All the while, tears streamed down Meagan’s cheeks, although she did not sob or sniffle as she realized she’d lost her maidenhead to a stranger and what the consequences could be.
He’d heard of plenty of callous English dandies who ruined girls and left them by the wayside, promising them marriage and then abandoning them. Some of these dandies were shot by brothers and fathers, and rightly so, but the vengeance never truly helped the woman.
But Meagan would never know the pain of abandonment, Alexander would make damn sure of that. She was as much a victim as he in this.
Alexander quietly donned his shirt and pulled on his coat, fastening it and settling it at his throat so it would not look odd without his cravat. He wrapped the linen cravat into a ball, which he thrust into the lit fireplace, letting fire consume the evidence of their first coupling. He settled the sash of office on his shoulders, looking in the mirror over the sideboard to adjust it correctly.
He found the ribbon for his hair, smoothed the unruly black mess into something resembling order, and tied it again. Then he poured Meagan brandy from the decanter on the table.
“You stay here and drink this,” he ordered, closing her hand over the glass. “Lock the door and let no one in but me. My servants will put it about that you are ill and had to leave, and my man will get you home without anyone seeing. Do you understand?”
She looked up at him with brown-gold eyes that held too much sadness.
He smoothed her hair, loving the softness of it. “I swear to you on my honor, you’ll not be wronged by this. Now, lock the door as I go.”
The last thing in the world he wanted to do was leave her. The love spell clamped down on him as he tried to turn away, and he leaned down and kissed her lips, tasting tears on them.
She pressed him away, the sharp smell of the brandy cutting through his daze. “You’d better go.”
He touched her cheek, then made himself turn around, cross the room, and walk out the door.
He heard the click of the key in the lock as he walked away, the cold sound shutting him out. The love spell wanted him to go back and beg her to let him back in, even if he had to pound on the door and shout for her to do so. The spell wanted him to stay close to her, to hear her voice, touch her skin, breathe her scent.
Damn what the spell wanted. Alexander’s Nvengarian blood raged through him, newly aroused instincts making him want to rush back to Meagan and have her until they both were exhausted.
Let the fierceness of your father be yours, a voice inside him urged. Damien’s father turned you into cold-blooded viciousness—do not let him take your fire.
Alexander tamped down his Nvengarian barbarity. The ice coldness he’d adopted after being forced to witness the execution of his own father by firing squad had allowed him to survive and take his vengeance. If Alexander had not quelled his hot bloodedness, he would have died that day at age thirteen.
His famous disciplined control helped him now. By the time he found Nikolai, calm had replaced the madness, and he was able to tell the valet in clipped tones what needed to be done.
Meagan sat numbly after Alexander departed, the glass of brandy untouched on the table next to her. Some part of her was horrified at what had just happened. She’d allowed a man to make love to her as though she were his wife—more accurately, his courtesan.
Foremost in Meagan’s mind, however, was wonder. She’d been with a beautiful man, Alexander the Mad, Bad Duke, and he’d touched her and kissed her and called her beautiful and his.
Meagan was not a fool. She’d heard plenty of stories of seductive rakes who lured innocent misses into their arms, only to bring about said misses’ downfalls. Alexander was a Nvengarian, and she’d learned from Penelope that Nvengarians played by different rules. Prince Damien had thought nothing of coupling with Penelope after they’d been betrothed, and by the laws of his people, there had been nothing sinful about it.
But Alexander had not asked Meagan to marry him, or even to perform the betrothal ritual as Penelope and Damien had. No, he’d danced with her and kissed her, and the love spell meant for Deirdre had ignited her instead.
Meagan put her hand over her limp reticule, wondering where the talisman had got to. She did not find it in the room after a hasty search, and concluded that Alexander must have taken it away with him.
She stared a moment at the glass of brandy resting on the marble-topped table where she’d left it. Drawing a ragged breath, she lifted the glass to her lips, dumped the contents into her mouth, and swallowed.
She winced as the spirits burned her tongue and trailed fire down her throat. “Lud,” she gasped. “How can men love this?”
A knock on the door made her jump. “Miss?” someone said in a low voice. “His Grace, the Grand Duke, he has sent me to you.”
The accent was Nvengarian, the voice deep like Alexander’s. Meagan hastened across the room and unlocked the door. Before she could pull it open, a tall, thin young man opened it mere inches, slipped through, and closed it again. He carried Meagan’s hooded mantle over his arm.
“I am Nikolai, valet to His Grace,” the young man said, bowing. He was Nvengarian, with high cheekbones, swarthy skin, and deep blue eyes. “If you follow my instructions precisely, we will get you home without, as you English say, anyone being the wiser.”
Meagan flushed. Alexander must have told him exactly what had happened and given him instructions to help clean up the mess. How embarrassing. But in her half panic and sudden inebriation, she felt relieved that someone knew what to do.
“You will not become hysterical, will you?” Nikolai asked. “If you do, I will have to slap your cheek or pour water on your face to keep you quiet, and His Grace will be very angry.” He grimaced and shook his head. “You do not want to see His Grace angry.”
Meagan hiccoughed. “Why? Is he so very terrible?”
“My God, yes. One time that His Grace was angry, half of Nvengaria’s capital was flattened, with people running from their homes and screaming in the streets. The river was a flotilla of makeshift barges of people trying to get away from him. It is terrible indeed, the wrath of Grand Duke Alexander.”
