Man of My Dreams

by Johanna Lindsey

  “Tyler went straight to the stables. He’s decided to buy one of the St. James Thoroughbreds, but he’s worried others will take advantage of their invite here to do the same, and the duke’s entire stock will be sold before the end of the day. Just about everyone who is anyone is coming, you know. I’ve even heard the rumor that the queen intends to make an appearance. And you wouldn’t believe the traffic on the roads and at the inns along the way. If Tyler didn’t have acquaintances in the area, we would have arrived in the middle of the night, because I was not going to sleep in the coach.”

  Megan got her reply in quickly, while Tiffany paused for breath. “You should have come yesterday to avoid the crush, like my father did. You know very well you don’t have to wait for an invitation to visit here now. In fact, I expect you to come for extended stays whenever you like.”

  “With the size of your guest list, we were afraid even Sherring Cross was going to run out of rooms. Honestly, Meg, I doubt there’s a lord left in London today.”

  Megan laughed. “You more than anyone would never believe this house capable of running out of rooms. And besides, I had one prepared for your exclusive use before I went to London. Weren’t you shown to it?”

  “That miniature mausoleum down the hall? Yes, a maid is hanging up my gown even now. And where is yours? I can’t wait to see what you decided on for an occasion of this magnitude.”

  Megan led the way to her dressing room, though she couldn’t generate much enthusiasm for the stunning gown that Duchy had had a hand in creating because she’d guessed Megan wasn’t accustomed to the kind of extravagance demanded for this ball. The result was a lavish though elegant gown of ivory-and-sapphire silk—not pink, as she had teasingly told Devlin—with a fortune in real pearls sewn along the deep bodice and dotting the train and the single wreath of white roses attached to the side of the gathered skirt.

  “Good God, you’re going to look like a princess,” Tiffany exclaimed.

  “No, just a duchess.”

  Tiffany raised a brow at her friend’s dejected tone and accurately guessed the cause. “You still haven’t told Devlin, have you?”

  “Today I will.”

  “And you’re making yourself sick over it,” Tiffany concluded, again right on the mark.

  Megan smiled weakly. “I guess I am.”

  “Then postpone it another day. You already have enough to be nervous about on this one.”

  “Postpone what?” Duchy asked as she sailed into the dressing room.

  Megan made an effort to evade the question. “Has Devlin arrived yet?”

  “Just, and the dear boy’s quite annoyed with me, I don’t mind telling you. I suppose I should have sent him a final copy of the guest list.”

  “Why? Did you invite someone he doesn’t particularly like?”

  “That was inevitable, but not the issue. No, he had to sleep in a stable last night.”

  “You’re joking,” Megan said incredulously.

  “I told you,” Tiffany told Megan.

  Duchy just sighed. “He tried three different inns and not a room to be had in any of them. And he considered the hour too late to impose on anyone he knew. If he had left London at an earlier hour, there wouldn’t have been a problem—or maybe there would have been. He simply wasn’t expecting such a crowd, though I don’t know why not. It may have been ten years since we’ve had a ball here, but he knows very well that the St. Jameses have always entertained in a grand manner—when we get around to it.”

  Megan was reminded that she hadn’t seen the guest list either, final or otherwise. “Just how many people did you invite?”

  “About six hundred, but I expect every one of them, plus a few I may have forgotten who will show up to remind me that I forgot them.”

  There were ten seconds of amazed silence before Tiffany said dryly, “It’s a good thing Sherring Cross has two connecting ballrooms.”

  “I’d wondered at that,” Megan replied in a horrified whisper. “Until now.”

  Duchy pretended not to notice the astonishment she’d caused. She just loved surprises, which was why she hadn’t included the reason for the ball in the invitations, nor had she even told her intimate friends yet about Devlin’s marriage. Her sister, Margaret, knew, of course, and she’d had to sit on top of her to keep her quiet about it since her arrival, no easy thing to do with that chatterbox.

