The offer he hadn’t yet made.
That it was coming she no longer doubted, but he wouldn’t speak until after the wedding . . . just the thought of him speaking of marriage had her stomach contracting and a wholly unfamiliar panic closing in on her.
Unfamiliar, unprecedented.
He was the only man who had ever been able to throw her so off-balance.
She could feel his dark gaze on her face, distracting and intense. She was quite sure he wasn’t twinkling at her at the moment, but him watching her with sober seriousness was, she was discovering, even more unsettling. Instead of meeting his gaze, she leaned forward and addressed the vicomtesse. “Thank you for luncheon, madame, but I fear I must get on. I will see you at the dinner tonight.”
The vicomtesse flapped. “Indeed, indeed. We must not keep you. Thank you for all you have done for us, Lady Margaret. I have your note on my dressing table—our party will be at Durham House in good time.”
Rising, Meg looked inquiringly at Cicely.
“I’m going to keep Juliette company for the afternoon,” Cicely said.
After one glance at Juliette’s face, Meg nodded. “Yes, of course. I’ll tell George to send the carriage for you at four.” The last thing she needed was a bride-to-be in a state. Cicely could be counted on to keep Juliette sufficiently amused to avoid any panic.
Gaston had risen when she had. He touched her arm. “I will walk you to your carriage.”
Meg inclined her head, knowing it was pointless to argue. Gaston was a past master at exploiting the courtesies to his advantage.
Gallantly, he offered his arm. She laid her fingers on his sleeve and walked beside him from the room, trying very hard not to let her senses register the seductive aura of masculine strength that engulfed her. Being close to him, near enough for that aura to enfold her, had always made her feel . . . not overwhelmed, but alive.
Intoxicatingly alive.
He was the only man with whom she’d ever experienced the reaction.
Previously, when they’d met years ago, she’d been affianced to another.
She no longer was.
The damned man was going to make her choose.
To make a choice she’d avoided all those years ago.
She wouldn’t be able to avoid it—or him—this time, but, thank God, that time was not yet.
Reaching the street, she dragged in a breath, politely thanked him for his escort, let him assist her into her father’s carriage, sat, and determinedly refocused her mind on the many tasks she had awaiting her, rather than listening to a deep, faintly accented voice instructing her coachman to drive her home.
June 16, 1820, 4:00 P.M.
Front hall of Durham House, London
“The Duc de Perigord to see Lady Margaret.” Gaston handed the butler his cane and a visiting card. “I’ll wait here.”
“As you wish, Your Grace. I will inquire as to Lady Margaret’s wishes.”
Gaston swallowed a snort. He was fairly certain that Meg would not wish to see him, that she would avoid him if she could because he made her aware and nervous in a way of which she didn’t approve, but he was counting on her to at least see him face-to-face to give him his congé.
His coming there that afternoon wasn’t a part of his carefully plotted campaign, but on returning to his suite he’d been too restless to sit, too distracted to do anything but pace . . . so he’d paced there.
He’d told Meg the truth in that he’d only recently had the chance to think of the woman he should wed, but from the instant he had, the only face in his mind had been hers. He’d thought she’d married John Beaumont, hadn’t known the man had been killed, but to get her out of his system so he could get on and find someone else to take her place, he’d inquired . . . and discovered she was still unwed.
With his typically Gallic sense of fatality, that had, for him, answered the question of who he would wed. And so he’d started to plan.
Robert’s wedding had given him the perfect opportunity to make his bid to secure Meg’s hand.
But luring Meg to him, into his arms . . . that, he’d known, would take more than his title, more than a simple offer.
He and she . . . from the instant they’d first set eyes on each other in the summer of ’14, they’d known. Known that between them something extraordinary could flare. But she’d been engaged, and he’d been in no position to make a bid to steal her from Beaumont.
And now . . . now, to accept his hand would, for her, mean risking—more, laying aside—the independence she’d grown so accustomed to over the years.
It would mean taking his hand, and walking into the fire of whatever might be with him. Of surrendering to it, and him.