Page 24 of Miss Prim and the Duke of Wylde
Denton allowed that to slide and, unbidden, returned to the subject Drago wanted to know more about. “I really thought you would pick a quiet lady, one more cipher-like. Instead, you’ve chosen Meg Cynster.” Again, Denton smiled in a way that suggested he was expecting all sorts of entertainment to stem from that fact. “Meg is such a…well,differentsort of lady. Not only that, but she’s known in certain quarters—meaning the bachelor circles—as Miss Prim.”
“Miss Prim?” Startled, Drago bit back a too-revealing comment about her ability to kiss. “She’s not prim.”
“Not in the usual sense, no.” Denton was still smiling. “She earned the moniker because of her managing disposition and bossy nature. The ‘Miss Prim’ came about because she would never, ever, allow any gentleman to cross any line of which she didn’t approve. And I do mean never, ever. In horse terms, she’s impossible to turn.”
Unless she wants to.
“I see.” Drago rather thought that his mother, too, knew of Miss Prim. After a moment of revisiting his recent memories, he admitted, “I agree she’s a fairly forthright and forceful character—certainly no cipher—but that said, I believe I’ll be able to handle her well enough.”
Denton cast him an incredulous look, then snorted disbelievingly.
CHAPTER4
The following morning, at two minutes to eleven o’clock, Meg was dallying in the gallery above the front hall of her parents’ house in Half Moon Street, keeping watch on the front door.
She and her maid, Rosie, hadn’t arrived in Half Moon Street until the evening of the previous day, and as her parents had been out attending social events, she hadn’t had a chance to break the news of her pending engagement until the family had gathered about the breakfast table earlier that morning.
She’d stuck faithfully to the tale she and Drago had concocted.
Given her parents had never heard her mention his name nor had any inkling that she was even acquainted with the notorious Duke of Wylde, they’d initially stared at her in stunned surprise. But then the significance of what she was saying had started to sink in; although neither had ever pressured her to marry, Meg knew they’d started to worry that she never would. As the reality of her news registered, their expressions had reanimated until they’d beamed delightedly and congratulated her, although her father had quickly retreated to sternly insisting that he’d be wanting to assess Drago’s worth before he gave his consent to the match.
Both Meg and her mother had simply looked at Demon—the entire ton knew the worth of the dukedom of Wylde—then her mother had gone back to exclaiming and wanting to know details, many of which Meg would have preferred not to have to invent.
Fabrications were always so much harder to remember.
She was saved from having to strain her brain by her brother Toby, the only other member of the family present. He’d initially stared at her as well, although in his case, she’d got the impression he was thinking rapidly—possibly too rapidly for her and Drago’s comfort; if anyone was going to see straight through their charade, it would be Toby. But then he had grinned, wished her well, and told Demon that Drago was considered to be “exactly as he appears.”
Understanding that to mean that Toby knew of no circumstance that detracted from Drago’s apparent eligibility, her father had grunted. “Just as long as he meetsmyexpectations in every way.”
Meg had jumped in to make her and Drago’s request for an audience with her parents at eleven o’clock to discuss the prospective engagement. That petition had been met with approval and, on her father’s part, a glimmer of respect.
In the gallery, Meg paced back and forth, her gaze on the door. She’d seen her parents go into the drawing room a few minutes before.
The clocks throughout the house chimed and bonged, marking the eleventh hour.
Deeper in the house, the front doorbell pealed.
Halting at the head of the stairs, Meg watched as the butler, Fletcher, crossed the front hall and opened the door.
Drago’s voice reached her as, in the languid drawl he no doubt employed when trading on his standing, he stated his title and informed Fletcher, “I believe Miss Cynster, Mr. Cynster, and Mrs. Cynster are expecting me.”
“Indeed, Your Grace.” Suitably impressed, Fletcher bowed low and waved Drago inside.
Quickly and silently, Meg went down the stairs and stepped onto the tiles as Drago handed his hat and cane to Fletcher.
Then Drago smoothly swung her way, his features softening as his gaze landed on her.
His heavy lids rose, his eyes fractionally widening. His gaze had locked on her, and for a split second, she sensed that, for him, the world had stopped.
Drago blinked and covered the momentary lapse with a charming smile. He stepped toward Meg, holding out his hands to take hers. “Good morning, my dear. I trust your journey back to town was uneventful?”
She gave him her hands, and he grasped them. Aware of the butler looking on, he raised first one, then the other, to his lips, pressing kisses to her knuckles while attentively searching her face.
The look she sent him was a subtle question; she’d detected the hitch in his concentration. That she’d noticed was itself a surprise; he was normally a past master at concealing his reactions.
But the sight of her had been arresting. Literally. They’d spent most of Thursday together, and he’d grown used to her in what he now realized was her in-the-country mode. Then, she’d been wearing a neat but unremarkable blue cambric gown and half boots suitable for rambling about the fields. Her straw hat had been pushed back most of the time, revealing a face wreathed by untidy, loose golden curls.
Today, she was all young lady of the haut ton, and the change was rather startling.
