Page 3 of Miss Prim and the Duke of Wylde
Should he have made a greater effort, girded his loins, and stepped into the bright lights of the ton’s ballrooms and drawing rooms and actively searched for a lady capable of engaging his emotions? Yet he had no reason to believe that such a female existed, and he had only so much time. Offering for Alison was the sensible way forward.
Dragging his mind from such unhelpful retreading of the arguments, he raised his head, looked along the lane, drew in a deep breath, and walked on.
* * *
“Rise and shine, Your Grace.”
His face half buried in a pillow, Drago groaned and, raising his arm to shade his eyes, rolled onto his back. After a second or two’s effort, he managed to crack open his lids.
Maurice, Drago’s valet, had opened the curtains, and daylight seared Drago’s senses.
Wincing, he closed his eyes and mumbled, “What time is it?”
“Nine, Your Grace.” Maurice cheerily added, “You told me to wake you so you’d have plenty of time to get spruced up for your outing to claim your bride.”
Don’t remind me.“So I did.” Drago gathered his willpower. “Right, then.” Lowering his arm, he threw back the covers. “Let’s get to it.”
Maurice was busy laying out his clothes. Despite the name Maurice, which Drago strongly suspected was assumed, the valet—in his late thirties, short, stocky, and round of face—was a product of London’s East End, a fact that occasionally showed in his speech but concerned Drago not at all. Maurice had an eagle eye when it came to clothes and appearance, a talent Drago had learned to respect. If Maurice decided that one of Drago’s most severe suits, teamed with a waistcoat in silver brocade and an ivory-white silk stock, was the correct raiment in which to present himself before his prospective bride, Drago wasn’t about to argue.
Determinedly not thinking about what he would shortly be doing, he washed, then, swathed in a silk dressing gown, allowed Maurice to shave him. Maurice had taken one look at Drago’s heavy-lidded eyes and firmly taken the razor from his hand.
Once Drago was stubble-free and patting his cheeks dry, Maurice wiped the razor and carefully stowed it. “How hungry are you?”
Drago paused to consider, then replied, “I could eat a horse.”
His mouth felt as dry as the bottom of an Egyptian tomb, and his stomach was a hollow pit.
Making for the door, Maurice cast an assessing glance his way. “Hair of the dog?”
Drago grimaced. “Possibly. Let’s see how I feel once I get downstairs.”
As other than Maurice and Tisdale, his groom, he’d brought no staff to the cottage, it fell to Maurice to cook breakfast.
Although lean, Drago was tall; by anyone’s assessment, he was a large man. He also had a healthy appetite, and the dinner the previous evening, while acceptable as an inn’s dinner offering, hadn’t been all that much for someone used to multiple courses and large portions.
And drinking copious amounts of ale always left him ravenously hungry.
He dressed in the clothes Maurice had laid out, then secured the silk stock with his diamond pin. He brushed his dark hair, grateful as always to his London barber, who had the knack of making sure Drago’s dark locks always fell as they ought, even after he’d raked his fingers through the heavy mane.
After deciding he was as “spruced up” as he was likely to get, he headed for the door. The stairway was narrow; almost bouncing from one shoulder to the other, he descended with care, eventually reaching the ground floor and the small hall before the front door. He turned to the open doorway on the right and walked into the parlor, which also served as a dining room.
The windows looking onto the front garden were open, and a light, flirtatious breeze wafted in.
Drago drew in a careful breath, then walked to where a single straight-backed chair had been set at one end of the small table.
He sat and surveyed the dishes. “Eggs, bacon, sausages, and lots of toast. You’re invaluable, Maurice.”
“Thank you, Your Grace.” Maurice breezed in from the kitchen, bearing a dish of butter. “Do endeavor to remember that.” He placed the butter beside the toast and critically surveyed Drago.
Reaching for a slice of toast, Drago arched a brow. “Do I pass muster?”
After studying Drago’s hair, Maurice nodded. “You’ll do. Now, do you want coffee or something stronger?”
The pressure in Drago’s head spiked every time he allowed his gaze to drift toward the brightness outside. “Given I have to drive to Melwin Place, you’d better make it half and half.”
Maurice glanced at the window, then turned toward the kitchen. “A wise choice.”
Minutes later, he returned with a large mug filled with coffee and whisky.
