The Capture of the Earl of Glencrae (49 page)

Was all and more than she'd ever dreamt his kiss might be.

His lips moved on hers, confident, yet not urgent.

She felt his fingers touch, trace her jaw, frame it, his hand resting heavy against her throat. His other hand blindly reached and found her hand; his fingers twined with hers, held tight as the delicate, enthralling, intoxicating caress spun on.

Moonlight and madness, silver and gold, spun in a web and snared her.

She parted her lips, wanted and needed, to feel, to know, to experience.

She felt him drag in a breath, then slowly, to the beat of their hearts, his tongue slid between and he showed her. Claimed her.

The moment spun out, crystal and sharp, and achingly sweet.

No rush, no pressure, no overwhelming heat.

Just pleasure.

It drew her on, forward, inexorable and inevitable.

Until she stood teetering on some indefinable edge.

She drew back, breathless, wide-eyed.

Unable to do anything but stare through the dimness into his night-dark eyes.

She searched, but couldn't see, could sense nothing more than her heart beating, heated and hot, beneath her skin, in her fingertips, in her lips. She eased back a fraction more, settling back from her toes to her heels, realizing only then that she had stretched up to him. She moistened her lips. “I—we—have to get back.” She glanced fleetingly at the lighted drawing room windows, at the glittering throng within, but immediately looked back at him.

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

“H
ugh 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

“N
o, no, no!” Meg waved her hands, halting Juliette and Robert, who were practicing their waltzing in preparation for the next day. “Robert, you can
not
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—

“There you are.”

She heard the door close and glanced around as Gaston came strolling toward her.

His gaze raked her face. “What's wrong?”

Without looking away from him, Meg gestured at the young couple wilting before her. “They can't waltz—or at least, not well enough. And I can't think how to help them.”

Gaston looked at the pair, then at Cicely, then turned back to Meg. “Simple. We'll show them.”

Courtesy of Cicely, the waltz rang out again. Before Meg could gather her wits, Gaston had gathered her into his arms—and they were moving, effortlessly sweeping down the floor.

Instinctively, her body matched his, step for step, sweeping stride for stride. She could feel her skirts playing out around her, just as they should. His lean, muscled strength held her caged, yet was perfectly gauged so that she didn't feel trapped, yet following his lead required not the smallest thought.

She shut her mouth, narrowed her eyes at him—but he merely smiled and continued waltzing, whirling her around, then steering her through a swift, sweeping turn. The temptation to close her eyes and savor was very real.

Dancing with him was all pleasure.

Satisfied she wasn't going to balk, or even try to pretend she couldn't or shouldn't waltz with him, Gaston raised his head and nodded to Robert. “Like this. Do as I do—exactly as I do. Match your body, your movements, to mine.” He switched his gaze to Juliette and smiled encouragingly. “You must stop thinking about how others will see you,
mignonne.
Just mimic Meg, and all will go well.”

Lowering his voice so only Meg could hear, he murmured, “When I call Juliette
mignonne,
I mean dainty and delicate. When I call you
mignonne,
I mean something else.” Reassured the other two were doing as he'd bid them, he looked down and met her eyes. “Your butler, George, told me the dancing master was here but left. Why didn't you demonstrate with him?”

“Because Phipps is half a head shorter than me.” She pressed her lips together as if to hold back more, but when he arched his brows, added, “Me dancing with Phipps would only have confused Robert and Juliette even more. Phipps might be the most expert dancing master in the ton, but whenever I dance with him,
I
invariably end up leading.”

Gaston barked out a laugh, then, eyes still laughing, tightened his hold on her. “That will never be a problem when you dance with me,
mignonne
.”

Ignoring the fact that he was now holding her too closely, that she could feel every seductive shift of his powerful body against hers, that she was exquisitely aware of the muscled length of his thigh parting hers as they whirled, Meg sniffed, tipped her nose in the air and fought not to let her senses swoon with delight as he swung her through another turn.

By the end of the following hour Robert and Juliette were waltzing quite creditably.

And Meg felt breathless, exhilarated, her senses swept dizzyingly high on pure pleasure.

June 17, 1820, 2:00
P.M.

Durham House, London

T
he five of them shared a light luncheon, then Cicely took Juliette home, under strict instructions to ensure the bride rested for the remainder of that day and the coming night in preparation for her big day.

In the front hall, Robert bowed over Meg's hand. “Thank you, Lady Margaret—I do not know how we would have managed without your help.”

Meg squeezed his fingers. “Thank me tomorrow, after it's all over.”

Releasing her, Robert grinned at Gaston. “I must away and polish the ring.”

“Aha! Don't forget to give the ring to Gaston.” Meg wagged a finger at them both. “I do not want any nasty surprises when you're standing before the altar.”

Robert glanced at Gaston, as if unsure what their arrangements were.

“Do not worry,” Gaston said. “We have all that sorted out.”

Robert smiled, nodded, and left.

As George closed the door, Meg turned to Gaston, expecting him to take his leave, too.

He met her gaze, his expression sober. “I suggest,
mignonne,
that I help you finalize the seating arrangements for the chapel and the wedding breakfast. There are more people attending that you do not know, and many hidden dangers.”

As that was precisely the task she'd been about to wrestle with, and his knowledge of the French attendees was exactly what she needed, Meg accepted with a graceful nod. “Thank you. Your help would be appreciated.”

She hoped the look she cast him was warning enough that she would not appreciate any distraction.

He certainly saw it; his lips curved slightly, but all he did was wave her down the corridor to the library.

Once again they sat on the chaise and pored over her lists.

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

M
eg 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.