Page 20 of Miss Prim and the Duke of Wylde
Meg had to review their tale again to be sure, but… “I don’t think so. We’ve been vague about the dates on which we supposedly previously met, and those occasions were all down here, so my friends in town would have known nothing about them, and I wouldn’t necessarily have mentioned such…fleeting distractions.”
His quick grin suggested he was amused at being classed as a fleeting distraction.
She raised her chin. “I’ll go up to town later tomorrow and break the happy news to my parents. Their house is in Half Moon Street.”
His expression sobering, Drago nodded. “Tomorrow’s Friday, and by the time I see everyone, it’ll be too late for a formal call.” He met her eyes. “Shall we say eleven o’clock on Saturday? I’ll call at Half Moon Street, meet your parents, and formally apply for permission to pay my addresses to you.”
She made a dismissive sound. “My parents won’t care about any formal application. All they’ll want to know is if I want to marry you.”
His smile utterly distracted her. “In that case—”
Before she had any inkling of his intention, he caught her to him, bent his head, and kissed her.
Thoroughly.
Wickedly, sinfully, evocatively.
She was immediately plunged back into the kiss they’d shared on the cottage stairs, only this time, the reaction—her to him and him to her—was even more immediate.
Even more intense.
For uncounted moments, nothing else mattered—nothing else existed in her mind—other than the sensations and desires so potently stirred by the ravenous and ardent melding of their lips.
Transparently reluctant, he raised his head and brought the hungry exchange to an end.
Briefly, from under his black lashes, his dark eyes met hers, then with a wry twist to his lips, he set her back on her feet.
The instant she was steady, he stepped back and grinned devilishly at her. “Just in case you need a memory to bolster your persuasiveness.”
With that, he saluted her, leapt into the curricle, flicked the reins, and set his grays trotting smartly down the drive.
Her lips throbbing, Meg stood on the step and watched until the shadows cast by the trees lining the drive hid him from sight.
What the devil have I got myself into?
She really didn’t know.
After a moment, she turned and started up the steps. “At least this Season, I won’t be bored.”
* * *
Drago walked into Wylde House,his mansion on Park Lane, and paused to allow his butler to remove the greatcoat from his shoulders. “Is my mother in, Prentiss?”
“She is, Your Grace. I believe you’ll find her in her sitting room.”
Drago eyed the stairs; his mother’s sitting room was on the first floor.
He’d told Maurice and Tisdale of his engagement to Meg Cynster. Luckily, neither had known for whose hand he’d intended to offer the previous morning, so they hadn’t needed to be regaled with the truth. However, both would even now be making their way to the servants’ hall, where Mrs. Prentiss, the housekeeper, reigned supreme…
“I have news, Prentiss, that you are free to share with the household. Although the alliance has yet to be formally announced, I have offered for Miss Margaret Cynster’s hand, and she’s accepted.”
“Your Grace!” Prentiss’s face lit. “That’s wonderful news! On behalf of the entire staff, permit me to offer our felicitations.”
“Thank you.” Noting how thrilled Prentiss transparently was—indeed, almost rapturous with delight—Drago, amused, observed, “I take it the alliance meets with your approval?”
Prentiss colored. “I would never presume—”
“No, no.” Drago waved the protestation aside. “I’m genuinely curious as to how you view the connection.”
