Page 50 of Miss Prim and the Duke of Wylde
He understood from where the intensity of his reaction sprang. His inner self had decided that, as his meant-to-be duchess, Meg was already his. His to hold, ergo, his to protect.
Like it or not, convenient or not, that was not an outcome he could alter or ignore.
And if his recollections of how his father had invariably reacted on the few occasions Drago could recall of his mother being in even the most remote danger or subject to the most distant potential threat were correct, then it seemed he was well on his way to being just like his father in that respect as well.
He knew his parents’ relationship had been one of deep, unwavering, mutual love. Not affection—nothing so tame. They had each been the light of the other’s life, and now his father was gone, his mother held a kernel of emptiness in her heart that Drago accepted nothing could fill.
If that was his fate…
Meg pinched his arm to draw his attention as they stepped forward to greet their hostess. Predictably, Lady Entwhistle was delighted to welcome them and seized the moment to commend them on their sound sense in getting engaged to each other.
The niceties dealt with, they deposited Meg’s mother with the other older matrons, pausing to withstand the usual observations and comments from the grandes dames, then with Meg’s hand on his arm, he and she moved into the crowd.
Among the first to claim their attention were his sisters, with his brothers-in-law in tow. The six of them formed a comfortable group, with his sisters answering Meg’s questions about Wylde Court while his brothers-in-law grasped the chance to sound him out regarding his likely attitude to several upcoming bills.
Just how relaxed Drago and Meg were with the other two couples—how patently as one with them they were—again underscored that their union was, indeed, not just desirable but meant to be.
When the group eventually broke up, each couple going their separate ways, he and Meg did as expected and circulated through the milling throng, then the musicians started playing, and they gratefully escaped onto the dance floor.
Meg enjoyed three waltzes with Drago, interspersed with chatting with others, all of whom were increasingly curious as to when their engagement ball would be held. When the musicians retired, to distract herself from the far-too-pleasurable spiking of her senses—apparently inevitable when whirling in Drago’s arms—Meg set herself to determinedly explore the social power that would accrue to her if she became the Duchess of Wylde.
Immediate access to and inclusion in the more powerful circles of young matrons was one obvious advantage.
“We have an active group of politically connected younger matrons who meet every week while Parliament is sitting,” her cousin Therese informed her. “Tory or Whig or Liberal—unlike our husbands, we don’t shut our ears to the other side’s notions. We discuss everything freely. It’s really a most useful way to debate and, ultimately, to have our opinions heard. Once you’re wed and we all return for the Autumn Session, you’ll have to come along.”
Melanie had mentioned other groups who came together to pursue various issues from charities to agitating for safer traffic through London’s crowded streets.
In short, the possibilities seemed endless.
A noble title and real wealth remained a passport to influence over a broad spectrum of human endeavor.
As they moved away from two young matrons who had urged her—after her wedding—to join their efforts to raise awareness of stray cats and dogs in the capital, Drago murmured, “Speaking of stray dogs, one in particular, have you given any thought as to what name you wish to bestow on your rescue?”
Meg halted and swung to face him. “I meant to ask—how is he?”
Drago arched his brows. “As I haven’t been informed otherwise, I assume he’s well. Most likely eating his head off in the kitchen.” He smiled. “Cook always complains when I bring the dogs to town, but she’s always disappointed when I leave them in the country.” His expression sobered. “However, I have been informed—by Prentiss, no less—that every beast requires a name.” His laughing eyes betrayed the severity of his expression. “So what is the mongrel’s name to be?”
“Ridley,” she promptly replied. At Drago’s inquiring look, she added, “He was such a wriggly little thing, but Wriggly sounds far too nursery like.”
He smiled charmingly, and her heart warmed and softened. “Ridley it is, then. No doubt, Prentiss and Maurice will approve.”
They turned to go on and, in the crowd, came upon Drago’s uncle.
“Warley.” Drago looked surprised. “A ton ballroom is hardly your usual haunt.”
Warley bent over the hand Meg held out to him, then straightened and fixed Drago with a wary eye. “Take it from me, my boy. The past always catches up to one. I made the mistake of getting to know Hermione Entwhistle far too well in my feckless youth, and look where it’s landed me!” He cast a glance at the guests around them and shuddered. “Not my sort of thing at all, but Hermione isn’t one I care to cross.”
“Uncle!” Drago fought to keep his lips straight. “You shock me.”
Warley waved. “Nonsense. You’ll learn the way of it soon enough.” He half bowed to Meg. “But you must excuse me. If I stand still too long, the vultures descend.” He glanced at Drago. “It’s almost as if, because you’ve bitten the bullet, they thinkIwill suddenly be overcome with a desire to trip into parson’s mousetrap, too!”
Shaking his head in disbelief, Warley lumbered on through the crowd.
Drago met Meg’s eyes, and they both burst out laughing.
After they sobered and started ambling again, Drago, curious enough to watch Warley over the sea of heads, murmured, “Much as we might laugh, I can see several widows tracking Warley.”
“Ah.” Meg nodded sagely. “I suspect that’s why Hermione Entwhistle pulled whatever string she has to have Warley attend. There are several widows in her set who have recently come out of mourning.”
