Page 98 of Miss Prim and the Duke of Wylde
It took several long minutes before he could summon sufficient strength to raise his head and look into her face. When he focused on her features, his ego preened. Even though she seemed asleep, a smugly satisfied smile curved her lips.
With his gaze, he traced the full curve of those luscious lips and realized that he was smiling inanely.
Gazing at her, he felt the warmth in his chest that she and only she evoked swell until it filled him. He stared at her for long moments as full realization sank in.
I’ve fallen ineradicably in love.
He studied her, waiting for something—anything—inside him to rise up in mocking rejection.
Nothing did.
After several seconds of surprise over that unqualified acceptance, he lifted from her, then rearranged them in the bed. He slumped on his back, one arm cradling her as she huffed and snuggled against him, then she settled her head on his chest, and all tension fled her limbs.
He tried to think, to imagine what this not-entirely-unexpected turn of events would mean. Yet the only coherent thought his brain produced, just as he slid over the edge of sleep, was that as a Cynster, she’d run true to her family’s form.
CHAPTER16
Over the following days, Meg happily settled into her role as Drago’s duchess. While being constantly addressed as “Your Grace” took a little getting used to, the contentment she felt in going about the huge house, in interacting with Fothergill and Mrs. Fothergill and the other staff, was both relief and encouragement.
Indeed, the atmosphere pervading the massive mansion was universally one of positivity and optimism, of looking forward with hope and eagerness. Meg was reassured to discover that the large staff apparently got along very well; most were children of the estate, and their fathers and grandfathers—or mothers and grandmothers—had worked in the same roles in decades past.
Over those decades, the day-to-day procedures had been refined and perfected, until now, the entire household rolled smoothly along under the steady hand of the Fothergills with nary a hitch along the way.
Rosie, who had come with Meg from Half Moon Street, had reported that she’d been made very welcome and had found the household remarkably calm and well ordered. “It’s a happy place, miss—Your Grace, I mean. I haven’t come across anyone even given to moodiness yet.”
For his part, Drago endeared himself to her—even more than he had to that point—by understanding that she would need a few days to find her feet.
In that regard, by the Wednesday after the wedding, Meg felt she was making solid progress; to her and, apparently, to all others at Wylde Court, it was increasingly clear that being Drago’s duchess was exactly the right occupation for her.
All in all, she felt relieved, reassured, and was actively enjoying settling into her new home.
As for the private hours she and Drago spent in the ducal apartments, that was another source of delight, not to say pleasure. Not to say revelation. She hadn’t really thought about how having a husband and being intimate with him—often several times a day—might alter, more specifically strengthen, their relationship. She was starting to grasp that reality and develop a deeper appreciation of her family’s long-held belief that Cynsters should only marry for love.
Love, she’d realized, was one of those emotions impossible to comprehend until one experienced it oneself. That she was in love with Drago was impossible to deny, and while neither had yet admitted their state, she firmly believed he loved her. He certainly acted like it, not just in their bedroom but in every facet of their life.
Their love-based marriage was currently a work in progress, and with that, too, she was content.
Unexpectedly, at least to her, Ridley, the puppy, had arrived with their luggage from London. Still decidedly half grown and gangly and awkward with it, the pup had taken to following her everywhere and, when she sat, if he could, curling up on her feet.
Drago was the only other human Ridley showed such signs of loyalty toward; the pup seemed to consider everyone else as to be tolerated or cultivated where necessary, but not worthy of his allegiance.
As on that Wednesday morning, with Ridley at her heels, she made her way to her private sitting room, a spacious parlor abutting her end of the ducal suite, she turned her mind to what challenge she should next address in donning the mantle of Drago’s duchess.
She was almost to the door when it opened, and Fothergill came out.
Seeing her, the butler smiled and bowed. “Good morning, Your Grace. The mail arrived early, bringing several letters for you. I placed them on your desk.” He held the door for her and the pup.
Passing him with a smile, Meg replied, “Thank you, Fothergill. I’ll attend to them now.”
Eager to see who had written, she crossed to the escritoire set before a large window overlooking the gardens. Three letters lay on the leather-edged blotter. She picked them up. The first was from her mother, the second from Pru, while the third… “Interesting.” She hadn’t expected Drago’s mother, who had remained in London, to communicate with her at this point.
Fothergill had shut the door. Meg picked up a letter knife and broke the seal on all three letters, then leaving the knife on the desk, she carried the letters to the comfortable chair angled before the hearth, in which a small fire cheerily popped and crackled.
She settled in the armchair, and after Ridley had made himself comfortable, she opened her mother’s missive. As she’d anticipated, it contained a report of how the wedding had been received by the wider ton. Apparently, everyone was genuinely pleased, and high hopes were being entertained regarding their future in both political and social spheres. While Meg had expected that, it was nevertheless gratifying to have it confirmed. Once she and Drago returned to London, they would have plenty to keep them occupied on multiple fronts.
Pru’s letter was a mixture of cousinly gossip and sisterly advice, much of which made Meg laugh. As the oldest and youngest of the four in their family and six years apart in age, she and Pru had not been that close through their childhoods. But as adults, they’d grown progressively closer, and ever since her engagement to Drago, Meg had felt a greater and stronger bond with Pru, and from the revelations and frank if often hilarious advice Pru imparted, she felt the same.
Feeling a glow of familial contentment, Meg folded Pru’s letter, set it aside with their mother’s, and with curiosity welling, unfolded the three sheets of the dowager’s communication. Meg scanned past the usual salutations and transparently fond wishes for success in their marriage, then slowed as she reached the meat of the missive. The dowager had very helpfully written a short list, with descriptions appended, of the local ladies Meg could expect to have bowl up to the front door once the first week of their marriage had passed and the locals commenced paying bride visits.
