to the dining room?”

  It was the man who had let them in this morning, more fully dressed now, and definitely behaving like a butler. Your Grace? Megan groaned inwardly. Surely Devlin hadn’t lied again about who he was.

  “You may direct me to my husband, if you would,” she replied.

  “If you will follow me?”

  She expected to be taken back upstairs, but instead he headed for a double set of doors at the end of the foyer. It turned out to be the dining room after all, a very large dining room, and Devlin was there, sitting at the head of a long table, being served lunch by not one but three uniformed maids who couldn’t take their eyes off him, and were almost fighting for the honor of bringing him what he wanted.

  Megan was struck by that same emotion she’d experienced when she found Devlin frolicking in the hay with Cora, and she didn’t like it one bit. She waited for him to notice her. When he didn’t, her temper snapped.

  “Out! All of you,” she said, looking straight at the maids. “There’s more food before him than he can possibly eat, and the man knows how to serve himself.”

  The three servants weren’t very quick to obey a stranger, especially one so rumpled-looking, but one look at the butler and they were gone. “What would you like, Your Grace?” he asked Megan.

  That damn title again made her wince. “Just some privacy, thank you.” When he nodded but just stood there, she added, “And I’ll seat myself.”

  The poor man seemed so appalled by that notion that Devlin stood up. “I’ll seat her, Mr. Mears. But you can bring her an extra cup.”

  “Very good, Your Grace.”

  Megan waited until the butler was gone to say, “I’ll seat myself,” and marched down to the end of the table to do just that.

  Devlin resumed his own seat. “Got up on the wrong side of the bed, did you?”

  She gave him a disgruntled little smile. “You mean that splendidly comfortable bed that belongs in a bloody palace? That bed?”

  Devlin sighed. “Very well, brat, get it off your chest. What are you in a snit about this time?”

  Megan chose merely the most recent transgression. “You’re telling that lie again, aren’t you?”

  He opened his mouth, closed it, then shrugged. “It seemed convenient at the time.”

  She frowned as she drew a basket of hot buttered muffins toward her. She could swear that wasn’t what he’d been about to say.

  Nonchalantly, though with some definite malice, she asked, “Can’t you get arrested for impersonating a duke?”

  “I should hope so.”

  Her frown increased. The dratted man wasn’t making the least bit of sense this morning.

  “Then why do you keep taking that risk?”

  One of his brows rose slightly. “Are you thinking of turning me in, Your Grace?”

  “Don’t call me that, and yes, I ought to, and I will give it some thought.”

  He pushed a plate of ham and boiled sausages toward her. “When you do,” he said as he went back to eating, “you might want to consider that you’d be turning yourself in, too, since you happen to be my wife now, and these people think you are my duchess.”

  Megan stared at him openmouthed for a moment before snapping, “You might have thought of that before involving me in your crime.”

  “Yes, I might have, but I was too bloody tired to think beyond finding us a place to sleep. The only lodgings this town boasted burned down last week.”

  “Oh,” she said, fixing her eyes on the crumbs she was scattering from her muffin. “In that case, thank you for the comfortable bed.”

  Devlin put down his fork and did some staring of his own. Megan conceding a point? And actually thanking him for something?

  “Did you get enough sleep?” he asked.

  “Yes.”

  “Are you running a fever, then?”

  She looked up, blushing slightly. “That isn’t funny. You’re making me out to be a monster.”

  “No, just a nag and a termagant, and, don’t let us forget—a brat.”

  She gave him a furious glare. “You’re not exactly per—” She had to stop as the butler returned with a cup for her. Her fingers drummed loudly on the table while the man made a production of pouring coffee and offering cream and sugar. But the second the door closed again, she said, “I’m beginning to think you’re a worse bounder than that bounder you’re impersonating, Devlin Jefferys.”

  “Good God, then there’s no hope for me a’tall,” he exclaimed.

  He was actually smiling at her. Megan was getting angrier by the minute.

  “Can you be serious for two seconds?” she demanded.

  “I will if you will.”

  The man was impossible this morning. Megan almost got up and walked out, but her curiosity wouldn’t let her. “Whose house is this, anyway?”

  “It belongs to a Margaret MacGregor. She’s an Englishwoman and a countess in her own right.”

  “Living in Scotland?”

  “She married a Scot in her younger years. When he died, she elected to stay on.”

  Midnight-blue eyes narrowed in disapproval. “You’ve been gossiping with the servants, haven’t you?”

  “Servants don’t gossip with dukes,” he replied in a perfect imitation of a pompous nobleman, then spoiled it by grinning. “On the other hand, clergymen will gossip with anyone who will listen, and the one who married us happened to mention Lady MacGregor, and that she was putting up travelers until the inn is rebuilt.”