  “Here’s another thing I forgot,” she said now, handing over the jewel box she carried. “Devlin had to remind me to open the family vault, though I can’t imagine why he suggested rubies to go with your gown.”

  Megan could, but she was laughing and so didn’t volunteer that he thought she would be wearing pink. Duchy had too many things yet to do to stay and question her strange humor, though she did suggest, “You might want to take a nap, my dear,” before she turned to leave.

  But Megan wasn’t a total nervous wreck yet, just halfway there, and called after her before she was out of hearing range, “Is the queen really coming?”

  “Certainly,” floated back through the open door.

  “Certainly.” Megan groaned.

  Chapter 43

  “Make that bloody announcement already, Duchy, or you’re going to witness the Duke of Wrothston causing a scandal.”

  Lucinda glanced incredulously at her grandson, then followed his gaze to where Megan was standing, but was barely seen, she had so many young lords surrounding her. “For heaven’s sake, Dev, the ball has only just started. And you can get her away from that crowd by simply dancing with her. That is permissible, you know.”

  “That isn’t going to do it,” he growled, though he started toward Megan to do just that.

  Duchy shook her head after him, unaware that he was going to make his own announcement. But she heard it, couldn’t help hearing it, actually, as did everyone else, for the sheer volume he deliberately injected.

  “Excuse me, gentlemen, but I would like to dance with my wife.”

  And anyone who hadn’t heard that was quickly enlightened by his or her neighbor within minutes. Duchy sighed. So much for being the sole bearer of glad tidings. But then she chuckled to herself. If her surprise had to be ruined, she couldn’t have asked for a better way. The dear boy was positively green with jealousy, and there wasn’t a person there who couldn’t see that.

  Megan was the one exception. She had no reason to think that Devlin’s appalling rudeness, as she saw it, stemmed from jealousy. She was too accustomed to male adoration to think anything was unusual about the excessive attention she’d been receiving from the moment she came downstairs. There were simply a great many men present, hence the large number wanting to meet her.

  Even Devlin’s pronounced use of the word “wife” didn’t suggest jealousy to her. She’d been giving her name as Megan St. James. It wasn’t her fault that it was being assumed she was a St. James relative rather than a wife, since she wasn’t aware of the assumption.

  No, rude was what he was, and she intended to find out why, saying the moment he pulled her into the current waltz, “If you’re still put out because you had to sleep in a stable last night, I’ll thank you not to take it out on me.”

  “So don’t thank me.”

  Megan blinked. That sounded so much like her old Devlin that she was smiling without realizing it as she asked, “Brought back memories, did it, of your brief step-down to the servant class?”

  Now that he had her in his arms, his jealousy was fast diminishing, soothed further by her smile, if not by her taunt. So he accepted the excuse she was offering for his appalling behavior—appalling now that he was aware of it.

  “I had a perfectly good bed in your stable, Megan, fetched down from one of your guest rooms, hardly comparable with a stack of hay.”

  “A stack of hay?” she said in surprise. “I hadn’t realized—” She broke off her sentence before she sounded too sympathetic, recalling that she hadn’t finished scolding him yet. “All the same, it wasn’t my fault, was it?”


  “Quite right. I do beg your pardon.”

  “As you should. But as long as we’re on the subject of complaints—”

  “We’re not—” he tried to cut in.

  “Oh, yes, we are,” Megan interrupted right back. “You don’t see me for four days and you don’t even seek me out to say hello when you finally return. That’s not very husbandly of you, Devlin.”

  “If you knew the state of the typical ton marriage, you’d know that’s very husbandly of me. But in my case, Duchy told me you were napping.”

  “I wasn’t. You should have found out for yourself.”

  She’d dropped her gaze to mutter that. Devlin bent sideways to see if her expression looked as sulky as her tone, but she turned her head aside. If she only knew that he’d tried a half-dozen times to get away from the guests who had pounced on him the moment he walked in the door—half his jealous anger had stemmed from not having a chance to see her before the ball commenced.

