The Capture of the Earl of Glencrae by Stephanie Laurens
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 an 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.”
“Indeed,” the duchess weighed in. “It will do you good to spend an evening as a daughter of this house should, and not giving yourself eyestrain scribbling yet more lists.”
“It’s very kind of Perigord to make the offer,” her father drawled.
Meg heard the unstated in her father’s tone, that Gaston was, in noble terms, her father’s equal, and a guest under his roof. As Gaston had requested her company on such an unexceptionable outing, she would need a very good reason to refuse.
Gaston’s smile deepened a fraction; from this angle, she couldn’t tell whether his eyes were twinkling, but she rather thought they were. “You told me yourself that your work with the wedding is done.”
So she had; the memory of the fleeting satisfaction she’d seen in his eyes at the time had her narrowing hers.
He made a graceful gesture. “Consider the outing as an expression of thanks from Robert’s family.”
And that was the nail in the coffin. There was, patently, no reasonable excuse she could offer for not accepting. Matching him for graciousness, she inclined her head. “Thank you, monsieur le duc. I will be pleased to accompany you.” Glancing at the clock—noticing he did the same—she then met his eyes over the table. “If we want to catch the farce, I suggest we leave now.” She rose, and the men rose with her. “If you will excuse me for a moment, I’ll fetch my cloak.” She dipped her head to her parents. “Mama. Papa.”
Turning from the table, she walked from the room.
June 17, 1820, 9:00 P.M.
Private box, Theatre Royal, Drury Lane, London
The tickets Gaston had were for a coveted private box in the second tier; it commanded an unparalleled view of the stage.
They’d arrived just after the commencement of the farce, and had taken their seats at the front of the box in the muted light from the stage. Meg was watchful, wondering, thrown off-balance yet again and left with no notion what to think.
Could this truly be the coincidence Gaston and everyone else seemed to expect her to believe it was, or was it part of some devilish scheme on his part?
She couldn’t imagine how he might have learned she’d so wanted to see this show, but the silliness of the farce distracted her, then, when the curtain came down and the lights strengthened, she discovered that Gaston had arranged for champagne to be served.
A bare instant after she took her first sip, a tap on the door of the box heralded the first of the curious ton who, presuming on acquaintance with her, wished to make the acquaintance of her so-interesting host. Long- and well-drilled in the ways of society and diplomacy, she stood beside Gaston and made the introductions. Grateful that he could hold his own once that had been done, she merely lent an ear to the conversations, ready to step in if required, otherwise enjoying the truly excellent champagne.
She was, of course, interested enough to note that Gaston’s responses to the numerous probing questions over his involvement with the French court never deviated from what he had told her. It seemed he had truly retired from court life, and was now deeply involved with furthering not just his own estates, but the commerce of the region in which they lay. Several rueful remarks as to his lack of a direct heir confirmed that his commitment to his brothers, his family, and to the task of securing his wife, was quite genuine.
At last the lights dimmed, and those still in the box made hurried farewells and departed.
Seating her again, then sliding into the chair beside her, Gaston smiled. “Thank you, mignonne. I knew I was right in asking you to accompany me—I would never have been able to weather that barrage without your assistance.”
Eyes fixed on the rising curtain, she sipped, then said, “Consider it repayment for your assistance with the wedding.”
He merely inclined his head. A sidelong glance showed her that his attention, too, was now fixed on the stage.
When Kean appeared, everyone applauded, then fell silent. Fell under the man’s spell, one he wove with consummate mastery.
Meg was wholly caught. At one point she felt Gaston lift her empty glass from her slack fingers, then his hand returned to close, warm and anchoring, around hers.
She shouldn’t have allowed the familiarity, but couldn’t summon sufficient willpower to sever the contact. Through it, she sensed that he, too, was captured by the veteran actor’s performance, that he, too, felt the sudden tensions elicited by the plot.
As the drama unfolded, she shifted closer, let her shoulder lean comfortably against his as together they watched, rapt, trapped in the moment.
When the play finally ended and Kean took his bow, they rose as one—with most of the rest of the audience—to applaud and call their bravos.
Finally, the curtain came down and the lights flared. Meg drew in a huge breath, slowly exhaled. And realized she felt refreshed, alive. Restored.
