Penelope and Prince Charming (Nvengaria #1)(126)
Meagan’s chest ached. “You had no right—” She stopped herself, forcing her common sense to scatter her anger. “Goodness, what am I saying? This is all chicanery, isn’t it? You are not really a witch—you only make talismans to give to silly women at fifty guineas a go. You had nothing to do with my mother and father falling in love. What you do is a trick I risked my father’s wrath to observe this afternoon.”
Black Annie regarded her in silence, that smile lingering in the corners of her mouth.
Of course what Annie did was all foolishness and trickery, except …
Except last year, the devastatingly handsome Prince Damien of Nvengaria had swept into Little Marching in Oxfordshire claiming that Meagan’s friend Penelope needed to run away with him to follow a magical prophecy to save his kingdom. Magic had been real around Prince Damien and his Nvengarians. Meagan would never have believed in enchanted sleeps, shape-shifting logosh, prophecies, and healing magic if she hadn’t witnessed them all herself.
And now Black Annie was explaining that the strong love between Meagan’s father and mother was a bit of magic, as simple as the trick Black Annie had made for Deirdre. Meagan’s mother had come here and stood in this very room and begged for a spell to make a man fall in love with her, just as Deirdre had today.
“You are very amusing, Mrs. Reese,” Meagan said, lifting her head and burying her uncertainty. “You almost took me in.”
“Believe as you please, Miss Tavistock,” Black Annie said, brisk once more. “But they were terribly happy, were they not? A more loving couple I never knew. And I only charged her a bob.”
* * *
“You cannot possibly be magic,” Meagan told the talisman.
She sat in chemise and stockings at her dressing table and stared at the twist of feathers and wire that lay on top of Deirdre’s handkerchief. The braid of black hair shone softly in the candlelight, the smooth lock belonging to the man whom Deirdre was so anxious to ensnare.
“Poor fellow,” Meagan said. “Whoever he is.”
She was dressing to attend the seasonal ball hosted by Lord and Lady Featherstone, an annual event popular throughout the ton to which Meagan’s stepmother had finagled invitations. Simone Tavistock had once been a baronet’s wife and had no compunction against using former connections to mingle in society—and more importantly, to find Meagan a husband.
Simone had decided after marrying Michael Tavistock that her raison d’être was to get Meagan married. In Simone’s opinion, Meagan at twenty was far past when she should have been betrothed, and as she’d said this morning, in danger of being firmly on the shelf. Simone wanted to see Meagan marry well. The dear girl deserved nothing less than the best, and after all, Simone’s own daughter Penelope had married a prince.
Simone had plunged into the task of finding Meagan a match with the ruthlessness of one of the new steam-powered engines. She’d persuaded Michael to hire a house near Portman Square for the Season and had dragged Meagan to every ball, soiree, musicale, and outing she possibly could get herself invited to. Meagan suspected Simone had another motive—once Meagan was safely married and out of the house, Simone would have Meagan’s father all to herself with no stepdaughter underfoot.
As Meagan waited for the lady’s maid, Rose, to come and dress her hair, she studied the talisman. It lay innocently on the handkerchief, nothing but cloth and wire with a braid of black hair. It had nothing to do with love and everything to do with Black Annie beguiling foolish Deirdre out of fifty guineas.
“I ought to go into business,” Meagan declared. “I will become Madame Meagan, telling ladies what they want to hear for a guinea a turn. I shall become quite rich.” She picked up the talisman, turning it toward the light.
A wave of dizziness abruptly swamped her. In the next instant, the small bedchamber with its yellow and white wallpaper, comfortable furniture, and her dressing table and mirror, smeared like still-wet watercolors and went away.
Meagan gasped and closed her eyes. When she opened them again she found herself in the arms of a brutally handsome man, their entwined bodies making love in the warm water of a sunken bath.
Deep, satisfying love. Meagan clearly felt the imprint of the man’s fingers on her skin and the heat of his breath on her face, smelled the scent of lavender in the bathwater. She was also vividly aware of the exact shape and length of every inch of him inside her.
The man had his eyes closed, black lashes against his skin. His mouth came down on hers, opening her lips without permission, his tongue scraping into her mouth.
He eased from the kiss and pressed his lips to her cheek, her forehead, murmuring words she didn’t understand. His voice deep and melodious, his accent rich.
Meagan drew a sharp breath. The man lifted his head, his eyes clearing as though just becoming aware he held Meagan in his arms.
They stared at each other, his eyes hot blue under a slash of black brows. He had skin darker than that of an Englishman’s, reminiscent of the Romany or the wild Magyar tribes on the eastern edge of Europe. Water slicked his black hair from a broad forehead and square face. An intricate, interlaced tattoo snaked around his right bicep, his only adornment. Otherwise, he was entirely naked.
Meagan recognized him. His full title was Grand Duke Alexander Octavien Laurent Maximilien, and he was ambassador to England for Prince Damien of Nvengaria. Meagan had seen pictures of him in the newspapers and had glimpsed him at opera houses and theatres, but she’d never yet met him in person.