Page 34 of Miss Prim and the Duke of Wylde
And of course, to warn him, obliquely but definitely, against any temptation to cause Meg a moment’s pain.
Two more whiskies and several Cynsters later, and Winchelsea—who had exuding menace down to a fine art—was very nearly the last straw.
The very last was Toby, Meg’s brother, who, as quiet as a phantom, appeared by Drago’s side as he descended the steps of Arthur’s and, his hands sunk in his greatcoat pockets, turned his feet for home.
Toby fell in beside him.
Drago shot the younger man a sharp and distinctly sour look. “I suppose you’re here to tell me that if I harm so much as a hair on Meg’s head, you’ll see me rent limb from limb.”
Taken aback, Toby looked at him, then replied, “I wasn’t actually going to go that far.”
“But you were going to issue some sort of veiled threat.”
“Well, yes. It’s customary, isn’t it? Expected.” Toby waved a hand. “Especially with you being…well, you.”
At the “you being you,” Drago’s usually inexhaustible well of patience ran dry. He halted abruptly and, when Toby did the same, pinned him with his gaze. “Let me make one point crystal clear. When it comes to protecting Meg from any and all harm, she has and will forever have no more focused, committed, and devoted champion than me.”
In the quiet street, the words rang with determination, and Drago felt them resonate deep inside him.
Toby, for his part, didn’t move, although in the light from a nearby streetlamp, Drago saw his eyes widen.
Narrowing his own, Drago crisply stated, “I would take it kindly were you to spread those words to the rest of your clan. They don’t and won’t need to watch Meg protectively—they should instead feel sympathy for anyone who moves against her.”
With that, Drago spun on his heel and stalked off.
He listened, but heard no footsteps following. He walked up the street and crossed over Piccadilly.
By then, the cool of the night had penetrated his fevered brain and dampened his irritation.
In his head, he heard his words again. He knew how such a declaration would be interpreted by men like the Cynsters, which was exactly what he’d intended.
That, however, wasn’t the revelation he was now facing.
In assembling and uttering those emphatic words, he hadn’t even stopped to think. No. Because those words were, indeed, exactly how he felt about Meg.
And although that feeling was in some ways familiar—he had sisters and a younger brother and other dependents, after all—when the subject was Meg, the feeling was infinitely stronger. Much more intense.
Indeed, after they’d shared that kiss in the cottage, it had been that nascent feeling surging to life that had prompted him to declare that they were engaged.
He couldn’t have said anything else. Not because of any social repercussions but because, in that moment, that was what he’d wanted.
He’d needed to protect her. To secure and take care of her…
He was who he was—Drago Helmsford, the hedonistic Duke of Wylde—and he was rarely unclear about what he wanted in his life.
And that meant…
Frowning, he walked steadily into Mayfair while some part of his brain started to plot how to get what he wanted.
How he could lay claim to everything he now truly wanted of life.
CHAPTER6
The following evening brought with it the first true ball of the Season.
Standing beside Meg and her mother in the receiving line on the stairs of Devonshire House, Drago murmured, “It hadn’t actually occurred to me before, but the timing of our announcement has been rather…”
“Fortuitous?” Meg offered.
