Page 46 of Miss Prim and the Duke of Wylde
And even more downhearted that she would not have the chance to experience and explore the intriguing prospects the duchess had described.
“So, my dear”—the duchess halted, caught Meg’s hand, and leaned in to touch cheeks—“I’ll bid you farewell for the afternoon.” She straightened, released Meg, and glanced around the slowly emptying room. “It’s been very pleasant catching up with your family. They are all as thrilled as the Helmsfords at the prospect of this alliance.”
Yet more pressure.
Any chance that the duchess hadn’t seen the truth vanished as she met Meg’s eyes again. “You really wouldn’t want to disappoint so many. If there is any question of breaking things off, do bear that in mind.”
With a serene smile, the duchess inclined her head.
Meg dipped into an appropriate curtsy, then straightened, and eyes narrowing, watched the duchess glide away. She now knew from whom Drago got his powerfully persuasive charm.
* * *
In the wakeof her grandmother’s afternoon tea, throughout the subsequent evening, Meg hadn’t been able to speak privately with Drago, not at any point during the dinner and soirée they’d attended.
Both events had only underscored all that Therese, Louisa, and Drago’s mother had articulated, all points Meg herself had consciously or unconsciously noted. Being the lady by Drago’s side, steering them both through the shoals of society and life, was a role for which she was uniquely qualified and in which she could excel, and doing so was intensely satisfying. On top of that, the interest in them as a couple, especially at the Lansdowne House soirée that had been attended by many of the political set, had been gratifying in one sense, but also unnerving, given their engagement was a sham.
Given that they currently intended to disappoint an increasingly large number of the most powerful in the haut ton.
That prospect had weighed on her, and she’d spent the night tossing and turning, thinking of and rehearsing and editing all she intended to discuss with Drago during the outing she’d arranged for the morning.
She was feeling distinctly on edge when he called at eleven o’clock. Aware of Fletcher holding the door, she ensured she greeted Drago with appropriate delight. A faintly concerned expression lurked in his eyes as, greeting her with his customary grace, he took her hand and led her to his curricle. She held her tongue as he helped her up, accepted the reins, and climbed up beside her.
The instant he’d set his horses trotting, he glanced at her. “What is it?”
As she’d suggested they make for Regent’s Park rather than Hyde Park, he’d brought along his tiger. She didn’t want to broach the subject dominating her mind while within anyone else’s hearing; that was why she’d opted for Regent’s Park. She prevaricated. “What did you think of our reception last night?”
“At Lansdowne House?” He looked ahead and expertly guided his horses around the corner. Once he had the pair trotting smartly again, he replied, “In all honesty, it was a trifle overwhelming. I hadn’t expected our engagement, the fact that we’re now engaged, to be such a…”
“Major event?”
“Exactly.” After a moment, he went on, “I hadn’t realized that our engagement would elevate us to such prominence. That it would garner such intense interest.”
“Or such approval and encouragement?”
“Indeed.” He paused to guide his horses across Oxford Street, then turned the pair north. Soon, they could see dead ahead the green expanse of the Regent’s Park lawns bordered by leafy trees. Drago tipped his head toward the sight. “It’s as if our engagement has caused us to walk into a landscape I, at least, hadn’t foreseen.”
Meg nodded. “I hadn’t, either. I hadn’t even imagined that it might be so.”
They reached the park, and Drago drew up in the Outer Circle, near the York Gate. He handed her down and, leaving his tiger in charge of the horses, offered his arm. She steeled herself and took it, and they entered the park.
Regent’s Park was always less crowded than the more fashionable Hyde Park, and at that hour, the majority of those walking the graveled paths were nursemaids pushing perambulators or maids and footmen watching over young children set loose to run and play on the lawns.
A few older children were flying kites, and others were sailing toy boats on the lake, but there were plenty of open spaces in which Meg and Drago could stroll—in public yet with their privacy assured.
The instant she was certain that they were out of all others’ hearing, Meg drew breath and, looking ahead as they continued strolling, launched into her prepared speech. “The degree of the ton’s approbation has been eye-opening. The comments made to me, the allusions to what others see as our joint destinies, the assumptions of the impact our marriage will have in circles I’ve never dreamed of entering, the views on the desirability of the alliance between our houses—all of that has forced me to see…” She paused, then, her gaze fixed in the distance, went on, “That us becoming engaged is a much bigger, broader, and more powerful proposition than I had supposed.”
She glanced at Drago and found him looking down, gazing at the grass as they walked on. She continued, “The encouragement has been blatant and, I suspect, will only grow more so once we conclude the formalities with our engagement ball.”
He looked up and met her gaze, and she forced herself to calmly say, “I wanted to ask whether the ton’s response has altered your view of our charade, of the wisdom of it, in any way.”
He held her gaze for several seconds—searchingly, as if he was trying to see into her mind—then, still pacing beside her, replied, “We’ve both had many more aspects of our prospective union made abundantly clear to us over recent days.” He hesitated, then looked ahead and went on, “Perhaps we would be wise to listen to, ponder, and weigh such opinions and consider whether in light of what we’ve learned, we wish to revise our plan.”
Her lungs seized. “Revise in what way?”
He didn’t immediately answer, and they steadily paced on. Then he offered, “We originally saw our engagement as a fabrication—a charade designed to protect your reputation, to deflect a specific scandal.”
“True. But now?”
