Page 27 of Miss Prim and the Duke of Wylde
Her mother nodded in decided fashion. “An excellent notion.” She patted Pru’s hand. “You’re right, my dear.” She fixed Meg and Drago with a direct look. “Foreshadowing the surprise would be wise.”
Drago didn’t miss a beat but looked at Meg in smiling acquiescence. “In that case, I’ll call around at…shall we say three o’clock on Sunday?”
She nodded. She couldn’t help but feel that their fictional engagement had taken on a life of its own.
Drago cast a smiling glance around the company. “And on that note, I should take my leave.” He rose, adding, “Mama will be waiting to hear of our decisions.”
Meg and the others rose, and with great cordiality, Drago shook hands all around. Then Meg waved him to the front hall and fell into step beside him.
As they walked into the hall, and at a nod from Drago, Fletcher went to fetch his hat and cane, she murmured, “That went well, I think.”
Drago cocked a black brow at her; his eyes were laughing. “Better than you’d hoped?”
Her own lips lifting, she tipped her head in agreement.
They were still within sight of her family. Obviously aware of that, Drago remained studiously correct, kissing only her hand in farewell.
He glanced up and caught her gaze and held it as he straightened and, sotto voce, murmured, “It appears we’ve successfully launched our charade.”
“Indeed.” Still smiling, she inclined her head. “For better or ill, it’s underway.”
That diabolical black eyebrow arched even higher. “Let’s endeavor to avoid any ills.” Then he smiled insouciantly, and his charm rolled over her in a seductive wave. He raised a finger and tapped her on the nose. “Until this afternoon. Au revoir.”
With that, he turned, and Fletcher leapt to open the door. Settling his hat on his dark locks, Drago strode through, went quickly down the steps, and vanished from her sight.
Meg stood staring at the doorway as Fletcher shut the door.
There was little doubt that having Drago Helmsford as her supposed fiancé would do her reputation no harm.
But what’s going to happen when I call it off?
She wasn’t so sure about that.
* * *
On Drago’s arm,Meg walked into the grand front hall of Wylde House and wondered if, in entering her parents’ home, Drago had experienced a similar sensation, as if he were an ancient Christian about to face the lions.
The exceedingly correct butler, middle-aged and garbed in conventional black, bowed low. “Miss Cynster. Welcome to Wylde House.”
She smiled. “Thank you.” Despite the man’s formality, his gaze was warm, and she sensed he was observing her with eager curiosity.
Drago helped her out of her coat and handed it to the butler. “Thank you, Prentiss. I take it the duchess is in her sitting room?”
“Yes, Your Grace.”
Drago wound his arm with Meg’s and led her toward the massive staircase. “Mama wanted to speak with you first, without the distraction of the rest of the horde who will be arriving shortly. No doubt Mama’s companion will be with her. Mrs. Weekes is a longtime widow, a distant cousin of Mama’s. She’s been a part of the household since I was in short coats.”
Appreciating the information, Meg nodded. As they ascended the staircase, her gaze was drawn to the glorious paintings—landscapes in deep, rich tones in heavy, ornate gilt frames—hanging on walls covered in exquisite buttercream silk with a subtle pattern that complemented the dark tones of the walnut paneling. The floor of the front hall was tiled in the classic black-and-white pattern, while the chandelier that depended from a circular skylight high above fractured light from myriad crystals.
The fleur-de-lis-patterned carpet of the gallery into which she stepped was thick and soft, and the light falling through the multipaned windows, framed by long curtains of plush topaz velvet, was golden and warm. Beyond the glass, the canopies of the trees in the garden were ruffling in the slight breeze.
All in all, the ambiance of the house was one of quiet, refined, long-established luxury.
Drago steered her along a corridor leading from the gallery, then paused to open a door. He caught her gaze, arched a brow, and murmured, “Ready?”
Fleetingly, she raised both brows, then walked through the doorway. Head high, with outward calm, she glided toward the fireplace, where two older ladies sat in armchairs, one nearer the fire than the other, with both chairs facing a sofa set perpendicular to the hearth.
Both ladies looked her way and smiled encouragingly.
