Page 39 of Miss Prim and the Duke of Wylde
He held his hand at waist height.
George nodded while Harry shuddered. “Trust me, you don’t want to meet any of them while stumbling around the corridors of Wylde Court in the dark. Almost gave me a heart attack, once.”
The others all laughed.
But George, Harry, and Thomas abruptly sobered as their hostess—backed by two other matrons with a total of three younger ladies hovering just behind—swept up to their group.
“Bisley, as I live and breathe.” The duchess smiled in predatory fashion. “Your mother would never forgive me if I didn’t introduce you to Sophie here.” The duchess reached back and drew one of the blushing young ladies forward. “She comes from your neck of the woods—the Micklehams from Denbigh.”
Meg could tell the information meant nothing to George, but he knew there was no escape. He managed a weak smile, murmured a greeting, and bowed to Miss Mickleham. As he straightened and she rose from her curtsy, the musicians started up again.
“Ah!” The duchess’s smile deepened. “Just in time. Off you go, my dears.”
Drago promptly grasped Meg’s hand and nodded to the duchess. “If you’ll excuse us, ma’am.”
The duchess flicked her fingers at them. “Yes, yes—you may go.” She turned her gaze on Harry. “Now, Ferndale—”
As Drago urged her toward the floor, Meg met his eyes and struggled not to laugh.
Smiling, he halted and swung her around, then she was in his arms, and they were once again whirling.
Repeated exposure to the swooping, soaring sensations evoked by waltzing with Drago Helmsford hadn’t muted their impact in the least. Meg still felt as if she were floating, swirling through a haze of delight.
She’d waltzed with so many gentlemen over the past years, yet it had never occurred to her that a waltz—a simple waltz—could be this absorbing. This captivating and engrossing. The sheer power Drago brought to the moment was disguised by the ineffable and never-failing grace that imbued his every movement. Quite shocking strength was so superbly harnessed that every swoop and twirl was smooth and effortless.
The hardness of his thigh pressing between hers as they went through the sharp turns at the ends of the crowded floor left her giddy.
Pleasurably so.
The dance came to an end, and she honestly wasn’t sure if she was glad or not. One part of her was hugely relieved, another part disappointed.
Drago glanced over the heads, then steered her away from where he’d been looking.
When she peered at him questioningly, he murmured, “Best, I think, to leave George, Harry, and Thomas to fend for themselves. I doubt our hostess would be pleased if we gave them a chance to escape her coils.”
Meg grinned. “No, indeed.”
“So.” Drago glanced around again, then as they continued to move through the crowd, met her eyes and murmured, “How do you think our charade is holding up?”
It took effort to hide the shock of cold reality that washed over and through her.
She’d forgotten—utterly and completely—that this was, indeed, a charade.
To give herself a second to gather her wits, she glanced around assessingly, then tipped her head closer and whispered back, “Surprisingly well.”
Possibly because I—and perhaps even you—forgot about our engagement not being real.
She glanced at him, but reading his expression while in public was wasted effort. Whatever showed in his features did so only when he intended it to be seen.
Redirecting her gaze to those about them, she swallowed the unhappiness that had surged inside her and felt it settle in a cold hard knot in her stomach.
“Are you all right?”
She looked up to find Drago with concern in his eyes. She found a smile and tipped her head toward where her mother and the grandes dames sat. “People are starting to leave. We can, too.”
He looked toward the sofas by the wall. “All right.”
As he steered her toward her mother, Meg wondered if the note of disappointment she thought she’d heard in those two small words was real or merely a figment of her fancy.