  But not in her best rooms, Megan didn’t doubt, and with a passel of servants to wait on them. Unless, of course, they claimed to be the Duke and Duchess of Wrothston.

  “You don’t remember?” Devlin added.

  That was another sore subject better left alone, but Megan wasn’t inclined to. “No, I don’t remember,” she grumbled. “The one and only time I’m ever getting married, and all I have is vague memories of a ceremony in a dark church. When I’m finished being mad about it, I’ll probably cry.”

  “The one and only time, Megan?”

  She was too agitated to notice the softness of his tone. “The gentry don’t divorce, Devlin Jefferys,” she informed him haughtily. “If that was what you were hoping to do at a later date, you can just forget it. You’re stuck with me until death do us part, and I don’t intend to die so you can go about your merry way.”

  He laughed at that point. “Good God, the notions you get astound me sometimes. For your information, divorce isn’t permissible in my family either, though why a woman who just got married should even think about—”

  “I don’t feel married,” she interrupted him in a small, bitter voice.

  Devlin be
came very still, not daring to even look at her. Keeping his glance on his plate, he asked carefully, “Do you want to feel married?”

  Her head snapped up, but all she saw was his nonchalance. What else did she expect? He’d said that he hadn’t enjoyed making love to her any more than she’d enjoyed it. Not exactly the words of a man eager to come to her bed, now that he could. But if he thought she’d ask him to after that crushing rejection—well, he could rot before she would.

  “No,” she said. “Whatever gave you that idea?”

  His fork clattered loudly on his plate as he stood up abruptly. “A stupid question, wasn’t it?” he said and headed for the doors.

  “Wait a minute! Are we leaving?”

  “We might as well,” he replied curtly without looking back at her.

  Chapter 33

  Megan quickly swiped up a napkin to fill with the food she hadn’t gotten a chance to eat. Wretched man. What had set him off all of a sudden? Could he possibly have wanted her to say yes? After he had rejected her? Not likely. And she wasn’t about to leave herself open to another rejection. If he wanted her, he was going to have to say so.

  Megan blushed furiously when the butler came in with a picnic basket full of food for them to take along, but like any good servant, he deigned not to notice. “Have a pleasant journey, Your Grace.”

  Her blush increased. She was really starting to hate that title that she’d once coveted.

  She stuck her pilfered food into the basket as if she did such things every day and marched out into the foyer, where Devlin was waiting. As usual, he was a convenient target for her annoyance, this time over her embarrassment.

  “You’re going to drag me off before I even get a chance to thank our hostess?” she asked.

  “Lady Margaret is visiting friends in Edinburgh and isn’t expected back until tomorrow,” he informed her rather stiffly. “Did you want to wait?”

  “And risk the chance of her knowing the real duke?” she hissed in a whisper, since the butler was still there, though he had moved over to the front doors. “Certainly not. You can send for Caesar.”

  “I already have, as well as a carriage for your convenience.”

  “You found a carriage for rent?”

  “I’m borrowing one of Lady Margaret’s.”

  Megan groaned. “Not again.” Then she added sternly, “I’m really going to have to insist that you not take advantage of this lady.”

  Devlin glanced down at her with a supercilious expression that would have done a duke proud. “How, pray tell, am I taking advantage?”

  Megan leaned closer to whisper, “You know very well she’ll think you-know-who has borrowed her carriage and not mind in the least, even be thrilled to oblige such an exalted personage when that isn’t the case a’tall.”

  “Why deny her that gratification, then, since she’s not here to miss the carriage anyway?”

  That was a very good point, though entirely self-serving. “It still isn’t right,” she insisted.

  “Then let it rest on my conscience, my dear, and be grateful you won’t have to carry that cumbersome basket on your lap atop Caesar.”

  Another excellent point which she hadn’t considered, so she said no more, though she made sure her expression told him she still wasn’t happy about it.

  After another moment when their transportation still hadn’t shown up, she set the basket down and remarked, “That’s the first time you’ve ever mentioned a family.”

  He gave her a wary glance, but she was staring across the way at the butler and didn’t notice. “When did I mention family?”

  “In the dining room, in reference to divorce. You can’t have forgotten that quickly.”

  Devlin relaxed. “So?”

  “So do you have family, brothers and sisters, that sort of thing?”

  She appeared only mildly interested, but he knew her better than that by now. Her curiosity was more powerful than most people’s. It had even led them indirectly to this state of marriage. And Devlin was sure that now that it was aroused, she’d find a hundred other ways to get that question answered if he tried to avoid it.

  He should have come to that realization sooner, for there were several ways that he could use her curiosity to his own advantage. He’d have to give that more thought, but right now he said, “A grandmother, a great-aunt, and numerous distant cousins.”

  “No one closer than that?”

  “Not for some time.”

  “Where is your family from?” she asked next.

  “Kent.”

  “Near Sherring Cross?”

