Page 33 of Miss Prim and the Duke of Wylde
The sun was setting, and there were fewer others lingering on the lawns.
Pacing beside Drago, Meg glanced at his face. “Why were you so interested in Joshua and his firm’s capabilities?”
Drago lightly shrugged. “I’ve been thinking of engaging another set of eyes to keep track of the various Wylde estates’ contracts.” Briefly, he met her gaze. “I wouldn’t mind having someone more local—someone I could trust who was aware of the various local issues that can impact the Wylde Court farms—to assist there and, subsequently, perhaps with the other estates farther afield.”
Meg stared at him for several seconds, but he didn’t add anything to that. His expression gave nothing away, either; she’d already realized that, as was the case with many men of his ilk, he allowed only what he wanted to show to manifest in his expression.
She faced forward. As they neared the carriageway and the elegant curricle, she found she was softly smiling.
Fondly smiling.
Drago Helmsford might have been born to great wealth and noble station, but he thought of others and wasn’t above helping them when the chance offered.
She observed just that attitude at play as he dealt with the stable lad who had held his horses, leaving the youth not just richer by several shillings but also with his confidence buoyed.
Drago handed her up, and as she settled on the seat, she remembered what she’d learned of him over the hours spent with his family.
As he set his horses pacing again, she glanced at his chiseled profile and felt she stood on solid ground in concluding that, at base, deep down where a person’s true character dwelled, Drago Helmsford, Duke of Wylde, was a genuinely, fundamentally kind man.
* * *
That evening,feeling unaccountably restless, Drago set out for St. James Street and the soothing ambiance of his favorite club, Arthur’s.
Once through the unassuming portal, he made his way to the lounge. After claiming a comfortable armchair in a nook tucked along one side of the imposing fireplace and chimney, he ordered a large whisky.
A minute later, he was taking his first soothing sip and wondering what he should do with his evening—and trying to keep his mind from fixating on Meg Cynster—when a shadow fell over him.
He looked up and saw a well-dressed gentleman perhaps a few years older than he.
The man smiled. “Alverton. I married Therese Cynster.”
“Ah.” Drago waved to the chair opposite. His mind raced. “So, a compatriot of sorts.”
Alverton’s lips curved. “One might say that.” He sat. He was holding a glass of his own; he raised it and, studying Drago over the rim, sipped. Lowering the glass, in a mild tone, he asked, “Have you known Meg for long?”
“Notknown.” Realizing how that sounded coming from an acknowledged rake, Drago quickly amended, “We’ve crossed paths in the country over a matter of years and more recently grew better acquainted.”
“I see. You’re what? Thirty-five?”
“Almost.”
“And you’ve decided it’s time you got yourself a bride and saw to your nursery?”
Drago wasn’t sure there wasn’t some sort of unexploded ordnance behind those innocent-sounding words. “As I recall, you followed much the same path.”
For an unnerving moment, Alverton looked at him assessingly—as if trying to see into his mind—then the damned man smiled. “Again, you might say that.” Still smiling in that unnerving fashion—as if he knew something Drago didn’t—Alverton raised his glass and toasted him. “To your marriage.” Coolly, his eyes hardening, he added, “One thing. Don’t ever cause Meg a moment’s anguish, or life as you know it will cease.”
Drago blinked in surprise. When he refocused, he saw Alverton on his feet. “Really? A threat?”
“Most definitely not. That was a promise.” With a tip of his dark head, Alverton moved on.
Drago stared after him, then raised his glass and sipped. “Really?”
He wished very much that he’d had the sense to ask Meg for a list of her Cynster cousins—titles, marriages, and all.
That wish grew only more fervent when Viscount Breckenridge stopped by to have a word. Luckily, Glengarah—Prudence’s husband, whom Drago had already met and whose assessment he’d already passed—strolled up before Breckenridge got to the threat stage.
Bemused, Drago sat quietly in his corner and was treated to a procession of Cynster or Cynster-connected males. Even the future head of the family, Sebastian, Marquess of St. Earith, appeared to—with the specter of a sword somewhere in the background—wish Drago every happiness with his soon-to-be wife.
