The Mad, Bad Duke (Nvengaria #2)(60)
Meagan tried to picture Alexander shouting at her for presuming to interrupt his son’s lessons. But when she thought of Alexander, all she could envision was him crushing kisses to her lips after she’d poured wine all over him, lifting her to the table and making wild love to her.
The dratted love spell would not let her remember anything but the way his eyes went dark when she raised on tiptoes to kiss him, the gentleness of his touch when they lay down to sleep. She could not think of him without wanting to touch him, to feel his strength under her fingers, to taste his lips on hers.
It was so very, very distracting. Meagan had tried to pay Black Annie a surprise visit earlier today, much to her servants’ distress, because the journey to the Strand was not on her schedule. The visit had proved fruitless, Black Annie having conveniently stepped out just before Meagan arrived. The cherubic maid said she’d no idea when Black Annie would return, and Meagan had gone away to keep her other engagements.
Meagan had then spent hours undergoing keen assessment by other ambassadors’ wives at the Duchess of Cranshaw’s garden party. She had been made painfully aware that the other ladies present had been gently reared at the top of society. Except for the fact that Meagan’s stepmother had once been married to a baronet and that her best friend was now Princess Penelope of Nvengaria, Meagan had nothing in common with these women, and they made certain she knew it.
Only the Duchess of Cranshaw’s support and the fact that Meagan held the title of Grand Duchess kept her from rushing home in fury and distress. Meagan was a diplomat’s wife now, which meant she could not say what she thought and walk away in a huff. A diplomat’s wife had to be—well, diplomatic. Meagan supposed she’d learn to take their rebuffs, which were couched in the politest possible terms. Insufferable women.
Many of them regarded faraway, tiny Nvengaria as insignificant, which made Meagan very angry on Alexander’s behalf. Perhaps Nvengaria was not as large as France, but its people had a huge, indomitable spirit. She’d told the French ambassador’s wife so, earning herself a long stare through a lorgnette.
Meagan had returned to Alexander’s ostentatious house, angry at it for mocking her simple upbringing in a happy family. She’d changed into a walking dress and marched to the third floor, demanding Nikolai to show her the way to the nursery.
Now she lifted her chin and faced down the tutor. “I will explain to His Grace. You will not be blamed.”
“You do not know His Grace,” the tutor muttered.
Meagan ignored him. “Alex, would you like to go fishing with me?”
Alex slammed his Latin grammar shut and sprang from his seat. “Yes, Step-mama!”
Meagan held out her hand. She was surprised at the rush of feeling she had when Alex wrapped his small fingers around hers. She grinned and squeezed his hand. “Then let us go find some fishing poles.”
* * *
She did not, in fact, take him all the way to Hyde Park. Meagan decided, after one look at the horde of journalists gathered outside the house, that they needed to be more private, so she led Alex to the park in the center of Berkeley Square.
The park was a huge oval that ran the length of the fifteen or more houses in the square. Inside its wrought-iron fence were trees, greens, and walks for the residents who alone possessed keys.
Dominic and his men surrounded Meagan and Alex as they walked across the busy street to the gate. The journalists struggled to follow and even more passers-by joined to see what was happening. By the time they’d reached the park, quite a large crowd had gathered.
Once inside with the gate closed Meagan and Alex had a small respite, except for a few of the Berkeley Square residents who’d decided to see what they were up to. The journalists hung over the fence, taking down every move the eccentric new Grand Duchess of Nvengaria made, and passers-by climbed next to the journalists, intently curious.
“Why have we come here?” Alex asked her in curiosity. “There are no lakes or rivers.”
“No.” Meagan stopped on the path. “But there are puddles.” She pointed to a wide, flat sheet of water, made by this morning’s torrential rain. “A perfect place to learn.”
Alex eyed it doubtfully. “Will there be any fish?”
“One never knows,” Meagan said. “Here, I will show you how to fix your hook.”
Alex was an excellent pupil. He had never fished before, he said solemnly, though he had read about it in books. Meagan took up the brand new poles that Nikolai had been hastily dispatched to obtain and showed Alex how to string the pole and bait the hook. Then she showed him how to stand right at the edge of the water and flick his wrist gently to lower his hook to entice the fish.
Alex, his black hair wet with rain, copied Meagan’s movements precisely. He was much like Alexander, Meagan realized. Alexander liked to show perfection to the world, no flaw or chink in the wall surrounding him. The love spell had surmounted that wall, letting Meagan alone see the real man inside the battlements. Others feared him only because they could not see his heart.
Or perhaps, Meagan thought with an inward shake, the love spell had rendered her overly sentimental.
The journalists called questions from the fence. Some of them shouted rather rude remarks about a lady holding a long pole, which thankfully Alex did not understand. Dominic, however, glowered at them and told them what he would do to them if they didn’t take themselves off. Since Englishmen of the lower classes were not easily cowed, they shouted right back at him, hinting at what they did to foreigners what thought they were better than everyone else.