Page 2 of Miss Prim and the Duke of Wylde
The ostlers led the horses and curricle out.
Drago thanked Harry, George, and Thomas for their support “at this pivotal time in my life.”
Harry blinked as if only just realizing the momentous threshold upon which Drago stood poised. “Sadly, after tomorrow, you won’t be the same man.”
Startled, Drago laughed, but even to his ears, the sound seemed hollow. “No, indeed. By noon tomorrow, I’ll be an affianced man.”
Glumly, George shook his head. “It’ll be the end of an era.”
Drago smiled slightly. “I’m only the first of us to fall.”
Accepting the reins, Harry shuddered. “Just as long as you don’t start a domino effect.”
“Lord preserve us!” Somewhat unsteadily, George thrust out his hand to Drago. “Good luck, old man. May it all go smoothly.”
“I’m sure all will be boringly predictable.” Drago shook George’s hand, then Harry’s and Thomas’s.
Awkwardly and with telltale care, the three climbed into the curricle and shuffled and sorted themselves out.
Drago shoved his gloved hands into his pockets and stepped back.
Gripping the reins, Harry glanced at him. “Sure you don’t want to clamber up? We could take the lane past your bolt hole’s front door.”
Drago smiled and shook his head. “You’ll be faster going the other way, and the cottage is only a hundred or so yards up the lane. The walk will help clear my head.”
George frowned. “Were I in your shoes, I’m not sure I’d want my head all that clear.”
Drago laughed and raised his hand in farewell.
The others whooped and waved, and Harry shook the reins and drove off, turning left through the village on their way back to London.
Drago listened to the rattle of the wheels fade, then with his hands once more in his greatcoat pockets, he paced across the intersection directly opposite the inn and set off to find his bed.
Of the four of them, he’d always had the hardest head, and despite the quantity of ale he’d consumed, his abilities were only mildly affected. Observing him now, no one was likely to realize he was, in fact, quite drunk; he’d long ago learned to master his expression and not grin like a besotted fool.
Several years ago, he’d bought the cottage he’d commandeered for the night so that a local woman recently widowed due to a tragic accident on one of the estate’s farms could have a roof over her head. Conveniently, the cottage stood on the edge of a farm the woman’s son-in-law and daughter owned, which meant that on the rare occasions Drago had need of a bolt hole, the widow could easily decamp to spend a few days with her family.
Drago had insisted the widow was doing him a service in keeping the cottage neat and the small garden cared for and had flatly refused to accept any rent. Although initially, the widow and her family had been uncomfortable with the implied charity, given their financial position compared to Drago’s, it really would have been silly to insist on paying the dukedom, and as Drago had used his bolt hole several times over the years—whenever he wished to avoid his mother and relatives at Wylde Court—all parties had come to accept the arrangement.
He walked at a slow and steady pace. With the night still and silent about him, inevitably his thoughts slid to his unavoidable life-changing appointment the next morning. Confronted with having to find a bride by August, in January, he’d bitten the bullet and asked his paternal aunt Edith for help. He hadn’t asked his mother for the simple reason that she knew him far too well. Additionally, Edith—being a Helmsford by birth—had a finely honed understanding of what the wider family would expect in Drago’s duchess.
Almost certainly, Edith had been waiting for him to ask and had immediately directed his eye toward Alison Melwin. Lady Melwin, Alison’s mother, remained one of Edith’s closest friends, yet beyond that, Drago accepted that Alison possessed most of the attributes the family and society would deem desirable in his bride.
He’d met Alison only once, a month ago at a local party hosted by the Melwins specifically for that purpose. Although he and Alison had been born mere miles apart and each had always been aware of the other’s existence, as she was twenty-four to his thirty-four, while growing up, they had rarely crossed paths. And given the circles he inhabited in town, they had never crossed paths there, either.
But Alison had, indeed, seemed everything that Edith had labeled her—quiet, willing, and sensible. Not a silly young girl expecting him to hang on her every word and constantly dance attendance on her. Being a local, Alison would know how to manage the household at Wylde Court, and as the Melwins were an old family and entrenched in the ton, presumably she would know or readily learn how to manage the reins of the London house, too.
Most importantly, when he’d managed a few words with her alone, she’d given him to understand that she was entirely willing to embark on a marriage of convenience with him.
He’d been relieved that she hadn’t been looking for love. Indeed, she’d been as clear-eyed as he in acknowledging that she wasn’t in love with him any more than he was with her.
On that basis, he believed they could rub along well enough.
His decade-long career prowling through the ton had predominantly been spent in those circles eligible young ladies did not frequent. Regardless, he had never encountered or so much as glimpsed any of that species who even remotely stirred his heart much less evoked any of the reactions that, from observing his parents’ marriage, he knew stemmed from love. Consequently, in light of his father’s demand, a sound, agreeable marriage of convenience was the best he could hope for.
As he paced along, he told himself that was the logical conclusion and he should be grateful that he’d found a suitable lady like Alison so easily.
Yet the prospect of tomorrow and the step he intended to take had settled like a lead weight on his chest.
