The Mad, Bad Duke (Nvengaria #2)(32)

A door that led to the shop of an exclusive modiste opened and a lady emerged. That lady wore a full-length dark blue velvet cloak that shimmered as she moved, beneath which was a pale green gown, unadorned but at the same time breathtakingly elegant. Meagan recognized the sculpted face and black hair of Lady Anastasia Dimitri.

Meagan started forward, eager to greet her, but Simone pinched her elbow. “Meagan, are you mad? A lady does not speak to a courtesan, especially not her betrothed’s mistress.”

“But she is not his—” Meagan snapped her mouth closed, remembering Alexander’s explanation that he had woven “layers of lies” to keep gossip from realizing the truth about his relationship with Anastasia. Meagan coughed and cleared her throat. “She is not a courtesan,” she told Simone in a decided voice. “She is the widow of a Nvengarian count. It will be rude not to say good morning to her after I met her at Lady Featherstone’s ball.”

Simone considered, a finger to her lips. She clearly wanted to talk to Lady Anastasia, a highly intriguing woman, but at the same time worried about the perceived propriety.

“Ah, she is coming this way,” Simone said, relieved. “We can not cut her if she greets us first.”

Lady Anastasia moved to them as gracefully as a swan gliding across a pond. Before the avid stares of the journalists held back by Dominic, she halted and extended a long-fingered, gloved hand.

“Mrs. Tavistock, how fine to see you.” Lady Anastasia’s Austrian tones gave her an exotic sound. “And Miss Tavistock. May I understand it that you shop for the marriage?” She gave Meagan the barest wink.

Too many people with too many eager ears thronged them for Meagan to do anything but respond politely. She imagined the journalists on the edge of the circle taking furious notes. Miss T— chats cordially with Lady A— on an Oxford Street outing. Could they perhaps be speaking of gloves?

Meagan knew the newspaper stories would ooze with innuendo. Only this morning she’d read an article describing Grand Duke Alexander sitting with Lady Anastasia at the opera the previous night and later waltzing with her at the Duchess of Gower’s ball. Miss Tavistock had been nowhere in sight. At home with a cold? the journalist speculated slyly.

In truth, Meagan had attended a rather dreary poetry reading at the Duchess of Cranshaw’s, poorly attended because everyone else was at the Duchess of Gower’s ball watching Alexander parade with his supposed mistress. But while Simone could be giddy, she insisted, and wisely so, that Meagan be an exact stickler for propriety concerning the Alexander. Hence Meagan went to only respectable gatherings held by the most respectable ladies. Nothing—nothing—would jeopardize Simone’s plans for the marriage of the Season.

“Yes, we are shopping for the wedding,” Meagan answered, her cheeks warming. “And for after.”

Lady Anastasia sent Meagan a smile that indicated she knew the lay of the land. “His Grace, he speaks of nothing but the wedding. He wants everything to be perfect—the flowers, the decorations, the guests, the correct jewels to give you. His servants, they go mad.”

“Oh, perhaps he ought not to drive them so hard,” Meagan said quickly. Her heart went out to the Nvengarian lads running every which way to fulfill Alexander’s wishes.

“Nonsense.” Anastasia’s eyes sparkled. “They are excited that they will have a mistress again. They await your arrival with happiness. And little Alex, he says you are beautiful.”

“Such a sweet child,” Simone gushed, and Meagan glanced at her in surprise. Simone only liked children if they were spotlessly clean, quiet, and seated on the other side of a room.

“He misses his mama.” Lady Anastasia sent Meagan a pointed look. “You will be good for him.”

“I feel as though I’ve stepped off a cliff,” Meagan said breathlessly. “And am waiting to hit the ground.”

Lady Anastasia laughed, her eyes crinkling. “Ah, I remember how it was when I was a bride …”

She stopped abruptly, and for an instant Meagan saw in Anastasia’s eyes a grief that surpassed all hurts Meagan had ever known. The grief was bottomless, like the deepest well and just as cold.

Meagan realized in that moment that Anastasia Dimitri was a shell of a woman—lovely and smiling on the outside, empty on the inside. She remembered how Alexander had described her. She is broken.

Meagan’s heart ached in sympathy. She took Anastasia’s hand and squeezed it. She longed to express what she felt but was unable to in the street teeming with people, journalists hovering.

Anastasia returned the squeeze, her eyes flashing gratitude. She saw that Meagan understood, and she was touched by it.

“Ah, I nearly forgot,” Anastasia said, releasing Meagan’s hand. “Shall you be attending Lady Talbot’s garden fête? She is opening her famous gardens for display for her charity work, as I believe she does each year. The king goes to this, I understand, as well as the Duchess of Gower.”

Simone nodded proudly. “We have received an invitation of course. But the damp, the Duchess of Gower …” She wrinkled her nose. “We may simply send a donation and stay home. Meagan must be careful to not catch cold.”

Lady Anastasia held Meagan’s gaze with hers. “The Grand Duke, he also attends this year. The king wishes Alexander to see so famous English gardens.”