Page 35 of Miss Prim and the Duke of Wylde
“I was thinking more along the lines of being like an incendiary tossed onto a pile of kindling.” Careful not to focus on anyone in particular, he scanned the surrounding throng, many of whom were avidly watching him and Meg. “It seems we’ve given the ton its first sensation of the Season.”
The look Meg sent him was curious. “You didn’t see that coming?”
He shrugged one shoulder. “To date, the Season hasn’t featured as all that important in my life, so no. I didn’t.”
He’d dutifully called at Half Moon Street to take Meg and her mother up in his town carriage for the short drive to Devonshire House. His first sight of Meg as she’d descended the stairs toward him, superbly gowned for the evening in silk in a muted shade of teal, had temporarily deprived him of the ability to think. He’d been inexpressibly grateful that he’d adhered to correct procedure for a newly affianced gentleman and hadn’t arranged to meet them in the ballroom.
As it was, only her mother and father had been there to witness the struck-dumb expression he hadn’t been quick enough to wipe from his face. He’d sensed that the older Cynsters had been quietly amused. Meg, of course, had noticed, too, but in her case, a fine blush had risen in her cheeks, which had been some compensation for his own discomfiture.
The receiving line advanced, and they stepped into the foyer before the ballroom’s huge double doors, which had been set wide. Through the open doorway, the hum of conversation rolled out in a smothering wave, and the light blazing from multiple chandeliers was almost dazzling.
As they moved forward, the interest of those ahead became more obvious as people turned and glanced back at him and Meg.
“I take it,” he murmured, “that we will, indeed, be the cynosure of all attention.”
“I expect so.” She didn’t seem overly alarmed. Her gaze on the group welcoming guests just inside the ballroom’s doors, she tipped her head closer and whispered, “The lady beside Her Grace is Lady Otterley, Her Grace’s bosom-bow and the biggest gossip in the ton.”
“Wonderful.”
Meg cast him another of her amused glances. “It is, actually. Because she’s receiving, she won’t be able to interrogate us. We’ll be able to move on quite quickly.”
“Ah. I see.”
They reached the head of the line, and it was instantly apparent that everyone in sight had scoured their morning’s copy of theGazette. The duchess knew Drago well enough, and she was plainly on excellent terms with Meg’s mother and Meg herself.
“An excellent outcome,” the duchess declared, her haughty features signaling complete approval as she surveyed Drago and Meg. “We are very glad to be able to congratulate you both”—she focused her slightly protuberant eyes on Drago—“and it’s a particular pleasure to welcome you into our circles, Your Grace.”
Drago half bowed and murmured what he hoped were appropriate responses.
Meg’s mother had moved on and greeted Lady Otterley and, by dint of asking after her ladyship’s granddaughter, had succeeded in diverting her ladyship’s attention.
Meg seized a pause in her ladyship’s doting reply to curtsy and murmur a greeting before moving quickly past her mother to curtsy to His Grace, the Duke of Devonshire—the last in the line and unquestionably the safest—and Drago followed her lead.
A minute later, after exchanging a few entirely innocuous words with His Grace, Drago and Meg were free to walk into the milling crowd.
They were joined by Meg’s mother, who tapped Drago’s arm with her fan and directed his attention to one side of the room. “You need to come with me, but after you weather the next round of greetings, you will have to circulate”—she glanced up at him, and he caught the twinkle in her eye—“or else you’ll be mobbed.”
“Delightful,” he murmured under his breath, but duly escorted Meg and her plainly experienced mother to a grouping of chaises set along one wall to accommodate the older matrons of the ton.
The group they approached held several who, although he wasn’t well acquainted with any of them, even Drago recognized as grandes dames. On guard, even more so after Meg’s fingers tightened warningly on his arm, he kept his most charming smile in place and bowed over beringed hands and bore with the inevitable inquisitions with outward good humor and as much grace as he could muster.
Meg, he discovered, was an old hand at this. Aside from all else, she was apparently related to several of the most formidable old ladies and treated by virtually all as a favored protégée.
What was even more notable were the comments directed his way, which largely echoed those of their hostess.
“We are,” the haughty Duchess of St. Ives announced, “delighted to see you finally taking your rightful place in this sphere.”
Gracefully, Drago inclined his head and, somewhat to his surprise, found the truth on his tongue. “I have to admit I hadn’t previously appreciated the…significance of such events.”
The energy in the room was palpable, and while female heads predominated, there was a large contingent of gentlemen present, all engaged in avid conversations. He hadn’t previously considered balls as venues at which important connections might be made and information exchanged, but he was rapidly revising that opinion.
The duchess’s dark eyes sparkled, and her lips curved. “You’ll learn.” She tipped her head at Meg, currently engaged in a discussion with another of the group. “And you’ve chosen a most excellent guide.”
Another older lady arrived, and Drago and Meg stepped back. After seeing Meg’s mother ensconced with the other older ladies, as instructed, he and Meg moved into the crowd.
A crowd Drago now viewed through new eyes.
Meg had taken the arm he’d offered. He noticed her glancing at his face.
