Page 19 of Miss Prim and the Duke of Wylde
Christopher added his felicitations with every appearance of sincerity.
And the first hurdle in gaining Meg’s family’s support was successfully cleared.
“It’s heading toward six o’clock.” Ellen, still beaming, looked hopefully at Drago. “Do say you’ll stay to dine. It’s just us, and we don’t stand on ceremony.”
Meg, no doubt remembering that he was hiding out at the cottage with only his valet and groom, arched a questioning, faintly challenging brow his way.
Interpreting that as encouragement, he smiled at Ellen and half bowed. “I would be delighted, Mrs. Cynster. Especially as, quite soon, we’ll be family of sorts.”
“Indeed, we will be, and apropos of that, you must call me Ellen.”
Christopher, still smiling in a knowing way Drago wasn’t sure he liked, also nodded. “Christopher for me. We leave the nicknames to our elders.”
Drago laughed and nodded. “I had noticed that.” He met Ellen’s eyes. “Everyone calls me Drago.”
And just like that, they all relaxed and, when they were summoned to the dining table, went in to dinner exactly as if they were, indeed, family.
Once they’d started on the first course, Christopher glanced at Drago and asked, “I assume you drove over?”
Drago nodded. “At the moment, my grays are in your stable.”
Predictably, a discussion of carriage and riding horses ensued, followed by an even more detailed exchange regarding local farm production, in which Drago and Christopher, and Ellen, too, had a vested interest.
Meg listened to the conversation with unexpected focus. The topics didn’t excite her, but the engagement gave her the opportunity to observe Drago in this milieu. It was plainly one into which he effortlessly fitted.
She was quietly amazed at how easily their revelations had gone, at how little effort on her or, it seemed, his part had been required for them to pass themselves off as an engaged couple.
Drago’s charm was, she realized, an innate part of him. He was entirely relaxed and not trying at all, yet he’d won over both Ellen and Christopher without exerting himself or striving to project any false image.
This—the nobleman sitting opposite her—was who Drago, Duke of Wylde, was. No fabricated façade, no added gloss. He was being himself, and that alone was enough to draw people to him.
She was pondering that insight when they rose from the dining table. They paused in the front hall, and after tendering his thanks to Ellen and Christopher, Drago took his leave.
Meg accompanied him onto the porch and went with him down the steps to where Christopher’s groom held Drago’s horses.
She halted on the last step while Drago accepted the reins and thanked Pullman, who saluted and returned to the stable.
Darkness had fallen, but the lamps on the porch threw steady light into the forecourt.
Drago turned to Meg. “I need to return to London tomorrow morning to inform my mother and brother of our news. As agreed, I’ll spin them our tale. However, I will also need to speak with the three friends who were down here at the Bull with me yesterday evening.”
Lips twisting, he shook his head. “Hard to believe it was only yesterday evening.” He met Meg’s eyes. “The thing is, the three of them know I was planning to offer for Alison this morning. They know that Edith had arranged an appointment at Melwin Place for eleven o’clock. They also know I’ve never mentioned even meeting you before, and I very likely would have if we’d formed any degree of attachment.”
She held his dark gaze. “You think they need to be told the truth.”
He grimaced and nodded. “I can’t see any way around it. They’ll know this sudden, out-of-the-blue engagement of ours is a sham, and not telling them the truth might lead them to speculate and imagine a cause far less innocent.”
She pulled a face. “I see.” After a second, she asked, “What are their names?”
“George Bisley—Viscount Bisley—Lord Harry Ferndale, and Thomas Hayden.” He studied her face. “I doubt you’d know any of them any more than you were acquainted with me.”
She nodded. “You’re right. I don’t think I’ve met them.” She searched his face for an instant, then conceded, “As they already know so much, I accept they’ll have to be told the truth, but I assume you’ll swear them to secrecy.”
“Absolute, unwavering secrecy. I’ve known them since Eton and have no qualms on that score.”
“Very well. Is there anyone else who needs to know the truth?”
He thought, then shook his head. “Not that I can think of.” He arched a brow at her. “Anyone on your side?”
