The Mad, Bad Duke (Nvengaria #2)(31)
Meagan had been used to going about London escorted by a footman or a maid, of course—no young lady ran about alone. But the silent menace of Nvengarian bodyguards striding on either side of her was much different from the presence of Roberts, who stumbled often and dropped packages every few feet.
Meagan had until now more or less gone where she pleased and did what she liked, not particularly noticed by anyone. Now, not only did passersby in London stop and stare at her unusual entourage but the newspapers decided to take an interest in her.
Dominic and his men had to go out every morning and push away the journalists that flocked the Tavistock house, waiting for Meagan to emerge. Unfortunately, the more Dominic threatened and manhandled the newspapermen, the more persistent they became. Meagan had to run quickly to the carriage, hiding behind the wall of Nvengarian blue, pretending to ignore the questions shouted at her.
In higher places, the leaders of society squared off, sharply divided in opinion about the soon-to-be Grand Duchess of Nvengaria. The Duchess of Cranshaw, a girlhood friend to Simone, led the supporters of Meagan, declaring her to be adorable and just the thing to soften up the very stern Grand Duke. Lady Featherstone fell in with this crowd, pleased to boast that her ball had brought them together.
The opposition was led by the young Duchess of Gower, who headed a very fashionable set of ladies, both married and widowed, who enjoyed the most handsome men of London as their lovers. No one spoke of their conquests in public, of course, but everyone knew, and Simone kept Meagan informed of every rumor. Deirdre Braithwaite was a firm member of this set.
The Duchess of Gower had hoped to land Alexander in her net, Simone reported, and was enraged that Alexander had been ensnared by a nobody like Meagan Tavistock. The duchess had even made a wager with her friends that she’d have Alexander a week after his wedding, proclaiming he’d quickly tire of his washed-out redheaded wife.
Meagan endured Simone’s tales without screaming, but only just.
“I have always hated the Duchess of Gower,” Simone concluded with vicious glee. “I am pleased you have tweaked her nose, my dear Meagan. She is so proud of her beauty, but you will easily outshine her once Alexander has fitted you out with the best frocks and jewels in London. She fights underhandedly, but do not worry—with the Duchess of Cranshaw and me on your side, we will send her home weeping. After all, you will be Grand Duchess of Nvengaria, and many times more important than she is.”
Meagan groaned and buried her face in her hands. “May we move to Northumbria? Or the Yorkshire Dales? Those are sufficiently remote.”
“Do not be so silly,” Simone said. “Everything will be delightful.” She laughed, clearly in transports.
After sessions like these, Meagan was ready to send Alexander a polite note and call the whole thing off.
But she’d dream of him. Every night, as Meagan dropped off to sleep in her small four-poster bed, Alexander invaded her dreams. The visions were so real she could feel his fingers imprinting her skin, the heat of his breath as he leaned to kiss her, and she could taste him—his skin, his lips, his fingers—as he touched her everywhere.
He’d strip away the covers from the bed, then her nightrail. He’d already be bare, sun-bronzed skin smooth over hard muscle, moonlight kissing his body. He’d climb upon the bed, his warmth covering her, his voice low and beautiful. He’d speak Nvengarian, but Meagan would understand every word. “Love,” he’d whisper, “I want you so much. I’m starving for you.”
Meagan would run her fingers over Alexander’s hot skin, tracing the muscles of his back and shoulders. He’d let out a half sigh, half groan, his blue eyes dark. He’d taste her skin and tease her thighs apart, making her want him deep inside her as he had been the night of Lady Featherstone’s ball.
“Please,” she’d beg.
“No, love. We wait.”
“Why?”
“The time must be right.” Alexander’s hot breath would tickle the curls at her temple. “Soon.”
Meagan would writhe in frustration, because it was a dream, for heaven’s sake, and why could she not at least have fulfillment there? Alexander would laugh and trail kisses down her throat. He’d press his mouth on the space between her navel and her female places, then flick his tongue between her thighs.
She’d cry out in need, and wake to find her nightrail raked over her legs and her fingers pressed tightly to her opening.
The dream would never return for the rest of that night. Meagan only had one each night, try as she might to conjure the vision of him again.
“Bloody love spell,” she’d groan, punching her pillows. She no longer carried any skepticism about Black Annie and her power. Only magic could have made her life this bizarre.
Chapter 9
Two weeks after the betrothal ritual, Meagan walked with Simone and the Nvengarian bodyguards along Oxford Street so that Simone could shop and gossip, buying gloves, hats, ribbons, and lace by the dozen.
“I will need such things when I attend the important balls you give,” she said. “The stepmother of the Grand Duchess must be well fitted out.”
Meagan’s father did not stop these shopping expeditions for two reasons. The first was that Simone was never happier than when decorating herself and imagining the envy of her friends over said decorations. The second was that Simone, as fluttery as she was, had a masterful grasp of economy. She could stretch a shilling farther than a Lloyd’s of London clerk, and her bargaining skills were legendary. She knew exactly how much money she could spend and exactly how to get as much finery out of it without compromising quality. A rare gift, Meagan always thought, although she never told Simone, who would not understand the compliment.