Page 54 of Miss Prim and the Duke of Wylde
The man ducked into an alley just ahead.
Drago exhaled, drew in a deeper breath, and turned toward Meg, just in time to catch her as she flung herself at him.
“Are you all right?” She patted his arms and chest. “He didn’t stab you?”
He caught her hands. “No.” He frowned faintly. “It was you he was going to attack.”
She frowned more definitely back. “Why do you think that? I thought he was about to push past me and have at you.”
Puzzled, he shook his head. “Why would anyone want to attack me?”
Patently exasperated, she widened her eyes at him. “Why would anyone want to stab me?”
They stared at each other for several heartbeats, then he offered, “There don’t appear to be obvious answers to either of those questions.”
“No.” Meg blew out a breath, glanced around, then linked her arm with Drago’s, and together, they walked on. Her heart was still uncomfortably lodged at the base of her throat, and her pulse had yet to return to normal.
She kept telling herself that everything was as fine as it had been five minutes before. Drago was unharmed, and she was, too.
Luckily, it was midafternoon, and although the street wasn’t deserted, that time of day was not one favored by the ladies of the haut ton for visits to their modistes. Other than a few curious looks, the incident hadn’t attracted much notice.
They strolled on, and after some thought, she offered, “Perhaps he was after my reticule.” She glanced down at the beaded purse dangling from her wrist by its braided cords. “It was on the side closest to him. He might have intended to slice the cord with his knife.”
Drago grunted, but after a moment, conceded, “I suppose that’s possible.”
His tone stated he didn’t think it likely.
She wasn’t sure she did, either, but at the same time, she couldn’t imagine what else might have been the motive behind the incident.
The weather was fine, and they could easily have strolled home in the mild sunshine, but on reaching Berkeley Square, she wasn’t surprised when Drago hailed a hackney. He handed her into the cab, then helped Rosie climb up to share the jarvey’s bench seat.
After giving the jarvey their direction, Drago joined Meg in the cab. As the carriage started rolling, he reached for her hand, closed his around it, and gently squeezed. Looking ahead, he said, “I really don’t like you being in danger.”
An understatement. Memories of the road outside Regent’s Park scrolled through his mind while the associated emotions roiled in his gut, all too vividly reconjured.
Meg turned her hand in his and lightly squeezed in return. “Trust me, I don’t like being in dangerous situations, either. Especially ones unforeseen and unforeseeable.”
He felt her gaze on his face and understood the point she was making.
Accidents. Both incidents had simply been that. Happenings beyond their control.
He tipped his head in acknowledgment. “Indeed.”
Inwardly, he comforted himself with the knowledge that their engagement ball—the occasion on which their intention to marry would be formally acknowledged by their world—was only two nights away.
After that, he could be very much more protective without anyone thinking it odd.
CHAPTER9
To Drago’s surprise, the formal dinner that preceded his and Meg’s engagement ball, both events hosted by the Duke and Duchess of St. Ives in their Grosvenor Square mansion, wasn’t the ordeal he’d anticipated. Primarily because Meg remained by his side throughout, and she was quick to step in whenever he found himself out of his depth in dealing with her Cynster relatives and connections.
He’d thought the Helmsford family large—and by ton standards, it was—but the Cynster clan, as they accurately labeled themselves, was something else again.
But combining the two families, as was achieved about the massively long dining table, was a feat that generated nothing but goodwill and honest enjoyment. Without exception, everyone on both sides was delighted with the proposed alliance and was happy to say so and, more importantly, to show it.
From the first moment—when Drago and his brother, accompanied by Warley, had escorted his mother into the black-and-white-tiled foyer to greet the duke and duchess—all had rolled smoothly along.
Meg reveled in the moments, more than anything else because within the august surrounds of St. Ives House, she didn’t need to constantly worry about some knife-wielding man leaping out of the shadows at Drago. There, surrounded by family and loyal staff, she could relax.