  “Did you actually miss me, Megan?” he asked carefully now, unsure if he was getting the right impression from her complaint or not.

  “Yes, actually, I believe I did.”

  “Would you, ah, like to slip away with me for a few moments so that I can make amends and greet you properly?”

  “Yes, I believe I would.”

  He did not give her a chance to change her mind, immediately dragging her off the dance floor, her hand firmly in his, but her step hardly up to matching his. He didn’t notice, too eager to find them a spot of privacy in a veritable sea of people. Duchy, standing near the doors he was determinedly heading for, with Frederick Richardson at her side, definitely noticed.

  “Good God, he’s going to make a scandal after all,” she exclaimed. “Stop him, Freddy. I’m sure you, of all people, can imagine what he’s about to do.”

  “Indeed, and I’d rather not die tonight just to save him from a scandal, if you don’t mind.”

  “He’ll thank you once he comes to his senses.”

  “That, my dear Duchy, will be too late,” Freddy replied and, against his better judgment, moved to block Devlin’s exit from the room—just in time. “I say, old man, you aren’t thinking of making an ass of yourself twice in one evening, are you?”

  Devlin stopped, allowing Megan to move up to his side. “For a friend who hasn’t been completely forgiven yet, you’re pushing it, Richardson,” he said in low tones.

  Freddy relaxed at that point, even grinned. “I figured as much, but your grandmother was about to faint from the shock, so what could I do?”

  Hearing that, Megan snatched her hand back. Having been dragged across the room, she understood perfectly well what the marquis was talking about, and improvised by offering him the hand she’d just retrieved.

  “I believe my husband was rather eager to have us meet, Lord Richardson. If I had known it was you he was dragging me over to introduce to, I could have told him we’d already met in Hampshire at the Leighton ball. A pleasure, though, to see you again.”

  “Well said, Your Grace.” Freddy beamed at her, then winked at Devlin. “And not to undo a brilliant rescue, I’ll just steal her away for the next dance, if you don’t mind.”

  “I do mind—”

  “No, he doesn’t,” Duchy said as she joined them. “Run along, Freddy, but don’t monopolize the duchess too long. She has to mingle with all her guests tonight, not just a select few.” But after the marquis had whisked Megan away, she added to Devlin, “Which you, dear boy, apparently forgot,” and then in exasperation, “Have you lost your mind?”

  “Apparently.”

  “Are you blushing, Dev?”

  “Apparently,” he groaned. Then he pulled himself together to ask with all the starch and stuffiness she deplored, “Would you care to dance, Your Grace?”

  “Go to the devil,” she snorted, turning away from him, only to toss back, “And stay away from your wife tonight, unless you can manage to keep your hands to yourself.”

  It took more than half the evening, dinner, the queen’s visit and departure, the official announcement of his marriage, and a bottle and a half of champagne before Devlin felt he could safely approach his wife again without making a fool of himself for a third time that night.

  But before he reached her, he spotted another female who had somehow managed to keep from his notice all evening—until now. He turned in her direction instead, coming up behind Sabrina Richardson to pull her rudely away from her group of friends and out onto the dance floor. “I told your brother that if I ever saw you again, I would wring your neck. Didn’t he warn you?”

  Sabrina stared up at him wide-eyed, but not quite frightened. “Yes, but—but I had to come, Devlin, to apologize. I owe you that.”

  “You owe me a lot more than that,” he said coldly. “Why don’t we start with the truth?”

  “I just wanted to be a duchess, and you’re the only duke around who isn’t too old or married already.”

  “Bloody hell.”

  “Well, you asked for the truth,” she said defensively. “I’m sorry it isn’t more complicated than that.”

  “Was there a baby?”

  “No,” she answered, blushing profusely.

  “Have you told Freddy that?”

  Sabrina nodded. “When he told me you’d married someone else.”

  “I hope he blistered your hide.”

  The blush spread from her cheeks to encompass her entire face. “He did.”

