The Mad, Bad Duke (Nvengaria #2)(33)
Meagan had a sudden vision of herself coming across Alexander on a deserted garden lane surrounded by tall hedges of greenery. Alexander would stop so close to her that she’d feel his body heat, and perhaps he’d pull her behind a stand of yews and kiss her.
Meagan had not seen Alexander in a week and then only at a distance in Hyde Park. She, Simone, and Michael had ridden in their open landau, and Alexander had been on horseback across the park. Meagan had stared hungrily at his taut, tall body as he easily sat his horse’s swift canter.
She craved him. Meagan longed for his easy grace in bed beside her, wanted him to touch her with the firm hands that held the reins so competently. She watched his hips move with the horse as it trotted along the Row, wanted Alexander’s hips moving against hers while she pressed fingers into his buttocks, wanted the crop he used tapping her.
She’d a swift vision of herself on hands and knees in a tumbled bed, Alexander behind her. He’d press his stiff hardness against her opening, sending waves of excitement through her. “Take me, love,” he’d say, then slide inside, daring her to beg him to stop.
The landau had bumped over a rock, and Meagan had gasped, falling back to the seat. Across the green, Alexander’s horse had stumbled.
Alexander had righted it within a step, then scanned the stream of landaus until his gaze lighted on Meagan. She knew in that quick glance that he’d had the same vision as she. The love spell was determined to drive them insane.
Simone’s voice scattered Meagan’s thoughts, and she returned to her present surroundings, her face hot.
“Of course we will attend,” Simone said as though she hadn’t said exactly the opposite a few moments ago. “If His Grace will be there, he will want to escort Meagan about. And the king is a friend. He came to my daughter’s wedding when he was still Prince Regent, you know.”
Since Penelope’s wedding, the Prince Regent, now King George, hadn’t bothered to acknowledge the Tavistocks with so much as a note, but Simone was the sort of person who could seize on an incident and build it into a mighty event that was forever important.
“I do know,” Anastasia said. “Excellent—then I will see you at the garden fête.” She held out her hand to Simone, then Meagan. When she pressed Meagan’s fingers, she lowered her eyelid in a tiny wink.
Meagan only smiled back, understanding the signal. Whatever the ton thought, whatever Simone thought, Anastasia was on Meagan’s side, and Meagan was grateful to have her there.
* * *
Later that evening, Anastasia Dimitri returned to the hotel where she’d taken several luxurious rooms and closed the doors with a relieved sigh. While London society had enjoyed itself tonight at balls and soirees discussing the upcoming wedding of Grand Duke Alexander and Miss Meagan Tavistock, Anastasia had been attempting to pry secrets from Otto von Hohenzahl.
Exhausting. She instructed the English maid she’d hired when she arrived in London to undress her, settle her into a dressing gown, and brush out her hair. The abigail worked efficiently and quietly, which was why Anastasia liked her.
Despite Anastasia’s experience and proficiency, she could not decide whether von Hohenzahl had useful knowledge or whether she wasted her time with him. Von Hohenzahl was an Austrian, a former military colonel who liked to talk of past glories and keep several beautiful women on his string. His blatant brown-eyed stare and not-so-subtle innuendo told Anastasia that he wanted her to join that string.
Anastasia had gone to men’s beds before to obtain knowledge, but something about von Hohenzahl kept her on edge. He’d said nothing, done nothing, to indicate he could be dangerous, and hinted that his interest was merely to have a woman—Anastasia—that Metternich wanted. Anastasia was usually good at reading men, and her indecisiveness bothered her.
She showed nothing of her thoughts in front of the abigail. Anastasia was expert at keeping a smooth countenance, her expression neutral, mouth lifted in a vacant smile while concentrating on several trains of thought at once.
The maid finished brushing out Anastasia’s hair and plaited it for the night. Then she shook out the bedcovers for Anastasia to crawl under and smoothed the counterpane over her.
“Good night,” Anastasia said, letting her accent be heavy. “Thank you, and may you have, how do you say, dreams most pleasant.”
The maid curtseyed, even better at being blank-faced than Anastasia. “Thank you, my lady. Good night, my lady.” She pulled the curtains closed around the bed.
Anastasia let her eyes drift shut as the maid continued her duty of brushing gowns, tidying the rooms, and putting out the lamps. Anastasia had the ability to dive quickly into sleep whenever she felt safe, closing off her thoughts and even her dreams. She’d learned this skill from a master Austrian spy after Dimitri’s death and had used it to keep grief from consuming her.
Tonight she briefly amused herself thinking over her encounter with Meagan Tavistock and her stepmother on Oxford Street. Though Miss Tavistock strove to hide it, she was quite taken with Alexander. She also had enough mettle to withstand him and the scrutiny of the entire ton, Anastasia sensed. Alexander did not quite know what he was in for, and this made Anastasia smile with delight, her troubles momentarily forgotten.
She fell asleep to the soothing sounds of the maid busy in the outer room.
A few hours later, Anastasia jumped awake. The bedchamber was pitch black, clouds obscuring the moon, the candles spent. Anastasia heard nothing, but she knew she was not alone.