Meg swallowed. Until the duchess had come to call, the Lynton sisters had laughed at his outrageous exploits, but now it was serious. He’ll eat her alive! Meg heard the echo of the duchess’s cackle in her mind and looked again at Rose, who was picking the lace off the edge of the handkerchief.
Rose had far more experience of men than she did. The local lads had come to call after Papa’s death. There were poems and flowers and billets-doux left at the kitchen door daily for Rose. She had even allowed a lad or two to hold her hand. Rose loved to be the center of attention, and she played with her admirers as other girls played with dolls.
Meg had only her imagination of what a poem written in her honor might say, and what it would be like to be kissed by the Devil of Temberlay, loved by him. Her face flamed at such improper thoughts, and she turned away to fetch another dry handkerchief for Rose. In a fortnight, he’d be her sister’s husband. Somehow she doubted a man with a soubriquet like Devil was the type who wrote poetry, and Rose would wither and die if she was not the center of his world.
The countess swept into the room without knocking, and Meg pushed the scandal sheet into her pocket.
The countess looked at Rose in annoyance. “Still sulking? I had hoped you would understand what is at stake. Hector says if we do not have money soon, we will lose Wycliffe Park entirely. Would you see us all crammed into a tiny cottage in the village? I’d be a laughingstock, and poor Marguerite would be forced to find paid employment to support us!”
Meg stifled a frisson of annoyance. There was no talk of Rose going to work. Rose was too silly to be anyone’s governess, and too lovely to use her hands for anything but waving to admirers.
“You won’t get a better offer than this,” Flora warned. “If you reject a duke, other gentlemen will think you overly particular, and no one at all will want you.”
Rose burst into fresh tears. “I am to be sacrificed!”
Flora’s complexion reddened. “You are marrying a duke! That’s hardly torture!”
“He’s the devil!” Rose moaned.
To Meg, he seemed more like a hero on a white horse, riding to their rescue in the nick of time. She hated the privations they’d been forced to endure in the year since her father had died. She had taken control while her mother retreated into nervous illness and grief. She was the one who sold the silver and the paintings and dismissed the servants one by one so her mother could afford to live the life she was accustomed to for as long as possible. Mama was the perfect example of Papa’s philosophy. Without Meg’s practicality and Hector’s advice, they would have lost Wycliffe much sooner than this.
“Get up and dry your tears at once,” Flora ordered Rose. “We must leave for London tomorrow at first light to see about having wedding clothes made.” When Rose continued to stare at the wall mutinously, she turned to Meg. “You had better come as well, Marguerite. I’ll need your help. Once Rose is married, and we have funds again, we’ll hire more staff, but until then, I must continue to depend upon you to manage things.”
Meg felt excitement rush through her. Not only was that the closest thing to a compliment her mother had paid her for her hard work since Papa’s death, it meant she would see London, attend the wedding, and meet the Devil of Temberlay in the flesh. “Oh, Mama—”
“Rose, will you wear the blue gown or the yellow?” Flora asked.
“Don’t sacrificial virgins wear white?” Rose asked.
Flora threw up her hands. “Marguerite, you do the packing. Rose is far too overcome by joy to see to it herself.”
“Obviously,” Meg muttered.
Flora moved to the bureau, only to be distracted by the mirror. She smoothed the wrinkles from her forehead. “Rose will make a beautiful bride, and I shall stand out as her radiant mama,” she said, as if trying to convince herself. She swept out of the room, calling for Amy to see to her own packing.