Royal Weddings(12)

Somewhat to her surprise, he remained all business and didn’t try to distract her once.

For which she was, she told herself, grateful. Just him being there beside her, large, powerful, and so intensely male, was distraction enough. Her senses seemed to have a mind of their own when it came to Gaston.

But they made an excellent job of refining the seating, deftly avoiding at least two situations that held the potential for diplomatic incidents. With the lists for the ushers at the chapel, and the diagrams detailing the placement of the place cards for the wedding breakfast—again to be held in the ballroom of Durham House—finally ready to be handed on to George, Meg sat back with a sigh. “Again, thank you.” She caught Gaston’s eye as he shifted to face her. “I couldn’t have managed that without your help.”

He smiled, his eyes surveying her.

She waited for him to pounce.

Instead, his smile deepened. “You should rest, mignonne. Such a long day as you will have tomorrow.”

Not taking her eyes from his, she shrugged. “In large part my work is done.” She waved at the lists on the low table before them. “Other than being there in case anything goes wrong, there’s nothing more I really need to do.”

The tenor of his smile changed; now it held an edge of satisfaction.

Before she could probe, a tap on the door heralded George.

“Afternoon tea, my lady?”

“Yes, thank you.” She sat up and glanced questioningly at Gaston.

Somewhat to her surprise, he nodded, accepting the unvoiced invitation. “If you please.” Elegant as ever, he lounged back against the chaise. “I was wondering . . . perhaps you might tell me what has happened to our English acquaintances over the five years since last I was here.”

An unexceptionable request. With a nod to George, she relaxed in her corner of the chaise and proceeded to regale Gaston with the major ton developments over the last five years.



June 17, 1820, 7:00 P.M., the evening before the wedding

Family Dining Room, Durham House, London



Meg settled in her chair at the dinner table, reduced to just six places . . . she frowned at the empty place set opposite hers. “I thought we were having an early, quiet, family dinner.”

At the end of the table, her mother shrugged. “Your father sent word he’s invited the gentleman presently with him to dine.”

Before Meg could ask who that gentleman was, Cicely asked her husband, Hugh, to pass the condiments, then George leaned past Meg’s shoulder to fill her water glass.

Footsteps sounded in the hall outside. Meg glanced at the doorway as her father appeared—with Gaston by his shoulder.

Her father didn’t look Meg’s way, but smiled at her mother and waved Gaston down the table, to the duchess. “My dear, allow me to present the Duc de Perigord. You will remember him from Vienna.”

Meg watched as the introductions were made, as her mother smiled, charmed by Gaston’s ready address, then Hugh rose and shook hands.

Her father glanced at her and Cicely. “I believe you two are already acquainted with His Grace.”

“Oh, yes.” Cicely favored Gaston with a bright smile. “Monsieur le duc has been helping us with the wedding.”

“Indeed.” Meg said nothing more as Gaston claimed the empty chair opposite hers.

Contrary to her expectations, however, the meal passed in easy, companionable vein. There was nothing, no incident, no slip of the tongue, no hint of any sort, to bolster her niggling suspicion that Gaston, erstwhile Chevalier Devilliers, now Duc de Perigord, was up to something.

The clocks about the house had chimed eight o’clock some time before, and the simpler than usual meal had drawn to a close when Gaston, chatting to Cicely, mentioned, “I have been given two tickets to the Theatre Royal for tonight. I understand it is the last night your great Edmund Kean will tread the boards there before departing for New York.”

Meg stared at him.

So it was no great surprise that he looked at her.

Then he smiled. “I was wondering, Lady Margaret, if you would like to accompany me. Shakespeare is not my strong suit, and I believe the play tonight is Richard the Third.”

“Yes, it is.” She’d been wanting to see it, to witness Kean in one of his signature roles before the little actor went overseas, but what with the wedding to organize, and tonight being Kean’s last, she’d given up all hope. How had Gaston known?

He arched a dark brow at her. “So you will come?”

She blinked. “I don’t know—”

Cicely made a rude, sisterly sound. “Nonsense—you’ve been working your fingers to the bone with this wedding. Now that everything is organized, there’s no reason you shouldn’t have an evening to yourself.”