As he walked—prowled, the man never simply walked—to his place in the line, she looked down at her list, grasped the pencil tied to her wrist and, lips compressed, wrote in capitals beside the name Duc de Perigord: GASTON.
June 15, 1820, 11:00 P.M.
Meg’s bedchamber, Durham House, London
“Thank you, Peggy. That will be all.”
“Yes, miss. Good night.”
Rising from her dressing stool and crossing to her bed, Meg heard the door shut behind her maid. Snuffing the single candle left on her bedside table, she let her robe slide from her shoulders, then slipped beneath the covers. Laying her head on her pillow, she stared at the ceiling.
She was about to let her mind slide to the topic she had until then not allowed it to explore, when soft footsteps approached her door, followed by a gentle tap.
The door opened and Cicely’s blond head appeared. “You’re not asleep yet, are you?” Without waiting for any answer, clad in a dressing robe, Cicely came in, shut the door, then glided to the bed and perched on its end, drawing up her knees and hugging them. “I thought the rehearsal went well, didn’t you? No dramas, no histrionics, and while Juliette and Robert were a trifle shaky, thanks to your notes everyone knew what they had to do.”
Cicely was Juliette’s matron of honor, so had been at the chapel, too. As matters stood, at the end of the ceremony it was Cicely who would walk up the aisle on Gaston Devilliers’s arm.
As if already thinking of that, Cicely leaned closer, over her knees, as if to share a confidence. “I wanted to ask about the Duc de Perigord. Gaston. You knew him from before, didn’t you?”
Stifling a sigh, Meg replied, “He was by Louis’s side through the Victory Celebrations in ’14, then we met again the following year, in Vienna during the Congress.”
Cicely pulled a face. “You were engaged to John then, but even you must admit Gaston is . . . well, breathtaking. He literally steals one’s breath. Those shoulders, those eyes, those . . . well, in truth it’s hard to find any element one might better.”
“His ego.”
“Really?” Cicely opened her eyes wide. “I hadn’t noticed.”
“Perhaps not quite that.” Meg had to admit that was uncalled for; one thing Gaston did not have was an overinflated view of himself. She tried to remember all the things about him that invariably got under her skin and itched. “He’s high-handed, arrogant, and exceedingly used to getting his own way. He’s stubborn, immovable, but he’s also wily and cunning—if he can’t go through, he’ll go around, or over, or under. But he always ends up where he wants to be.”
Cicely looked at her, then laughed. “You’ve just described yourself, sister dear.”
Meg humphed. “Perhaps. But all in all, Gaston is a pest. He . . . gets in my way.” That was it in a nutshell; he got in her way, and wouldn’t get out of it no matter what she did.
“Ah, but you have to admit he’s a handsome, charming, and really quite delectable pest.”
Meg leveled her gaze on her sister. “Might I remind you that you’re married, and that Hugh will be in the congregation?”
“I might be married, but I’m neither blind nor deaf—any female would have to be both not to notice and appreciate Gaston Devilliers.”
Meg didn’t wish to argue that.
Cicely went on, “Geoffrey told me of Gaston’s exploits at Waterloo. And apparently his estates are substantial.”
Meg didn’t want to know. She faked a yawn. “Good night, Cicely.”
Cicely sighed and got up. “All right, I’ll leave you. But you have to admit that Gaston being Robert’s cousin has made this wedding much more interesting.”
Much more . . . trying was the word that sprang to Meg’s mind.
If she’d had any easy way out of the arrangement, she would have taken it, but as she had promised, and everyone—including the government and the palace—were counting on her, she would persevere.
Once Cicely had departed and shut the door again, Meg closed her eyes, and refused, adamantly refused, to think any more about an irritating Frenchman called Gaston.
Somewhat to her surprise, she slid easily into sleep . . . but the damned man followed her into her dreams.
June 16, 1820, 8:00 A.M., two days before the wedding
Rotten Row, Hyde Park, London
Ladies were not permitted to ride at a flat gallop down Rotten Row.
Meg didn’t exactly have special dispensation, but she was twenty-eight years old, long past her last prayers, and the hour at which she galloped was too early for any but the most hardened horsemen and horsewomen to see her, and as she was an exceptional horsewoman, they turned a blind eye. Or rather, they watched with open appreciation as, perched sidesaddle on her big gray’s back, she thundered down the tan track.