The Mad, Bad Duke (Nvengaria #2)(19)

Simone pressed her hand to her heart. “My, my. Meagan, you must have won the affections of a very generous gentleman.”

“Where should I put these, ma’am?” Roberts asked in a muffled voice, his face full of blossoms.

“Over there.” Simone pointed into the front sitting room. Roberts lumbered forward, red and sweating, toward the table in the middle of it.

“No, no, by the window, so everyone will see them,” Simone said.

“Yes, ma’am,” Roberts mumbled. He rolled across the room, a mass of flowers with legs, and heaved the baskets to the tiny table in the window.

Meagan followed him numbly. As Roberts struggled to balance the arrangements on the table, Simone searched for a card. “It must be here. A gentleman would not send flowers without a note.”

“It’s in me pocket, ma’am,” Roberts said. “If I can just … ”

He held the weight of the flowers with his body, trying to poke into his pocket with his blunt fingers. Simone solved the problem by plucking a folded paper from his waistcoat and breaking the seal.

“I knew it!” She looked up, her eyes shining. “It is from him, Meagan. Look.”

Meagan snatched the paper from Simone’s outstretched fingers and turned it around to read it. The note was simple and short. In plain handwriting it said:

With my compliments, Alexander of Nvengaria.

Meagan stood in silence, while Simone whirled around the room, the tapes on her cap flying. “I knew that waltz would be worth something. He saw you across the ballroom and was instantly smitten. Are you not glad that I advised you to put buttermilk on those freckles?”

Meagan’s father said from the sitting room doorway, “I am not certain I like this.”

“Nonsense, Michael. Did not dear Penelope write us that Alexander has reformed and is now Prince Damien’s right-hand man? Sent as ambassador to chum up with kings and sign treaties or whatever it is ambassadors do. So trusted now. How could he help but take a fancy to our Meagan?”

Meagan said nothing while Simone busily moved the blossoms this way and that, Roberts still trying to keep them balanced on the too-small table. Simone hummed a happy tune in her throat, but Michael watched, his brows lowering.

Indeed, Penelope had written that Damien now sent Alexander on missions Damien trusted to no others, but that did not mean Alexander was tamed. Meagan thought of the hard blue of his eyes as he glared at her across the ballroom, the preemptory way he’d dragged her into the waltz, and his cool, clipped tones when he told her she’d reach home unseen if she obeyed his instructions to the letter.

No, Grand Duke Alexander was definitely not tamed.

“He is polite to send flowers,” Michael said, still concerned. “But it is a bit overdone. Possibly he does not understand that such a gesture will draw attention.”

Oh, he understands, Meagan thought darkly. She had no doubt that Alexander knew exactly what he was doing.

“This means that he will call on you, no doubt.” Simone turned eagerly from the flowers then stopped and looked about in horror.

“Heavens, this sitting room is an atrocious mess. Roberts, call Jane upstairs and help me rearrange things. And Meagan you cannot wear that. Change into your best morning gown, darling, and tell Rose to do something with your hair. All must be perfect when the Grand Duke arrives!”



* * *



Except the Grand Duke did not arrive. Simone cajoled Meagan to wait with her for hours in the sitting room, and jumped at the sound of every carriage until Meagan thought she’d scream. The clock ticked through the day while Meagan pretended to sew and Simone fussed, and Michael, with a wary frown, went to his study. But the Grand Duke never came.

Instead, he sent a letter.

The missive arrived by carriage, brought by a stiff Nvengarian servant dressed in blue military-looking livery. The servant stood straight and tall, handsome and blue-eyed like all Nvengarians, and argued loudly with Roberts that he must present the letter to the so-honorable Miss Tavistock’s father in person.

The Nvengarian finally pushed past Roberts, went down on one knee in the hall, and lifted a folded letter to Michael, who’d emerged from his study at the noise. “My master, he bids me bring this to you,” he said with a thick accent.

Michael took the letter and broke its seal, Simone, who’d hurried from the sitting room, Meagan at her heels, crowding to read over his shoulder. After a moment of intense silence, Simone squealed and put her hands to her face.

“I knew it! He’s smitten with our Meagan.” She snatched the letter from Michael’s hands and thrust it at Meagan, eyes shining in triumph. “Read that.”

Hands shaking, Meagan took the paper.

To Michael Tavistock of Portman Square, London, from his Grace, Alexander Octavien Laurent Maximilien, Grand Duke of Nvengaria, greetings. I make so bold to write to you this day to inform you that I wish to extend the honor of inviting your daughter, Miss Tavistock, to become Grand Duchess of Nvengaria and my wife.

The letter went on, asking Michael permission for Alexander to pay court to his daughter, and outlining Alexander’s extensive lands and wealth in Nvengaria.

“Is it not beautiful?” Simone breathed over her shoulder. “I wish to extend the honor of inviting your daughter, Miss Tavistock, to become Grand Duchess of Nvengaria and my wife. How utterly divine. If I were a debutante I would swoon in delight. How clever of you to make him fall head over heels during your little waltz, darling.”