Page 28 of Miss Prim and the Duke of Wylde
Meg told herself that their engagement being a charade should make this meeting easier; whatever transpired was unlikely to have much impact on her future life, whatever that might be.
Of course, after weathering nine Seasons, she recognized the Duchess of Wylde. That hawk-faced lady occupied the chair nearer the fire and was regarding Meg through hazel eyes whose expression suggested that their owner was intrigued, curious, and at least at that moment, inclined to be kind.
Meg halted a yard from the chairs and curtsied to the appropriate depth. “Your Grace. I’m delighted to have the opportunity to speak with you again.”
The duchess’s lips twitched. “In peace before we join the hordes?”
When, straightening, Meg blinked, the duchess laughed and waved at her companion. “Allow me to present Mrs. Trudy Weekes, who keeps me company.”
Meg and Mrs. Weekes exchanged nods and murmured greetings.
Then the duchess waved to the sofa. “Sit, my dear, and tell me how you came to know my rakehell son and how he prevailed upon a sensible young lady of your ilk to consent to be his duchess.”
“Mama.” Drago rolled his eyes and followed Meg to the sofa. As he elegantly sat beside her, he complained, “As you more than anyone are keen to see me wed, there’s no sense in queering my pitch.”
“Nonsense, my dear.” His mother fixed her gaze on Meg. “I’m merely interested, and as all the rest of the family will ask the same questions, it might be wise to practice your answers on listeners who are less inclined to be critical.”
She has a point.Before Drago could protest, Meg said, “Over the years, we had occasionally crossed paths during the times I spent in Kent, staying with my cousin and his wife at Walkhurst Manor.”
“Ah yes. Christopher and Ellen, is it not?”
Meg nodded and continued with their agreed story, with Drago adding fictional flourishes here and there. While the duchess and even more Mrs. Weekes appeared to accept their tale, Meg wasn’t entirely convinced that the duchess didn’t harbor some suspicion that all was not quite as they said.
Nevertheless, Meg grew increasingly relaxed in the older ladies’ company as the talk segued to expectations of the Season and of how the ton would react to their engagement; the pair were similar to females in her family, and she was so accustomed to their sometimes-dry way of looking at life that she had no difficulty responding suitably.
Indeed, the half-hour audience sped past, then the butler came in and announced, “Your Graces, the rest of the family are gathered in the drawing room. Lord Warley asked if you intended to join them soon.”
“Of course he did.” The duchess glanced at Meg. “You’ll grow used to Warley.” She looked back at the butler. “Thank you, Prentiss. We’ll come now.”
The duchess rose, bringing Meg, Drago, and Mrs. Weekes to their feet. The duchess regarded Meg shrewdly. “Drago, you had better stick to Meg’s side, if nothing else than to ensure that she knows to whom she is talking. Trudy and I will lead the way.”
Mrs. Weekes laid aside her embroidery and joined the duchess as she glided for the door.
Drago offered Meg his arm. “Warley is my uncle, my father’s only brother. He’s a bachelor and lives in London and is apt to be a bit abrupt, at least with ladies.”
“I see.” Meg took Drago’s arm, and they fell in behind the duchess, who led the way out of her sitting room, into the gallery, and on to a pair of double doors that presently stood open.
Beyond the doorway, about twenty or so people were gathered, ranging in age from early twenties to the duchess’s generation. There were none older, Meg noticed with some relief. In her experience, the older people got, the more inclined they were to speak bluntly, and given that their engagement was a sham, blunt questions could prove tricky.
As Drago, following his mother and with a finely-honed sense of the dramatic, paused on the threshold of the huge, elegant room just long enough for every eye in it to fix on Meg, she became aware of a host of butterflies that, entirely unexpectedly, had taken up residence in her stomach.
Then Drago set his hand over hers on his sleeve and looked down at her in expectant delight. To her surprise, her own smile bloomed, and apparently satisfied, he looked out at the room and declared, “Allow me to present Miss Margaret Cynster, soon to be my duchess.”
Scanning the faces, the intrigued and pleased and curious expressions, she kept her smile—appropriately confident yet not overly so—in place as Drago led her forward.
She soon discovered that her momentary trepidation had been misplaced. With Drago making the introductions, she was more than up to the task of interacting with and, indeed, satisfying the understandable curiosity of his assembled relatives. She and Drago moved from group to group, being showered with the predictable exclamations and responding to the subtle inquisitions. In that respect, his mother had been correct as to which questions would most exercise the minds of those there, and their now-practiced answers tripped glibly from Meg’s tongue.
The company was served with tea and cakes, which gave everyone something to do with their hands. Once supplied, she and Drago continued circulating among those gathered to meet her.
With Drago adroitly directing the conversations and the duchess occasionally interjecting, the traditional ordeal passed without incident, and indeed, was relatively pleasant and not without its moments of interest.
She renewed her acquaintance with Drago’s younger brother, Denton, who was in many ways a milder version of Drago—a fraction shorter, a fraction slighter, and nowhere near as potent a presence.
Drago’s uncle Warley was an immediately recognizable character, an ageing bachelor who didn’t want anything to interfere with his settled life. He was curious about Meg, but that she was a daughter of Demon Cynster was, in Warley’s view, clearly the most important attribute she possessed.
When she laughed at a mild joke he offered, Warley’s dark eyes—much like Drago’s but rather faded—twinkled.
Drago’s aunt Edith had patently decided to be pleased by his defection to Meg in lieu of Alison. Edith was welcoming, but Meg sensed a determination in her attitude, as if Edith was on watch to ensure Drago didn’t, somehow, backslide.
