Royal Weddings(10)
Only to see him draw back, straightening. “Yes. We do.” His voice held to its usual deep but charming cadence; she could read nothing in his tone. “Come.” He still held her hand.
She went with him down the steps of the summerhouse.
Hand in hand, they returned to the house.
June 16, 1820, midnight
Meg’s bedchamber, Durham House, London
“Hugh said he thought it went wonderfully well. No dramas, although quite clearly the potential was there. He said to tell you you’d done your usual exceptional job.” Cicely nodded at Meg. Once more perched on the end of Meg’s bed, Cicely grinned, and went on, “You have to admit Gaston Devilliers is devastatingly handsome, entertaining, and exceedingly clever to boot.”
When Meg said nothing, Cicely thumped her on her foot, protected by the bedcovers. “I don’t understand why you’re not interested in the man. He’s any sane woman’s dream—a hellion who has settled down to manage his estates.” Slipping from the bed, Cicely spread her arms. “He has every one of Beaumont’s advantages, and ten more besides.”
“Cicely—go to bed.” Meg lowered her lids; she’d had enough. As the youngest child, Cicely had always been tenacious.
She could almost feel Cicely’s glare as she stood, hands on hips, and pulled a face at her.
“All right—I’m going.” Cicely walked toward the door. “But I wonder if you can answer me this—what is it you don’t like about Gaston Devilliers?” Turning at the door, she said, “If you can answer me that, I’ll promise not to tease you anymore.”
Meg kept her eyes almost shut, and pretended not to hear.
Cicely humphed, opened the door and went out.
Meg reached out and snuffed her candle, then composed herself for sleep. She was determined not to think of Cicely’s question, not to think about Gaston at all, and especially not to think about that kiss . . .
Just the words brought the sensations flooding back, overwhelming her senses. She would, she felt sure, never forget that kiss, so subtle, so . . . expert.
She had no doubt at all that when it came to seduction, Gaston would be a past master. But contrary to Cicely’s assumption, she did know the answer to her question.
The thing—the one thing—she didn’t like about Gaston Devilliers was that he was, put simply, too much. Too male. Too arrogant, too dangerous. Too strong, too self-willed.
Too much like her.
Too much for her to cope with, to interact with and keep her feet firmly on the ground. That kiss, for instance, had swept her from this world and into some other.
Just being close to him was enough to make her feel . . . no longer in control.
Gaston Devilliers affected her like a whirlwind, sweeping her into a landscape she didn’t know, showing her a self she didn’t truly recognize.
She knew the temptation he posed, but accepting any offer he might make . . . while being with him, in his arms, might be exciting, enthralling, intoxicating, it would entail letting go. Trusting, and letting go.
And that was a challenge she wasn’t sure she would ever be ready to face.
Accepting Beaumont had been easy; she’d known that with him she would always, in every possible sphere, remain herself, remain in full control.
Gaston . . . being with Gaston would be like riding the wild wind.
Ten minutes later, irritated with herself, she put him out of her mind and refocused instead on the royal wedding she had one more day to perfect.
June 17, 1820, 11:00 A.M., the day before the wedding
Music Room, Durham House, London
“No, no, no!” Meg waved her hands, halting Juliette and Robert, who were practicing their waltzing in preparation for the next day. “Robert, you cannot drop your shoulders. And Juliette, you must keep your spine straight.”
It had never occurred to her that two people of Robert and Juliette’s age might not be at least passably creditable on the dance floor.
Cicely sat at the piano, hands poised above the keys. Meg could feel her sympathy equally divided between the three of them—Robert, Juliette, and herself. Cicely could see as well as Meg could that the pair were not sufficiently well-versed in the waltz to risk them on a crowded floor, much less have them go down the room all on their own in the wedding waltz, with everyone staring at them; as matters stood, that was a sure recipe for disaster.
The dancing master, Mr. Phipps, had already washed his hands of them and departed.
Setting her hands on her hips, Meg pressed her lips tight, and wondered what else she could do. She didn’t have the option of not having a wedding waltz; this was a royal wedding and everyone would expect everything to be up to the mark. There was no help for it; Robert and Juliette had to improve, and had not much more than a day in which to do it—