The Mad, Bad Duke (Nvengaria #2)(94)

“Oh, I am sorry.”

Egan shook himself. “Listen to me go on. It’s me own troubles, lass. Don’t be bothering about them.” He pasted on his Mad Highlander smile and held out his hand to her. “Now, let’s go have a good knees-up.”

Meagan tried to look reassuring in return, but she was troubled. An insurrection, however minor, would put Penelope in danger, no matter that Damien, and apparently Alexander, thought the matter easily solved. It was disconcerting being connected with such powerful men.

But the wife of a powerful man pretended not to let such things trouble her. Lifting her chin, Meagan sailed into the ballroom with Egan, where they slid into the roles of the entertaining Mad Highlander and the lofty new Grand Duchess of Nvengaria.



* * *



Alexander saw Meagan enter with Egan, both of them smiling merrily over some shared joke, and envied the easy camaraderie Egan seemed to engender. Camaraderie was not for Alexander of Nvengaria.

All eyes turned to the new Grand Duchess, lovely in her silver and midnight blue gown. Egan had her possessively on his arm, but the gentlemen of London began to flow to her from all sides of the room, like moths attracted to a particularly colorful flame.

Alexander watched it happen as he had at the French ambassador’s ball, the first they’d attended as man and wife. The gentlemen’s attentions at first bewildered Meagan, then she found them amusing, then she blossomed under them. He watched her begin to realize her power, how she only had to flick her fingers and the young bloods would run to fetch her whatever she asked.

She smiled at them, not flirting, but rewarding them when they pleased her. He watched her tell a few gentlemen to pick out this young lady or that and dance with them, and the gentlemen rushed to do the bidding of their newfound goddess.

Alexander did not miss the dark glances some of the bolder gentlemen shot Alexander as he went about his duties as host. He had the feeling he would once again have to propose a shooting exhibition to deter too many tiresome requests for duels.

The ball continued. Alexander noted that Michael Tavistock kept his wife reined in so she did not throw herself too much on the king and the royal dukes or the Duke of Wellington. Alexander escorted Simone Tavistock to supper himself, letting her squeeze his arm and behave as though they’d been intimate friends forever. He understood that she was rubbing her rivals’ noses in her new position, and Alexander knew all about keeping rivals on their toes.

The supper was a lavish banquet the staff had worked on for days. The tables and sideboards were heavily laden with pheasant, fish, roasts, goose, duck, ham, pullets, soups clear and cream, jellied consommés, bright greens and salads, sauces of every flavor, and bowls overflowing with apples, grapes, pears, and hothouse strawberries.

The centerpiece of the main table looked like something from a gothic cathedral—a small square fountain with five tiers of carved wooden angels and gargoyles that rose to an apex high above the table. Water spilled down the angels and gargoyles, spinning wheels which rang soft bells, so that the whole thing was a musical accompaniment.

“Oh, how clever,” Simone Tavistock said at his side. “Meagan did so well on all the arrangements, did she not?”

“She did,” Alexander said, unable to keep the note of pride from his voice.

Simone took on a smile of delight. “She was so very well raised, dear girl, by her father all alone, but countrified, quite countrified. Of course once I became her mother I took her in hand and gave her a dose of polish. She had a fine foundation and all it needed was my touch to bring out the best in her. Do you not think she turned out well, Your Grace?”

Alexander’s gaze strayed to Meagan as she walked to the supper table on the arm of the very portly King George, slowing her steps to match his. She glanced at Alexander, saw him with her stepmother, and sent him a smile that warmed his heart.

“Meagan is an exquisite young woman,” Alexander agreed. Simone preened, as though Alexander paid her a compliment.

Supper commenced and flowed on predictably. Alexander was forced to speak with every lady but his wife, and Meagan spoke to every gentleman but her husband.

Alexander noted that Egan and Michael Tavistock hovered close to Meagan, which gave him some relief. They’d protect her, and that pirate turned viscount—Stoke—looked as though he’d be good in a fight as well. Alexander could trust Myn to keep an eye out for von Hohenzahl during the ball, and afterward Alexander would deal with the man.

Perhaps Alexander would let Anastasia “sell” him to von Hohenzahl, however much Meagan protested, and then turn the tables on his captor, wrap him in ropes, and deliver him to von Hohenzahl’s beloved Prince Metternich. That would be the end of von Hohenzahl. Metternich was a ruthless man, much like Alexander, and he did not look kindly upon bumblers.

First, Alexander needed to get through the supper then the rest of the affair without giving into the temptation of sweeping Meagan into his arms and carrying her upstairs.

“Yes of course,” he said with the half-attention he’d been paying the marquis across from him. “English cricket is quite an interesting game, I agree. Tell me more.”



* * *



After supper came the exhibition dancing the Nvengarians had been practicing all week. Meagan stood with Egan as the men formed a circle in the center of the ballroom, unsheathed swords in their hands. The swords were plenty sharp—Nikolai had assured Meagan continuously on that point.