Page 31 of Miss Prim and the Duke of Wylde
Drago duly appeared in Half Moon Street the following afternoon, handed Meg into his curricle, and drove to the park. It was a pleasantly mild day, with a weak sun playing peek-a-boo with cottony clouds. Garbed in a warm carriage gown in a bronzy-burgundy hue, Meg sat back and admired the skill with which Drago managed his currently fractious grays and held her peace until the curricle was rolling smoothly under the first trees along the avenue.
“I have to say that, thus far, our charade has been embraced by all remarkably readily.” She glanced at Drago. “Did you think it would be this…well, straightforward?”
He frowned slightly. “I honestly didn’t think beyond the need for us to put on a good show, but just between us, the alacrity with which news of our betrothal is being greeted by one and all is making me a trifle uncomfortable. Even the staff are going around beaming, specifically beaming at me.”
“I know just what you mean.” She shifted on the seat. “I spent hours last night and again today wondering and weighing up if we’re doing the right thing in, well, deceiving everyone.”
When she glanced at him, his usually affable expression was faintly grim.
“I’ve been doing the same thing,” he admitted, “but I keep coming back to the fact that if the truth—that without the protection of an imminent engagement, you and I were alone in that cottage and were found kissing on the landing—became known, you would be ruined. And if we allow others to know—our families and those we would normally trust—they simply won’t be able to keep up the pretense. One slip is all it will take. We both know that’s true.” His tone firmed. “So while in general, deceiving our families as well as the entire ton might not be the right thing to do, in the circumstances, it is the only choice we have—the only viable, sensible, and honorable way forward.”
She grimaced lightly. “I keep reminding myself that if the scandal gets out, it won’t be only you and me affected.”
“No, indeed.” He paused, then quietly said, “I don’t really approve of the justification of it being for people’s own good for them to be kept in the dark, but in this case…” He shook his head. “I really can’t see any way around it.”
She glanced ahead, then nodded at the rows of carriages drawn up to either side of the avenue. “We’ve been noticed.”
Drago sighed and slowed his horses to an appropriately sedate pace, one just fast enough to make it plain that no matter who tried to attract their attention, he had no intention of stopping. “Here we go.”
With his expression transforming to that of a gentleman only too ready to indulge his companion, he drove between the carriages pulled up on the verges, pausing only to maneuver past vehicles going the other way.
Meg kept an airy, innocent smile on her face as if she was just a young lady out enjoying a pleasant drive on a Sunday afternoon. And she was perfectly certain that it wasn’t the sight of her fetching new gown and matching hat that was responsible for the gasps and second looks and almost comical expressions that dawned on so many faces. Young and old, matrons and grandes dames, the ladies chatting avidly in their carriages turned, in many cases open-mouthed, to stare at them—or more accurately at Drago—as with his attention, smiling and affable, occasionally shifting to her face but otherwise remaining on his horses, he tooled the carriage along.
Given the grays were still acting up, he had a reasonable excuse for remaining apparently oblivious to the multitude of stunned faces.
For her part, Meg met every nod and careful—in some cases startled—inclination of head with a breezy smile and an appropriate acknowledgment.
When they finally emerged at the other end of the social gauntlet and left the last carriages behind, Drago flicked the reins and sent the grays trotting on, then turned onto the northern arm of the circuit. Once they were bowling westward, he glanced at her. “We don’t have to go through that twice, do we?”
She tipped her head, considering, then wryly replied, “Given how much attention we garnered, I believe our mothers will accept that we’ve done enough to seed the ground for the notice in theGazettetomorrow morning.” She glanced at him. “I take it the announcement went in?”
He nodded. “Melkinhoff assured me that it will, indeed, appear in tomorrow’s edition. In fact, I got the impression that he was salivating at the prospect.”
She huffed.
He slowed the horses as they went around the curve that would take them south again. “I rather suspect the irony of Miss Prim capturing the notorious Duke of Wylde will be the cause of much comment over the teacups this afternoon and tomorrow.”
She laughed and admitted, “I hadn’t thought of that.”
His gaze touched her face. “How did you—who don’t appear to be prim at all—come by that label?”
“Oh, I can become very prim when the occasion calls for it.”
“And when’s that?” When she glanced at him, lips curved, he added, “So that I’ll know which occasions to avoid.”
She thought for a moment, but could see no reason she shouldn’t explain. “I’ve had nine Seasons, and given I’m a Cynster, I always have gentlemen looking my way. And the longer I’ve declined to choose one of them, it seems the accepted wisdom is that I must be feeling increasingly desperate. From experience, I’ve discovered that the most effective way to discourage those gentlemen who are convinced I must want to entertain an offer from them is to retreat to being decidedly and severely proper—cool, prudish, missish, and…well, prim.”
He blinked. “And that stops them?”
“Usually, they can’t find a way around the social hurdles I strew in their path. By insisting on the absolute nth degree of social correctness, I can usually make them reconsider their fixation on me.”
“Hmm.” With his eyes narrowed in thought, he murmured, “So you make it too hard to reach the real you.”
She considered, then nodded. “I suppose that’s true.” A movement on the lawn ahead caught her eye. “Oh, look!” She pointed. “Isn’t that Alison and Joshua, heading toward the bridge?”
Drago glanced that way, then slowed his horses. “It is. In the interests of spending more time under the eye of the ton, shall we stroll?”
“Yes, let’s.”
