The Mad, Bad Duke (Nvengaria #2)(18)
“Disgusting,” he said, then walked disapprovingly away.
* * *
Meagan sat rigidly at the breakfast table the next morning while Simone chattered on about the Featherstone’s ball and everything Meagan had missed by leaving it early.
“Lily Carmichael danced with Lord Oberforce, can it be credited?” Simone said happily between bites of toast. “Her engagement to Sir Samuel Rice was only recently announced. What delicious scandal! And did you see what Lady Musgrave was wearing?”
Never had Meagan found toast soaked with fresh golden butter so unappetizing, never had coffee, rich, hot, and laden with cream, been so unappealing.
Meagan’s father sat behind his newspaper, letting his wife talk. When Michael paused to turn the page, Meagan saw his smile and the fond twinkle in his eyes. He enjoyed listening to Simone’s chatter, he’d told Meagan. Very soothing, like birdsong in the garden.
On a usual morning, Meagan might enjoy it as well, and laugh with Simone at her gossip, but this was not a usual morning. Meagan’s head ached, the coffee tasted foul, and she could barely swallow the toast. Pretending to be ill the night before, as Nikolai directed, had not been difficult.
It had all worked as Nikolai predicted. He’d gotten her home and into the house without anyone seeing, and she’d followed his instructions of putting herself to bed and then calling her maid. The delay had given her a chance to wash herself, rebraid her mussed hair, put on her nightdress, and slide between the covers. By the time Rose arrived, Meagan had been shaking so much that Rose had become alarmed and fetched the laudanum.
A heavy laudanum sleep on top of the night’s insanity left Meagan with a sticky taste in her mouth, a foul headache, and aching throat.
“Katie Southington was asked to dance twice by a baron’s son,” Simone rattled on. “Her mother is in transports. A baron, just think, and the Southingtons barely able to buy fuel for their fires. That would be a feather in Mrs. Southington’s cap and possibly a nice roof over her head as well. Not that I thought much of him—he has no chin and a rather concave chest, as though a horse had kicked him when he was a child. And with Katie’s looks, their children will be horribly ugly, poor things. But then, he will be a baron when his father passes, and they are besotted with each other.” Simone shook her head. “No, by far the handsomest man in the room was Grand Duke Alexander. All the ladies threw their daughters at him and he took no notice of them, poor things. But you danced with him, Meagan. Is he as handsome close to?”
Meagan washed down a lump of toast with a stream of coffee, nearly choking herself. “Yes,” she gasped into her napkin. “Quite handsome.”
Sensations flashed to her—of the sinewy strength of Alexander’s hand on her waist, his sure power as he moved with her on the dance floor. The same power had flowed through him when he kissed her, lips moving hard on hers, he tasting every curve of her mouth. The man did nothing by halves—he’d danced and made love with the same flowing strength.
Simone rattled on. “Quite a coup for me, my stepdaughter dancing with the Grand Duke of Nvengaria. He favored no other young ladies. But the ambitious mamas panted after him in vain, because he went home with Lady Anastasia, which was no surprise to me. She’s a beautiful woman, so sophisticated, so cosmopolitan. I heard they were clinging to each other quite shamelessly in one of the upper halls. But they are foreign.” Simone waved a dismissive hand.
The toast lodged in Meagan’s throat good and hard, and she coughed, spraying crumbs across the white tablecloth.
Michael moved his newspaper and gazed at Meagan in concern. “Roberts,” he said to the footman who’d just entered. “Fetch Miss Meagan a glass of water.”
Roberts clattered down his tray, knocking over a pot of cream, and hurried from the room. Simone thumped Meagan on the back as Michael quickly rescued the cream.
“Poor darling,” Simone said with true compassion. “I am not surprised you took sick last night. Such a dreadful crush in that hot room. I am amazed we did not all swoon dead away.”
Roberts scuttled in with an overflowing glass and sloshed water across Meagan’s skirt in his haste to hand it to her. Meagan quickly took the glass and gulped water, dislodging the dry toast, tears leaking from her eyes.
“I’m all right,” she said hoarsely. “Father, may I be excused?”
“Certainly.” Michael rose to his feet, newspaper forgotten, and helped Meagan to hers. “Are you all right, love?”
Meagan was far from all right, but if she sank into her father’s embrace, she’d break down and sob for the next three hours and possibly blurt out the whole story. That would never do. Her father was a loving, caring man, and she would not be able to bear the disappointment in his eyes when he found out what a lightskirt she was. She knew she would have to face the truth sooner or later, but at present it was too raw.
“I’ll be fine. I will lie down and be right as rain.”
Simone hopped to her feet. “You do not look fine at all,” she declared. “Let us get you upstairs.” Suddenly solicitous, she helped Michael escort Meagan from the dining room.
Roberts hurried to answer a banging knock at the front door as Meagan and her parents reached the hall, cold March wind sweeping over them as Roberts opened it. When he returned from the vestibule, he staggered under the weight of two huge arrangements of flowers. The baskets overflowed with so many hothouse roses and peonies that it was difficult to tell where the flowers left off and Roberts began.