Page 22 of Miss Prim and the Duke of Wylde
As with a bow, Prentiss withdrew, Drago held up the glass. “Drink?”
“Yes, please!” George and Harry chorused.
“It’s getting nippy out there.” While Drago went to the tantalus, George came forward to hold his hands to the blaze in the hearth.
“Well, it is still March,” Harry pointed out. “And this is England, not the south of France.”
Drago carried their glasses to them, having also refilled his own.
George and Harry eagerly accepted the crystal tumblers, then George arched an expectant brow at Drago. “Are we here to drink to your engagement?”
Drago inclined his head. “We are, but there’s been further developments. Let’s wait for Thomas. He should be here soon.”
“Actually,” Harry said, lowering his glass after taking an appreciative sip, “I’m rather surprised you’re back in town already. I would have thought the Melwins and your aunt would have pressed you to stay in Kent, at least for a few days.”
Sounds of an arrival reached them, saving Drago from having to respond. A moment later, Thomas joined them, plainly eagerly expectant, and once Drago had poured a drink for him as well, the four sat in their usual places in the well-padded armchairs arranged before the fire.
It was Thomas who raised his glass to Drago and said, “To your health, Your Grace, and that of your soon-to-be duchess.”
“Hear, hear!” George and Harry responded.
Lips twisting, Drago inclined his head, then replied, “There has, however, been a pertinent change.”
“Change?” George blinked. “What sort of change?”
“The lady in question.” Drago swept the three with an amused glance. “I’ve called you here to inform you that, contrary to your and my expectations, I offered for the hand of Meg Cynster, and she accepted.”
To say the three were flummoxed, confounded, indeed stupefied, would have been understating their reactions. They stared at him in complete silence, mouths acock, for at least a minute before Harry managed to hoarsely repeat, “Meg Cynster?”
Drago nodded. “Indeed.”
“But”—bewildered, George held out his hands in appeal—“how on earth did she get involved?”
Drago sighed. “It’s rather a long story. Suffice it to say that when I woke—or rather was woken—that morning, my head wasn’t as clear as it might have been.”
“You mixed up the ladies?” Harry shook his head. “Never known you to be that foxed before.”
“No. I didn’t mix them up.” Drago proceeded to explain what had happened, all the way to being discovered on the landing, kissing Meg Cynster witless.
Aghast, George whispered, “By your aunt, her companion, Alison Melwin, and her mother? Good Lord!”
“Indeed. That being so, there was really only one thing I could do,” Drago explained. “I stated that Miss Cynster had just done me the honor of agreeing to be my duchess. And she, of course, had to go along with it.”
“So”—Thomas sounded almost devastated with shock—“you’re going to marry Meg Cynster. Just like that.”
“No, of course not.” Drago cradled his glass between his hands. “We hardly know each other.”
Although kissing her already ranks as one of my most-highly-desired pleasures.
“Ah.” George calmed. “This engagement is merely for show—to preserve Miss Cynster’s reputation.”
“And to preserve me,” Drago said. “Admittedly, I hadn’t realized she was a Cynster when I made my declaration, but can you imagine the reaction from the Cynster clan if I hadn’t moved to protect her?”
“Lord, yes.” Harry had blanched. “I wouldn’t have wanted to be in your shoes had you tried to somehow avoid a declaration, Duke of Wylde or not.”
Thomas looked relieved. “So this engagement is actually a sham.”
Drago inclined his head. “A fiction to preserve Miss Cynster’s reputation.”
