The Mad, Bad Duke (Nvengaria #2)(49)

“Oh?” Meagan’s decisiveness wavered. “I did not know.”

“Mrs. Caldwell will provide you with a schedule.”

Meagan wet her lips. “A schedule.”

Alexander gave her a brief nod, his eyes giving away nothing. “She and Mr. Edwards have been tasked to instruct you about which clothes to wear to what occasion and to make certain you enter your carriage so that you arrive on time.”

Meagan poked tiny holes in her slab of roast. “My carriage? Will we not go together to these occasions?”

Alexander shook his head, the ruby glinting. “Not always. My tasks during the day do not always permit me to return home before my evening obligations. I have rooms at my club to use when necessary. And sometimes we will be attending different events. When two functions coincide, you will represent me at one while I attend the other.”

Meagan swallowed. “Represent you?” Her voice shook.

Alexander’s voice rumbled on without pause. “I will instruct you in what you need to do.”

“Alexander—”

His blue gaze lingered on the pearls and diamonds in her hair, then slid to where her net and silver dress skimmed her bosom. “You will do well,” Alexander said, his look warm with approval.

Meagan’s face heated under his assessment, and a pleasant tingle ran down her spine. She let out a breath. “I vow, if you had told me all this before the wedding, I might have fled screaming into the night.”

“I would have come after you and brought you back.” Alexander’s voice held dark tones.

He would have; Meagan understood that. She shivered a little under his gaze, which held an undercurrent of determination. He wanted her, the look said, and he’d go to any lengths to have her. Alexander was like one of the new steam machines—he determined his course and plunged on without stopping. Steam engines would take over the world, her father predicted. Alexander could too.

“You ought to have married Lady Anastasia,” Meagan observed. “She must understand all this.” She waved her hand to indicate the protocol of the supper ritual.

“I did not wish to marry Lady Anastasia,” Alexander said firmly. “I wished to marry you.”

Alexander did not look at her, his eyes on his wine goblet once more, but his voice carried conviction. Meagan’s face grew hotter still, and she busied herself cutting a bite of meat.

The roast too, was delicious, its velvety sauce spiced with just a hint of pepper.

“Is there any salt?” As Meagan cut another piece, she glanced about for a caster or bowl, but there were so many silver pieces on the table she could not tell what was what. She glanced at her three footmen, who were poised, ready to reach for anything she wanted, but they obviously did not understand her.

“Alexander,” she asked in a low voice, “what is salt in Nvengarian?”

“Pesch,” he answered, cutting his meat.

Meagan looked at the footmen and gestured at the silver dishes. “Pesch,” she repeated. “I want pesch.”

All six of the footmen froze. They exchanged amazed glances, then they swiveled their heads to look first at Alexander then Meagan.

Alexander ceased eating and pinned her with an unwavering gaze. The moment hovered.

Then a snort burst from Gaius’ mouth. Before Meagan could ask what he meant by laughing at her pitiful attempt, all the footmen were roaring with laughter. They hung on to each other and whooped.

Meagan turned to Alexander in bewilderment. “Did I say it wrong?”

“No, you said it perfectly.” Alexander’s voice was calm but mirth danced in his eyes. “But you asked them for a penis.”





Chapter 14





Meagan stared at Alexander in horror. He returned her look without heat, his eyes still.

“I most certainly did not,” Meagan spluttered.

“I told you to say pesch,” Alexander said. “You said pesche.”

She scowled at him. “I cannot hear the difference. You are making this up.”

Alexander took another quiet sip of wine. “The Nvengarian language has many nuances which are difficult for the English to grasp.”

“Which you might have mentioned before I attempted it, you horrible man.” Meagan glared at the footmen who were holding their stomachs, tears leaking from their eyes. “Stop that!”

Alexander touched her hand, his fingertips warm. “In Nvengaria, we laugh only at those we hold in great affection. Fear and reticence is not a compliment.”

Meagan wondered suddenly if it bothered him that so many men feared him. Perhaps his footmen laughing at his wife’s blunder was a good sign.

“Well, you will have to teach me better pronunciation if I am to be the Grand Duchess,” she said crisply. “What happens when I am at a banquet for Prince Damien and accidentally ask someone to pass me a—you know?”

Alexander’s hot blue gaze fixed on her. “I imagine most gentlemen at the table would be willing to oblige you.”

Her entire body warmed, his touch stirring the tendrils of the love spell. “You should not say such things. I am certain they would simply make a joke of your silly wife.”

Alexander leaned closer, medals clinking. The footmen had recovered themselves somewhat, but they still grinned and broke into the occasional chuckle. Meagan felt the tethers of the spell close on her, and from the dark look in Alexander’s eyes, he did as well.