Page 77 of Miss Prim and the Duke of Wylde
As Meg had never visited the estate and was unfamiliar with the sprawling mansion, she had to rely on the others for advice, but with four Helmsfords, three of whom had grown up in the house and the fourth who had gone there as a young bride exactly as Meg would, offering insights and correcting each other frequently, she felt confident she’d been informed of all the relevant particulars.
In the end, she and Drago decided on a set of orders he undertook to convey to the Wylde Court staff as to what would be expected when he and Meg arrived there late in the afternoon on Saturday.
As promised, Drago and Denton escorted Meg home. After leaving Denton in the town carriage, Drago accompanied Meg to her door, then stole a kiss—a far-too-short kiss—before surrendering her into Fletcher’s care.
The following morning, as arranged, Drago joined her family around the breakfast table.
With somewhat cynical amusement, Meg noted how seamlessly Drago connected with Toby and Demon in the matter of protecting her. When it came to protecting their ladies, Cynsters and Helmsfords were clearly cut from the same cloth.
With her and Drago’s events for that day and evening decided, Toby left to notify those who would act as guards at each event. Rising from the table as well, Meg’s mother collected Meg and Pru with a glance and, leaving Drago and Demon to settle in the library and go over the marriage settlements line by line, led her daughters across the front hall toward the drawing room.
“We thought it best,” her mother explained to Meg, “not to risk traveling to Bruton Street, so we organized for Madame LeClaire to attend us here.”
They entered the drawing room, which had been transformed by stacks of materials and lace and three long cheval glasses, to find not only the elegant French modiste and her two assistants but also a bevy of Meg’s female relatives who had obviously decided they needed to be there to tender their opinions.
When Meg paused just inside the room and, bemused, surveyed the already-chattering horde, her grandmother, Horatia, flanked on one sofa by Meg’s great-aunt Helena, correctly interpreted Meg’s expression and grinned. “You didn’t think we’d miss this, did you? Even in our family, it’s not that often that we have a rush-to-the-altar wedding and a ducal one to boot.”
Helena smiled, her pale-green eyes twinkling. “You have made excellent choices thus far, my dear.” She waved at the stacks of fabrics. “We are all agog to see what choices you will make here.”
One of Meg’s closest cousins, also one of her bridesmaids-to-be, Lydia—betrothed herself, but not yet wed—turned her dark-blue gaze on Meg and incredulously widened her eyes. “Surely you didn’t think the rest of them”—with a wave, she indicated the assembled ladies—“would allow you, me, and Anthi to keep the fun of choosing our fabrics and styles all to ourselves?”
Meg laughed. She went forward and hugged Lydia, then was grabbed and hugged hard by Anthi—Lydia’s younger sister, Amarantha—who would also be one of Meg’s attendants. “This is all so exciting!” Anthi enthused. “I can’t wait to walk down the aisle with you.”
“Yes, well, in that case”—Meg exchanged a smile with Madame LeClaire, who with her assistants was waiting patiently beside her wares—“we’d better get started on creating our gowns.”
With that, everyone agreed, and encouragement rained thick and fast.
Madame LeClaire clapped her hands, and fabrics were unrolled and displayed.
Pru, slated to be Meg’s matron of honor, left the room and returned minutes later with two footmen carrying a large round ottoman. Once the footmen had departed and the door was closed, the others encouraged Meg to shed her plum-colored day dress and stand on the ottoman, now surrounded by the cheval glasses, so that the sumptuous materials could be draped around her and judged against her hair and complexion.
She’d half expected her choices to be questioned, or at least for the older ladies to voice opinions before she had a chance to form her own, but no. Everyone held back, offering no more than mild comments, until she’d declared her preference for a delicately shimmering pink-hued silk that, somewhat to her surprise, met with the approval of everyone there.
Then the discussion turned to styles, first for her gown, then for those of her three attendants, and finally, there was the material for the matron of honor’s and bridesmaids’ gowns to be chosen.
Meg hadn’t foreseen the giddy rush of excitement and happiness that had enveloped her, more or less from the first. Everyone there was genuinely delighted and supportive and happy to be there, to be a part of her wonderful morning.
The hours sped past, punctuated by tea, cakes, and cucumber sandwiches. And for all those minutes, Meg forgot entirely about the hovering threat to her and Drago’s happiness. More, the last remnants of awareness that she had never set out to be Drago’s duchess or he to marry her slid away. This moment in time was so very right it was impossible to question.
Impossible to doubt that this was exactly where she was supposed to be.
This was exactly how she’d imagined the days before her wedding would unfold.
Surrounded by family, buoyed and made giddy by a collective feeling of mutual joy.
* * *
That evening,following the schedule his mother and Flick had deemed most appropriate, Drago presented himself at the Half Moon Street house in good time for dinner with Meg’s family.
She met him in the front hall, and he allowed himself an extended moment to stare and drink in the sight of her—his duchess-to-be—in her eau-de-nil gown, the color of which made her hair look even more like spun gold than usual.
Quirking a brow at him, she caught his gaze and came forward, offering her hands. “Your Grace.”
He took her hands in his and smiled into her eyes as he raised her hands, first one, then the other, to his lips for a kiss. “You are exquisite.” He wasn’t only commenting on the gown, a fact he was more than equal to conveying with his eyes.
She primmed her lips and retrieved her hands. “Thank you.” As she turned toward the drawing room, she threw him a look that clearly said, “Behave.”
He offered his arm, and she wound hers with it. As they walked toward the drawing room, she dipped her head closer to say, “I noticed that you couldn’t resist organizing for men to watch this house.”