She hadn’t thought about the blasted royal wedding for hours.
Turning to Gaston, she smiled, openly letting her delight show. “Thank you. That was wonderful—it was everything I hoped the performance would be.”
He returned her smile, his eyes warm. “Bon.” He held up her cloak. “Come—our carriage
She laughed, took his arm and let him lead her to the door.
June 17, 1820, midnight
Bartholomew’s Hotel, London
When the carriage drew up before the ornate front door of Bartholomew’s Hotel, Meg turned her head and arched a brow at Gaston, seated opposite. The carriage was one of her father’s; she hadn’t bothered listening to the orders Gaston had given the coachman.
His expression relaxed, but his lips and, as far as she could tell, his eyes unsmiling, he reached for the door latch, opened the door, and stepped down to the pavement.
Waving back the doorman, he turned and held out his hand to her. “If you would humor me, mignonne, there is a matter I believe we should discuss.”
Every suspicion and premonition that had slid through her mind in recent days came rushing to the fore. She stared at him.
His hand remained steady, his gaze locked with hers. “I believe we would both prefer to discuss the matter in private.”
She knew precisely what he—impossible man—wished to discuss, but wasn’t at all sure she was ready to discuss that particular topic with him, and certainly not alone with him in a hotel.
But he didn’t shift, didn’t move, simply waited. He was—as she’d foreseen—going to make her choose.
One dark brow faintly arched. “The carriage, of course, will wait.”
So what had she to fear? The light from the gas lamps fell over him, illuminating the challenge, clear and bright, that gleamed in his dark eyes.
He was manipulating her, yet . . . this moment, this discussion, she’d known it would come.
She just hadn’t expected him to make such a move before the wedding.
Lifting her chin, she reached out and grasped his hand. “Very well.” She allowed him to help her from the carriage, then, head high, walked by his side, her hand on his arm, into the fashionable hotel.
He took her upstairs to the privacy and quiet of the sitting room of a large suite. Other than with her brothers, she’d never been alone with a man in such a setting, but she was twenty-eight, and had needed no chaperon to visit the theater with him.
She allowed him to remove her cloak, then walked forward to place her reticule on the low table before the sofa, reflecting that it was just as well there was no one else present to witness what came next.
Somewhat to her surprise, he didn’t light a lamp. Instead, after studying her for an instant, he prowled to the window. Pushing aside the flimsy drapes, he looked out.
When he didn’t say anything, didn’t turn back to her, drawn, she crossed the room to his side.
As she joined him before the window, he said, “This window looks south. Far away, beyond London, beyond Paris, far over the horizon lies Perigord. And deep in that province lie my estates, waiting for me to return.”
He shifted his gaze to her face. She felt it, but didn’t yet meet it.
“I am already on borrowed time. I must leave tomorrow.”
She nodded. “After the wedding.”
“No—before.”
That had her turning her head, looking into his face, searching his eyes.
“I didn’t come to London for the wedding, Meg. I came for you.”
A plethora of minor observations suddenly fell into place, but with her heart already thumping, already lost in his dark gaze, she wasted no time on them. “Why?”
“Because I need you.”
“You need a wife.”
“No—I need you. I have never wanted any other woman as mine, only you.” He paused, then went on, “But when I first saw you, you were Beaumont’s. He wanted you, and you wanted him.” He held her gaze steadily. “I knew even then, but”—he shrugged fatalistically—“there was nothing I could do. I was a mere chevalier in an exiled prince’s train. I had no title, little wealth, no estates. I had nothing to offer you, and no right to interfere.
“But Beaumont is long dead, yet you are still here.” He tipped his head. “Why is that?”
He had her there; any answer she gave would only undermine her position. She struggled to keep her lips from curving in appreciation of his tactics.
Correctly reading her silence as capitulation of a sort, he turned to fully face her, his gaze growing intent. “We both know I am not Beaumont—I will never allow you to rule me as you would have ruled him. But this you have always known.” He paused, then went on, “What you don’t know is that, to have you as mine, as my wife, as my helpmate, I would offer you . . . a partnership. Equal partners—as equal as we can be. I cede to you the right to question me, to argue and harangue as you deem necessary. You may run my household as you wish, albeit under the stamp of my authority. I will cede to you—” Breaking off, he let his lips twist eloquently. “I will give to you whatever I damn well must to ensure you face an altar as my bride.”