  “Very near,” he said dryly.

  “I suppose that’s how you ended up working in the duke’s stable?”

  “You could say that. Now, why are you suddenly so interested in my past?”

  “It’s something I ought to know about, don’t you think, now that we’re married?”

  “I don’t think. A wife doesn’t need to know, nor should she know, everything about her husband.”

  Megan’s mouth fell open. “Who says so?” she practically sputtered. “Men?”

  He shrugged. “I suppose.”

  “And you agree with that nonsense?”

  It was hard to keep from grinning, she was so incredulous.

  “I believe I was a man last time I looked.”

  Her eyes narrowed suspiciously. “Are you teasing me, Devlin?”

  “You finally noticed?”

  It was his turn to be incredulous when she gave him a full smile, the one that brought out both dimples and made him want to grab her and kiss her. “That’s all right, then,” she told him. “I don’t mind being teased.” Since he was too speechless to reply, she added, “Now where were we? Oh, yes, your previously undiscussed past.”

  “No,” he disagreed after a moment, “we were going to get to yours, or did you think this exchange of information would be one-sided?”

  “But my life hasn’t been all that interesting,” she protested, then sighed. “Oh, very well, what would you like to know about?”

  “Nothing for the moment.”

  Her eyes went back to narrowed. “I believe I’m going to develop a new habit—screaming. Consider yourself warned, you odious man.”

  Devlin burst into laughter. Megan opened her mouth to begin her new habit. But Mr. Mears opened the front doors first. The carriage had arrived. Only it wasn’t their carriage, they found as they went outside. An elderly lady was being helped from it by two attendants who were quickly shooed away the moment she was firmly on the ground. And then she noticed Devlin, and a pair of faded turquoise eyes widened.

  “I don’t believe it,” the woman said to herself. “After all these years—what the devil are you doing here, Devlin? I just had a letter from your grandmother last week, and she didn’t mention you were coming.”

  “Because she didn’t know. I didn’t come for a visit, but to get married, which I’ve just done, and you have only to look at my bride to see why I was in such an all-fired hurry. She was planning a Season. I wasn’t about to let the rest of the ton get a look at her before she was safely mine.”

  “How divinely romantic, Dev,” Margaret exclaimed, “and so unlike you.”

  Megan was already blushing over his nonsense, meant to put everyone off from wondering about the real reason for such a hasty marriage. That this sweet-looking lady believed it was obvious by her answer, and Megan blushed the more. But worse and worse, the lady’s eyesight must be nearly gone, for she actually thought Devlin was someone she knew. An odd coincidence, however, that both men were named Devlin. Or was it? Could the lady possibly know him somehow?

  Megan was introduced. The old lady welcomed her into the “family” with a great deal of warmth and sincerity, which was making Megan feel simply horrible about the ruse Devlin was playing. But was it a ruse? Half the things Margaret MacGregor was saying didn’t make a bit of sense. Then she was speaking to Devlin about people they supposedly both knew, and he was coming up
with a satisfying answer for every question she asked.

  Now that was just too damn coincidental as far as Megan was concerned. Something definitely wasn’t right here. And Devlin kept giving Megan the most probing looks, which only increased her suspicions. But Margaret MacGregor was so genuinely pleased to see him, Megan didn’t have the heart to ruin their “reunion” if she could help it. But she would have some answers the very second they were alone.

  “What’s this?” Margaret said now as the borrowed carriage and Caesar were finally brought up. “Don’t tell me you’re leaving?”

  “I am.”

  “No, you’re not.”

  “Yes, I am.”

  “You’re not,” Margaret insisted stubbornly. “After all these years of promising you’ll visit—you’re here, you’ll visit a while.”

  “I’m not alone, Margaret,” he reminded her pointedly. “And I have obligations. Duchy doesn’t even know yet that I’ve married.”

  “Oh.” She thought about that for a moment, then laughed. “You mean for once I actually know something about you before my sister does? She’ll be furious with me for that.” She laughed again, enjoying the prospect, then ended with a sigh. “Very well, it looks like I’ll have to do the visiting as usual, but then I’ve got nothing better to do, whereas you never have enough time for anything. Don’t know how you found the time to meet your bride, much less elope with her, but mind you, I expect to hear all about it when I come to Sherring Cross.”

  “Sherring Cross?” Megan said in a small voice that wasn’t heard, since Margaret hadn’t quite finished with her admonishments.

  “Now that you have a wife,” the old lady continued, “you can’t spend all your time in the House of Lords, dear boy. I’ll expect lots of great-great nephews and nieces to carry on in the St. James tradition—”

  Margaret paused now because Devlin was suddenly groaning for no good reason. But before she could ask what was wrong, his beautiful young wife was calling him a nasty name and kicking him in the shin, quite viciously, Margaret noted with a sympathetic wince.