Royal Weddings(5)

“I wish you luck in your courting, then.” Finally glancing at him, she met his gaze. “Clearly your brothers will be depending on you to do your duty and find them a sister-in-law of suitable mettle.”

And, yes, she saw it in his eyes. He was—truly was—looking at her.

Looking at her like a predator, waiting for her to run.

So he could pounce.

With a polite smile, she inclined her head, but she didn’t take her eyes off him. “I’m off home. I’ll see you tonight at the dinner.”

It was his turn to make a dismissive sound. “I’ll see you to your home.”

And he did. She knew him far too well to waste breath trying to dissuade him.

When, having watched him ride off from the front porch, she finally crossed the threshold and climbed the stairs, she told herself that she should put the conversation from her mind—that when that lurking twinkle shone in Gaston Devilliers’s eyes, only a ninnyhammer would believe anything that came out of his mouth.

The problem was, only when they’d been clattering down the streets and talking about inconsequential things had that teasing twinkle returned to his eyes.



June 16, 1820, 10:00 A.M.

Duc de Perigord’s suite, Bartholomew’s Hotel, London



“So!” Having changed out of his riding clothes, washed, and redressed in appropriate attire for a day about town, Gaston put the finishing touches to his cravat. In the mirror, he caught his valet Hubert’s gaze. “What’s next on my lady’s schedule?”



June 16, 1820, noon

Florist’s shop off Covent Garden, London



Meg opened the florist’s door and led the way in. Cicely followed; they’d come from Durham House in the carriage. The interior of the shop was thick with a heady mix of floral scents. Meg scanned the dimness.

Her gaze snagged on a pair of broad shoulders.

“Damn!” she muttered beneath her breath. Gaston had escorted Juliette and her mother to the meeting.

Going forward, feeling her lips set a touch grimly, she exchanged nods with the ladies, then turned to Gaston—

He captured her hand and bowed over it with his usual exquisite grace. “Lady Margaret.”

Lips tight, ignoring the sensation elicited by his fingers clasping hers so strongly, she inclined her head formally. “Monsieur le duc. Thank you for escorting the ladies. We won’t trouble you further.”

He met her gaze; his eyes were twinkling. “It is no trouble at all, I assure you.” He exchanged a glance with the vicomtesse. “I have agreed to give a masculine opinion on this matter of flowers.”

Gaston Devilliers and flowers. Meg could think of few less likely combinations, but . . . drawing in a breath, reminding herself that the wedding was only two days away and that after that he would be gone—once again gone from her life—she determinedly turned her mind to the business at hand, namely the final approval of flowers for Juliette and her attendants to carry, for the chapel itself, and for the foyer, halls, and grand ballroom at Durham House, pressed into use for the occasion, as the de Rochers’ reception rooms were far too small.

The florist and her two assistants brought forth buckets and vases filled with the season’s blooms. The subject had been discussed ad nauseum weeks earlier, and all parties agreed to accept Meg’s recommendations. She kept the discussion to those species and varieties experience had taught her would combine well and last throughout the long day, only to have meek, mild Juliette change her mind, pout, and cling to delicate white violets that would never do.

Meg laid out the arguments against them, to no avail. Cicely bit her lip, clearly not wishing to disagree with her best friend’s choice.

The vicomtesse looked at Meg with wide eyes, and waited for her to fix it.

So it was Meg versus the bride. She inwardly sighed and opened her mouth, intending to put her foot down—

Juliette swung to Gaston. “What do you think, monsieur le duc?”

Meg clamped her lips shut. If Gaston bought into the argument on Juliette’s side, she would be able to turn her guns on an opponent more able to withstand the battering, and through attacking Gaston hopefully bring Juliette to some sense of the error of her choice—

“I . . . find I must agree with Lady Margaret, mignonne. These”—he reached out one large hand, with a blunt fingertip touched the tiny blooms, made even more tiny by the comparison—“well, you can see, can you not? These are just too small, too fragile. They send a message that you are too small and too fragile, non?” He glanced at the flowers Meg had recommended. “Roses, now—they are strong. Beautiful, elegant, but strong nonetheless. Vibrant. And they smell sweet, alluring.”