The Mad, Bad Duke (Nvengaria #2)(84)
Alexander opened his mouth to snap at Nikolai to, yes, take everything, then he stopped. “No, leave it. She’s gone to so much trouble.”
“Two hours she was in here, Your Grace.”
Alexander sent his valet a chill stare. “That will be all, Nikolai.”
“Yes, Your Grace.” Nikolai hastily withdrew, looking pleased, leaving Alexander alone with his rose-strewn bed.
Seduction Number Twenty-Eight. Flower petals on the sheets, the room candlelit and cozy, a single red rose to signify the heart. A handkerchief just touched with the scent she liked to wear.
Number Twenty-Eight wasn’t meant for physical lovemaking between husband and wife. It was meant to bathe the senses of the husband and remind him of the wife when she was absent.
He will contemplate nothing but her when awake and dream of her when he sleeps.
As though Alexander needed impetus to dream of Meagan. Did she believe him made of stone?
Alexander stripped off his dressing gown, then after a moment’s thought, his nightshirt. Kicking off his slippers, Alexander walked bare to the bed and looked down at it. He imagined Meagan tucked up in her own bed across the house, her red curls tangled on the pillow, a satisfied smile on her face.
Slowly Alexander lifted the covers and slid between the sheets, feeling the silk of the rose petals drift against his skin. He nestled down in the pillows and touched the handkerchief Meagan had left on the pillow. She’d scented it with the light, spicy perfume she preferred.
Alexander blew out the candles near his bed and closed his eyes, the unusual smells and textures cradling his body.
His dreams of his wife that night were very erotic and in no way brutal or frightening.
* * *
The preparations for the Grand Duke and Duchess’ ball swept Meagan into a new world. Thank heavens, she thought time and again, for Mrs. Caldwell and Simone. Not to mention the eager helpfulness of her footmen.
Mrs. Caldwell knew exactly what florists and food suppliers to bully, Simone knew exactly who should be invited and who to snub, and Gaius, Marcus, and Brutus happily ran all over London fetching things then returned home to carry them up and down flights of stairs and around and about the house without complaint.
Being mistress of a grand house, Meagan discovered, was all about making choices. Mrs. Caldwell or Mr. Edwards presented her with lists of musicians, types of flowers, colors of bunting to drape in the ballroom, or menus of food and wine, and Meagan decided what she thought would be best.
At home in her father’s house, Meagan’s choices had been much simpler. Roberts would stumble into a room sometime in the afternoon and blurt, “Cook wants to know if we should have mutton stew or what’s left of yesterday’s roast for dinner.”
In Alexander’s house, Mrs. Caldwell laid down long menus in French, listing dishes Meagan had never heard of. Simone, fortunately, knew what most of them were and what wines Meagan should order to go with them.
“My first husband could be a horrible, penny-pinching miser when it suited him,” Simone said one afternoon during the flurry of preparations, “but he did know a great deal about food and wine. It was only me, my dear, he’d admonish to practice the greatest economies. His chef could throw about the most expensive ingredients imaginable, but I had to account for every penny spent on every inch of ribbon, can you credit it? When Sir Hilton Trask passed I purchased a pair of extravagantly expensive gloves and wore them to the funeral.”
Nikolai also became an advisor Meagan, declaring that the ball should be “very Nvengarian.”
“What does that mean, exactly?” Meagan asked him in trepidation.
Nikolai stood stiffly in her private sitting room, his hands behind his back, the afternoon sunlight catching on his dark hair. “We should show these English people how a ball is done. Have all the Nvengarians in the house perform the traditional sword dance. It is very exciting.”
Anything to do with Nvengarians and swords tended to be exciting, but not perhaps in the way a Mayfair hostess would wish it to be. “Sword dance?” Meagan repeated. “And how many are skewered during this ritual?”
Nikolai laughed, his eyes sparkling. “Only the bad dancers are skewered, and only if they make a mistake. The sword dance takes much skill, and to see it performed is the greatest pleasure.”
“It sounds—er—lovely.”
“We all are trained in the art of the sword dance from childhood, even His Grace,” Nikolai said proudly. “But you and His Grace will perform the traditional dance of the married couple, of course, the dance of the lord and lady.”
Meagan’s heart beat faster, but she hid her nerves behind a calm fa?ade. Alexander wasn’t the only one who could do so. “I am afraid I don’t know this dance.”
“No matter. His Grace will teach you.” Nikolai’s expression took on a faraway look. “I well remember the balls of my former master and mistress. Guests would come from miles around, every baron, count, and duke in the land. A hundred and one men would perform the Nvengarian sword dance, and the maidens would dance together, all in colors like butterflies. Ah, it was a sight to see.”
“This was the philandering baron whose wife later took a knife to him?” Meagan asked, touching her pen to her lower lip.
“Yes,” Nikolai nodded. “The baron was not a good man, but he did know how to host a ball.”