The Mad, Bad Duke (Nvengaria #2)(63)
“I suppose it is a joke. It was said of Lord Byron that he was mad, bad, and dangerous to know. Lady Carolyn Lamb said that about him—she behaved quite scandalously. I suppose whoever began that name for you is implying you are dangerous.” Meagan drew a breath. “Which is true.”
“I met Byron,” Alexander said. “He traveled briefly to Nvengaria before he went to Greece. I thought him portly and full of himself.”
Meagan suppressed a laugh. “Apparently, he was quite the ladies’ man. All the women chased him.”
Alexander looked skeptical. “They read his poetry, perhaps, and wove romantic stories about the man who wrote it. I also heard he preferred young men.”
“I have no idea. Papa would never let me read Lord Byron’s poems.” Meagan shot her husband an impish grin. “But I did anyway, under the covers at night. Papa said they were lewd.”
“She walks in beauty, like the night,” Alexander said softly.
Meagan stopped. The words, spoken in his low, silken voice, caught at her heart. “What did you say?”
“It is a poem of his. Very apt, I think.” The darkness in his eyes held her. The love spell chose to remind Meagan that moment how Alexander’s lips had felt when he’d pressed open-mouthed kisses across her breasts.
Alexander skimmed his gaze over the silk gown that bared her shoulders and the soft round of her bosom, the diamonds that rested against her white skin. He leaned forward and drew his gloved fingers along her neck, caressing the line of freckles.
“Alexander,” she said longingly.
The carriage slowed then jerked to a halt.
“Damn it all,” Alexander said feelingly. He drew back, his hand curling to a fist once more, and looked away as the footman outside jerked open the door, letting the cold of the evening spill into the heated coach.
Chapter 17
An hour later, Alexander pretended to listen to a Prussian count complain about everything English while he let his thoughts be pulled to Meagan.
Though she stood all the way across the vast room and not in his line of sight, Alexander knew that she’d raised a wine-glass to her lips and smiled over it, that her apricot-colored gown clung to her shoulders and breasts like a stream of water, that her warm red hair swept upward to reveal her long, kissable neck, with its faint smattering of freckles which embarrassed her.
He wanted to taste those freckles again, to run his tongue over the uneven line of faint dots, reveling in her warmth and beauty.
How did I live before I knew this woman?
Alexander knew he ought to stay away from her. Encounters like the one this afternoon were fairly safe—he’d made love to her quickly, and then Meagan had hurried from the room, throwing a smile over her shoulder as she’d gone. If he did not linger too long with her, perhaps everything would be all right.
But Alexander wanted to bury himself in her and not come out. When he was with Meagan, love spell or no, he was complete. In his entire life, he had never been so complete.
He wanted to be next to her now, his arm around her, letting every man in the room know she was under his protection.
Alexander half turned to watch as three gentlemen joined the small group of ladies to whom she chatted, obviously demanding an introduction to the new Grand Duchess. Alexander’s blood burned. He’d known it would happen, that once Meagan’s beauty was revealed to the gentlemen of London society they’d be smitten. Meagan had not taken very seriously his warning that she would be approached by such gentlemen who wanted a paramour, and that she had to be careful whom she chose. Alexander had meant every word of it.
“Ah,” the Prussian ambassador said, interrupting him. “There is Lady Anastasia Dimitri. You would never find such beauty in an Englishwoman. The pure Germanic strain is best, I have always thought.”
Alexander glanced across the ballroom to where Anastasia had entered on the arm of the French ambassador. She spoke perfect French, and by the look of things had the ambassador entranced.
“Excuse me,” Alexander said and began moving across the room to her. Heads turned as he went by, lorgnettes rose, quizzing glasses came out—the guests anticipated a scandal and readied themselves to enjoy it.
Alexander stepped in front of Anastasia and bowed. “My lady.” He took her hand and pressed a kiss to it then nodded a greeting to the ambassador. The Frenchman inclined his head with poor grace.
“There is a waltz beginning,” Alexander said, “and none dance it better than Lady Anastasia Dimitri.”
The French ambassador understood the message and stiffly handed Anastasia over. The ambassador moved off to his other guests, and Alexander took Anastasia to the middle of the floor and pulled her into the dance.
Anastasia laughed as they began to whirl. She said to him in Nvengarian, “My friend, you have just fed the ton delicious scandal. Taking your mistress out for a waltz, not only in front of your new wife but before you have danced with her. They will feed on it for some time.”
“Good. I do not need them chattering about my real purpose.”
“Your wife might disagree.” She glanced at Meagan, who was following Alexander’s movements on the floor with a rather wistful expression on her face.
“I have explained things to Meagan and she understands,” Alexander said uncomfortably. “She is intelligent.” He couldn’t keep the fondness from his voice.