Page 80 of Miss Prim and the Duke of Wylde
The front of Harcourt House in Audley Street was a blaze of lights. The simply termed “party” was a select affair, the guest list limited to those of the oldest and foremost families who comprised the most rarefied circle of the haut ton. A small crowd of onlookers—maids, footmen, and the avidly curious—had gathered on the pavement to either side of the front steps to watch and exclaim at the gowns and jewels and feathered headdresses as the upper echelon of society rolled up to Lady Harcourt’s door.
As he handed Meg down from the Wylde town carriage, Drago had to fight a compulsion to look searchingly in every direction. Thus far, they’d managed to smother all ton awareness of the attacks they’d weathered, and the last thing he wished to do was raise questions in ever-inquisitive minds.
Nevertheless, as he escorted Meg—eye-catching in teal silk with matching feathers in her hair—up the steps to the front door, he swiftly scanned the watching crowd and spotted two reassuring faces—Wylde House staff he’d set on guard duty.
He hadn’t really had to order anyone to it; merely through her few visits to the house, by her confident, relaxed, and appreciative manner when dealing with the staff, Meg had won them to her side. Drago had been given to understand that, one and all, they very much approved of her as his duchess.
While within the walls of ton events, the various gentlemen of their families could effectively guard her, outside on the streets of London, he had greater faith in his staff’s abilities to blend in and watch for anyone taking too close an interest in their future mistress.
Old Lady Harcourt welcomed him and Meg to her ballroom with overt delight. Indeed, with such rapture that Drago realized that, within her ladyship’s august circle of ageing matrons, Meg, or rather seeing Meg wed, was something of a cause célèbre.
As they parted from her ladyship and moved into the crowd, Meg cast him an amused smile. “She’s one who is thoroughly thrilled to see me marrying you.”
Arrogantly confident, he smiled back. “I never thought to say it, but in that, she and I agree.”
Meg laughed, which seemed a good omen, and so it proved. Together, they moved effortlessly around the room, exchanging greetings with some, chatting at greater length with others; in large part, he left it to Meg to decide with whom they spent more time.
Her assurance in these circles went bone deep, and he was increasingly aware of how lucky he was to be able to rely on her extensive knowledge of virtually all those present.
At one point, as they progressed between groups, he lowered his head and murmured in her ear, “Have I mentioned how very thankful I am that you never accepted any other offer for your hand and so remained moving through these circles, gathering information and understanding for… Is it nine years?”
She glanced sidelong and met his eyes. “This will be my tenth Season.”
“Would have been.” He looked ahead and smiled at the pair of matrons waiting to engage them. “We’re cutting it short, remember?”
Donning her social smile, she retorted, “I’m unlikely to forget.”
They continued to circulate through the crowd, strengthening connections and becoming more widely known themselves.
“I have to admit,” he whispered at one point, “that I never imagined myself becoming one with this crowd quite so easily.”
Meg met his eyes. “But this was always destined to be the sphere in which, ultimately, you would move.”
“I know. But even after I succeeded to the title, I put it off.” He paused, then stated what, at least to him, was the obvious. “No matter how appropriate, I wouldn’t be here if I wasn’t marrying you.”
A simple truth. Yes, moving in this sphere was a part of his destiny, yet if she—specifically she—hadn’t come into his life, would he ever have claimed his rightful place?
He honestly couldn’t say. Possibly once he’d got much older and had grown bored with everything else.
Strangely, with Meg by his side, he didn’t find interacting in this sphere boring at all.
Eventually, they’d circumnavigated the room, and as they paused, considering their next move, their mothers approached, approval writ large on both their faces.
His mother patted his arm and smiled at Meg. “You are both doing excellently well. Your stepping into this circle has been noted by everyone.”
Flick nodded decisively. “As it ought to be.”
His mother went on, “Everyone is pleased that you’ve signaled your intention to shoulder the social mantle of the dukedom.”
Flick glanced around. “And as you’ve covered the room, it’s time to move on to your next port of call.”
“Indeed,” his mother agreed. “Appearing at the Cambridge House soirée is even more important. As the Duke and Duchess of Wylde, you will be expected to grace such events without fail.”
Flick smiled encouragingly at them. “Just like Therese and Alverton, and indeed, Sebastian and Antonia and Drake and Louisa, even though the latter four have yet to succeed to their respective titles.”
“All of you,” his mother went on, “are expected to make your mark in some appropriate fashion, and attendance at events such as these tonight is the necessary avenue to establishing and securing your position in our world.”
“I couldn’t have put it better,” Flick said. “And now, it’s time you left. Our hostess is over there”—she pointed to a chaise along one wall—“and I can see Therese and Devlin moving in the same direction. As neither Constance nor I will be at Cambridge House, if you need any assistance there, Therese is the one to ask.”
