The Mad, Bad Duke (Nvengaria #2)(15)
Meagan looked up at him with eyes that held too much sadness. She did not argue, and her bleak look sent a stab of profound pain through his heart.
Alexander smoothed her hair, loving the softness of it. “I swear to you on my honor, you’ll not be wronged by this,” he said, keeping his voice gentle. “Now lock the door as I go.”
The last thing in the world Alexander wanted to do was leave her. The love spell clamped down on him again as he tried to turn away and he had to abruptly lean down and kiss her lips, tasting tears on them.
Meagan returned the kiss then pressed him away, the sharp smell of the brandy cutting through his daze. “You’d better go.”
Alexander touched her cheek, wanting to linger with his fingertips on her soft skin. He took a sharp breath, drawing on the self-control that had let him survive all these years, and made himself turn around, cross the room, and walk out the door.
He heard the click of the key in the lock as he strode down the passage outside, the cold sound shutting him out.
The love spell wanted Alexander to rush back and beg her to let him in, even if he had to pound on the door and shout for her to do so. It wanted him to stay close to her, to hear her voice, touch her skin, breathe her scent.
Damn what the spell wanted. Alexander’s Nvengarian blood raged through him, newly aroused instincts making him want to tear down the door between him and Meagan and take her until they both were too weak to walk.
Let the fierceness of your father be yours, a voice inside him urged. Damien’s father turned you into cold-blooded viciousness—do not let him also take your fire.
Alexander tamped down on his Nvengarian barbarity. The ice-coldness he’d adopted after being forced to witness the execution of his own father by firing squad had allowed him to survive and take his vengeance. If Alexander had not quelled his hot-bloodedness he would have died that day, and so many days since.
His famous coldness helped him now. By the time Alexander found Nikolai, chilling calm had replaced the madness—at least outwardly—and he was able to tell the valet in clipped tones what needed to be done.
* * *
Meagan sat numbly after Alexander departed, the glass of brandy untouched on the table next to her.
Some part of her was horrified at what had just happened. She’d allowed a man to make love to her as though she’d been his wife—more accurately, his courtesan. Meagan, who’d held herself superior to Deirdre for even thinking about adultery, had now surpassed her friend in immorality.
Foremost in Meagan’s mind, however, was wonder. She’d been with a beautiful man, Alexander—the Mad, Bad Duke. He’d touched her and kissed her and called her beautiful and his.
Meagan was not a fool. She’d heard plenty of tales of seductive roués who lured innocent misses into their arms, only to bring about said misses’ downfalls. Alexander was a Nvengarian, and Nvengarians played by different rules. Prince Damien had thought nothing of coupling with Penelope after they’d been betrothed, and by the laws of his people, there had been nothing sinful about it.
But Alexander had not asked Meagan to marry him or even to perform the betrothal ritual as Damien had Penelope. Alexander had merely danced with her and kissed her, and the love spell, which had been meant for him and Deirdre, had ignited him. And so it went.
Meagan put her hand on her limp reticule, wondering where the talisman had got to. She did not find it in the room after a hasty search and concluded that Alexander must have taken it away with him.
She stared a moment at the glass of brandy resting on the marble-topped table where she’d set it. Drawing a ragged breath, she lifted the glass to her lips, dumped the contents into her mouth, and swallowed.
Meagan winced as the spirits burned her tongue and trailed fire down her throat. “Lud,” she gasped, clattering the glass to the table. “How can gentlemen love this?”
A knock on the door made her jump. “Miss?” someone said in a low voice, “His Grace the Grand Duke, he has sent me to you.”
The accent was Nvengarian, the voice deep like Alexander’s. Meagan hastened across the room and unlocked the door. Before she could pull it open, a tall, thin young man opened it barely a foot, slipped through, and closed it again. He carried Meagan’s hooded mantle over his arm.
“I am Nikolai, valet to His Grace,” the young man said, bowing. He was Nvengarian, with dark hair, high cheekbones, and deep blue eyes. “If you follow my instructions precisely, we will see you home without, as you English say, anyone being the wiser.”
Meagan’s face heated to scorching. Alexander must have told Nikolai exactly what had happened and given him instructions to help clear up the mess. How embarrassing. But in Meagan’s half-panic and sudden inebriation, she felt relieved that someone knew what to do.
“You will not become hysterical, will you?” Nikolai asked. “If you do, I will have to slap your cheek or pour water on your face to keep you quiet, and His Grace will be very angry.” He shook his head. “You do not want to see His Grace angry.”
Meagan hiccoughed and clapped her hand to her mouth. “Why? Is he so very terrible?”
“Good heavens, yes, my lady. One time when His Grace was angry, half of Nvengaria’s capital was flattened, with people running from their homes and screaming in the streets. The river was a flotilla of makeshift barges of people trying to get away from him. It is terrible indeed, the wrath of Grand Duke Alexander.”