Page 40 of Miss Prim and the Duke of Wylde
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Drago calledat Half Moon Street a little before noon the following day and took Meg up in his curricle for a turn around the park. In light of their reception at the Devonshire House event, both of their mothers had strongly recommended the outing.
As he guided his grays through the park gates, he grumbled, “I’m not at all sure I see the point. They had at us all yesterday evening. Why do we have to give them another opportunity?”
“Because,” Meg said, “given our families’ standings, we’re obliged to ensure that none of the grandes dames missed out. Sadly, not all were present last night.”
He felt like whining, but quashed the urge.
Ahead, the twin rows of carriages lining the avenue loomed. He studied the battlefield. “Can we walk, do you think?”
She looked at the carriages. “You mean along the verge beside the carriages?”
“Yes. While managing this pair, I can’t really concentrate on conversations, and I don’t like the idea of constantly halting if the ladies hail us, as I assume we should.”
“We should, indeed, and I see your point.” She waved ahead. “Pull up at the end of the row, and we can stroll from there.”
He did as directed. After leaving the grays in the hands of his favored stable lad, who had seen him draw up and had come running to tender his services, Drago offered Meg his arm, and they set off, strolling along the line of fashionable barouches, all with their hoods down the better to allow the occupants to observe all those driving, riding, or walking by.
Unsurprisingly, their appearance on the lawn beside the carriages caused a stir.
“Miss Cynster! Your Grace!”
Meg wasn’t surprised to hear them hailed the instant they drew level with the first carriage. Smiling confidently, she nodded to Lady Melrose, an old but still-influential hostess who had not been present at Devonshire House. With Drago beside her, Meg diverted to the side of the old lady’s equally elderly barouche.
“Good morning, Lady Melrose.” Meg bobbed a curtsy.
Beside her, Drago inclined his head. “Ma’am.”
“A good morning, indeed. Glad to see you both about. Read about your news yesterday morning.” Her ladyship didn’t beat about the bush. “Quite a shock, albeit a pleasant one.” She regarded them shrewdly. “I daresay this is one of those connections not even your great-aunt foresaw, miss.” Switching her gaze to Drago, she continued, “As for you, Your Grace, I have to admit I was a member of the camp that would never have credited you with such good sense. Seems your mother had it right. She always maintained that despite your hedonistic ways, when the time came, you would choose wisely.” She drew back to include them both in her approving smile. “As you’ve amply demonstrated. I wish you both well.”
With a nod of dismissal, she released them.
Her smile in place, Meg bobbed again, and Drago nodded, and they stepped away.
A few paces on, Drago bent his head to Meg’s. “Is that all it takes—just listening?”
“If we’re lucky.”
The succeeding carriages belonged to ladies they’d met the previous evening, where a smiling nod and called greeting sufficed. When Drago glanced at Meg—clearly waiting to take her lead—she explained, “They won’t expect us to stop and chat unless we have something we especially wish to tell them.”
“Which we don’t.” He faced forward. “That’s a relief.” After a moment, he asked, “So how many of these carriages do we need to stop and chat at?”
She cast a knowledgeable eye over those she could see. “A fifth, possibly fewer. The reason our mothers suggested an appearance before luncheon is that the grandes dames we need to placate will most likely be here, but the majority of the matrons with daughters in tow—whom we don’t need to specifically court—won’t appear until later.”
“Ah. I see.” After a moment, Drago murmured, “Who is your great-aunt, and why would she have foreseen our connection?”
“Great-aunt Helena, the Dowager Duchess of St. Ives, is widely regarded as eerily prescient. Of course, in this case, she could have had no idea that we might become engaged.”
“Is she here, in town? Am I likely to run into her at some event?”
“At present, she’s still in Cambridgeshire, at Somersham Place, but she’ll most likely come to town at some point.”
Drago made a mental note to be especially wary of the Dowager Duchess. The notion of a lady who might, somehow, see into his mind made him uneasy.
They continued strolling, pausing to chat wherever they were hailed. By his estimation, that was rather more frequently than every fifth carriage, but not often enough to prevent them moving down the line in reasonable fashion.
Among all the congratulations and exclamations, one comment was repeated so often that not even he could ignore it or its implications.