She did smile at that, albeit faintly. There was too much riding on this, on their words. For both of them. “It’s not—” She drew breath, surprised to hear her voice so low, so husky. “That,” she stated, holding his dark gaze, “is not the principal problem. Not the main hurdle between us.”
She’d thought she would have to, somehow, explain, but his expression shifted, lips curving in something like amused resignation.
“Ah. You mean this.” Raising one hand, his eyes on hers, he touched a fingertip to the corner of her lips, then drew the finger slowly down, over her jaw, down the side of her throat, down over her collarbone and the expanse of creamy skin exposed by the low neckline of her evening gown.
The resulting shiver rocked her to her soul. Her head tipped slightly back, her lids lowered; she nearly swayed.
His hand touched her waist; even through the thick silk she felt its heat. Gripping lightly, shifting nearer, he steadied her. “You knew it as well as I, all those years ago.”
Which was why, all those years ago, they’d both been so very careful to keep their distance, to never touch, to never take the chance of the fire and flames igniting.
But now they had. They’d waltzed. They’d kissed.
They’d played with fire.
And the years apart had done nothing to mute the blaze, the searing, mind-cindering power.
He was looking down at her, reading she knew not what in her eyes. “It scares you?”
He wasn’t smiling, wasn’t teasing. She nodded, managed a hoarse, “Yes.”
He hesitated, then, voice low, said, “Would it help to know that it scares me, too?”
She could see his face clearly, knew he wasn’t lying, yet . . . “I can’t imagine you being scared of anything.”
Again he looked at her with that wry, resigned amusement. “Not even of something that might bring me to my knees?”
“Your knees.” The image was a potent distraction.
His lips quirked. “In more ways than one.”
Eyes still on his, she tilted her head. “That, I’d like to see.”
He narrowed his eyes at her. “Peste.”
When she just looked at him, brows faintly rising, he heaved a put-upon sigh, then catching her hands in his, he went down on his knees before her.
Holding her hands, he looked up at her. “There—you have it. Margaret Dawlish, will you do me the honor of being my wife, my lover, my heart—my duchess?”
He was trying to make it easier for her. They were skirting the issue—or rather she was, and he was letting her.
She stared down into his face—a face that had inhabited her dreams for years, ever since she’d first seen it. Knew he was being brutally honest, while she . . . she gripped his hands, looked into his eyes. “Gaston—I . . . it’s not you, not—” Tugging one hand free, she waved. “It’s not about households, and you and me. It’s . . .” Eyes locked with hi
What flared between them was overwhelming, and she had no words to encompass what she felt, the sheer terror of simply letting go, of ceding control so completely to some force she had no reckoning of, no understanding.
He rose and recaptured her hands. “Listen to me, mignonne. There is nothing to fear. Yes, we can’t control it—no one can. That would be the equivalent of controlling the moon and stars. Yes, it will, to some extent, control us. That’s its nature. But if we want to be together, to live as we should, together, and make all that we can of the chances life has blessed us with, then surrender we must. It’s more powerful than both of us.”
She inwardly teetered, gripped his hands. “What do you mean when you call me mignonne?”
He didn’t shrug the question aside, but held her gaze solemnly. “My native tongue, the dialect, is derived from what scholars term Middle French. In that language, mignonne means lover, darling, beloved.” He hesitated, then said, “I love you, mignonne. I always have. And you love me. I could not let you go.” He paused, then more quietly added, “I cannot let you go.”
And she couldn’t step back from this—from the precipice he’d brought her to—any more than he could. Not now.
Holding her gaze, he drew a deep, tight breath. “Trust me, mignonne. Place your hand in mine and step with me into the fire and the flames—and let them have us.”
She was caught in his passion, his certainty. Clung to it. “Here? Now?” She asked only to be sure. If he would accept the risk, how could she not?
He nodded. “Here. Now.”
The breath she drew was shaky. She raised her head. Nodded back. “All right.”
He lifted her hands to his lips, kissed. His eyes burned into hers. “You will never regret this.”
Her smile wobbled. “Make sure I don’t.”
He smiled and bent his head.
His lips were still curved as they met hers.
And he waltzed her into the conflagration of the fire and the flames.