  “Then I just might forgive him. You, on the other hand, I ought to toss out on your ear.”

  “Don’t be a grouch, Devlin. It’s worked out well enough in the end, hasn’t it? Freddy said you never would have met your wife if it wasn’t for us.” Devlin hated to own up to the truth of that simple fact, so he didn’t, but Sabrina was continuing. “I thought I’d dislike her, but I don’t. Freddy’s in love with her, you know.”

  “The devil he is!”

  “He said he was.”

  “The devil he did!” Devlin looked over toward Megan to see if Freddy was in her group of admirers, and damned if he wasn’t. “I knew I should have sent my seconds round to him when I first thought of it.”

  Chapter 44

  Logic told Megan that after the official announcement of her marriage, she should have lost most of her admirers. Logic apparently had nothing to do with it, however, for she hadn’t lost any, had actually gained some of the more disreputable kind: the lechers and charming though wicked rakes who considered her ripe for seduction now that she was a married woman.

  She supposed she had been lucky not to have come across such men before—not counting her husband in disguise as himself. And although she received seventeen outrageous propositions of one kind or another, from amusing to really vulgar, she managed to keep her temper during each one and fend them off without causing a scene.

  Aside from that, she was enjoying herself more than she thought she would, and that was because of Devlin’s impetuous behavior earlier in the evening. She had no doubt now that he’d been taking her off to make love right in the middle of their ball. It would have caused a scandal of the worst magnitude and was so unlike her husband the duke—but so like Devlin the horse breeder.

  Megan grinned to herself each time she thought of it, and she thought of it every time she looked for and found Devlin, and she did that all night long. It didn’t even bother her that the same women kept showing up in his own groups as he circulated and mingled with his guests. It didn’t bother her when she saw him dancing with other women and heard their girlish giggles as they flirted with him. She happened to know he abhorred giggling women. She also happened to know that it was her he wanted, not them, because she’d caught a number of those looks from him that told her so.

  All things considered, she was nowhere as nervous as she had been about her confession, which was still on the agenda for tonight. She wasn’t expecting Devlin to return her affections, at least not all at once, though that was now a more hopeful long-t
erm expectation. But she didn’t think he’d mind all that much now if she loved him.

  “I suppose you’ve been accepting congratulations all evening.”

  Megan turned toward the lady who had spoken, a lovely blonde with light gray eyes who made Megan feel gauche next to her sophisticated flamboyance. “That does seem to be the order of the day,” she replied.

  “Then you’re due for some condolences instead.”

  “I beg your pardon?”

  The woman laughed, a brittle sound. “You don’t know who I am, do you?”

  “Should I?”

  “Indeed yes. I’m Marianne Aitchison, the woman your husband jilted at the altar only a few months ago.”

  Megan just stared, dumbfounded, while one of the gentlemen present said, “I say, Countess, you never got to the altar, did you? Recall Wrothston breaking it off before it got as far as that.”

  “Then do you also recall that he kept me waiting for ten years?” Marianne almost snarled at the man. “Ten wasted years.”

  Megan was too appalled for words. The bitterness coming out of Marianne Aitchison was palpable. Ten years? Good God, Devlin had been engaged to this woman for ten years? Why had no one mentioned that to her before, when apparently it was common knowledge?

  “You were amazingly lucky, my dear,” Marianne remarked to Megan with less heat, but with no less bitterness. “To get him to the altar before his interest wore off. And it will, you know, quickly, abruptly. So don’t expect his declarations of love to continue much longer.”

  What declarations of love? Megan wanted to know, but asked instead, “Why did you have such a long engagement?”

  “Because he kept postponing the wedding, again and again, and when I finally refused to be put off any longer, he broke it off completely.”

  “But why?” Megan couldn’t help asking.

  “Why else, my dear? He simply didn’t want a wife. But he liked being engaged. That kept all the aspiring mamas from targeting him for their sweet young daughters.”