Meagan eyed him skeptically. “He flattened half the city? Just like that?”
“I do not lie, miss. I was there. He sent in his men, and…” He flourished his hand. “Horrible days. I am Prince Damien’s man, miss, and glad I am Prince Damien has come home at last.” Meagan knew from experience that Nvengarians liked dramatics, the more sturm and drang, the better. Nikolai was probably exaggerating, but the core of truth would still be there—that Alexander, for whatever his reason, had sent in men to rout part of the city.
“But do not worry, miss, I am here to look after you.” He draped the mantel over her shoulders. “You wrap up in this and keep your face hidden. I have already put it about that you are ill and a friend has taken you home. I suggested several names of your acquaintance as possibilities, one of whom has already departed, so that by the time all have unraveled that you were not with this one or that one, the incident will long be over.”
Meagan fastened the mantel and pulled up the hood. “And how will I truly get home?”
“His Grace’s carriage, miss, which is waiting a few steps down the street. When you reach your house, do not rouse your servants, creep upstairs ever so softly, and undress by yourself. Wash yourself all over before you go to bed. Then you should call the servant and pretend to be ill. Groaning, I believe, helps. Let them make a fuss over you and do not look too well the following morning.”
Meagan’s head was pounding, and she imagined she would not have to feign illness. “You seem to know much about this, Nikolai. I suppose His Grace has you help a young miss home every week?”
Her heart burned when she spoke the words. She knew her intimacy with Alexander was false, but she hated to think of him holding any other young woman in his arms while he uttered tender Nvengarian phrases.
“No, indeed. His Grace has ice wa
ter in his veins, so what has happened tonight is very unusual. But I worked for a baron in Nvengaria, and ay…” Nikolai put a pained hand to his forehead. “Every night a different lady, and he was never discreet. I slept not at all in his service, and then he expected me to protect him with my body when his wife came at him with a knife. No, indeed, I stepped aside and let her do as she pleased.”
Meagan gasped. “Did she kill him?”
“No, no, but she slashed his clothes to ribbons while she cursed him something horrible. It was a joy to watch. We passed wine around in the servants’ hall that day. But it was a relief to find a position in the palace. Prince Damien, he is a true gentleman and treats his wife so tenderly. She is a beautiful and a fine princess. It is a joy to serve her.”
Emotion gripped Meagan, and her eyes stung. “Penelope is my dearest friend.”
“Which is why I am honored to be at your service, miss. If there is anything you need, at any time, in any place, I, Nikolai, will be at your side. It is the least I can do, for her sake.”
He pressed his hand to his chest and made another bow, his face serious. Meagan remembered how Prince Damien’s entourage had become fanatically devoted to Penelope and wondered if Penelope had experienced the same sense of disorientation and dismay.
“That is kind of you, Nikolai,” Meagan breathed. “For now, please get me home.”
“As you wish.” He gestured her toward the door. “Follow me, keep your face covered, and all will be well. Trust me, miss; I am expert at this.”
“Alexander,” Lady Anastasia hissed from behind a gold and white pillar in an upper hall. “Where on earth have you been? You had an appointment with von Hohenzahl at midnight.”
Alexander halted his determined steps as Lady Anastasia swept toward him. Anastasia was a lovely woman with a face that had Europe swooning at her feet. He knew the ton supposed that her gown and tiara would adorn his floor tonight while he entertained her in his bed, but they supposed wrong.
Lady Anastasia Dimitri was the best information collector he knew, and at present, she was feeding him important intelligence about the Austrian empire, which he in turn passed to Damien, at least the bits Damien needed to know. Alexander used her to keep his eye on Austria, and she used Alexander’s mistrust of the Austrians to fuel her games of revenge.
Anastasia had spoken in Nvengarian, and Alexander answered her in the same language. “I had something to take care of.”
“What, for heaven’s sake? It took you weeks to convince von Hohenzahl to meet you informally, and now it has gone for nothing.”
“Not if you spoke to him. What did he tell you?”
She took his arm and fell into step beside him. “Nothing very useful, although he did try to woo me to his bed.” She looked disgusted. “He babbled a bit about there being more dangers in the Nvengarian mountains than we could possibly imagine and about something only he knew. He was gloating, and I did not like it.”
“I will question him,” Alexander said. “If he is hard to crack, we will use other means to crack him, but crack him we will.”
Otto von Hohenzahl, an Austrian toady of Prince Metternich, had lately been making noise that he had information Alexander needed to know. Von Hohenzahl was a minor official and likely wanted nothing more than money from Alexander, but Alexander knew from experience to investigate every rumor and source of information in case they bore a grain of truth. He’d been trying to pin down von Hohenzahl for weeks, and was to have met him tonight, the entire reason he’d chosen to come to this ball and bring Anastasia with him.
“I am happy to hear you say so, but what happened to you? It is not like you to miss an appointment.” She stopped, her shrewd gaze going to his absent cravat, the faint finger marks on his neck, and his half-mussed hair. “Good lord, you had a liaison. With whom? What did you learn?”
Typical of Anastasia to think of lovemaking only in terms of gaining information. Before tonight, her assumption would not have annoyed him, but it did now. “Not that sort of liaison.”
“What then? A dalliance with a maid? Alexander, what on earth were you thinking?”
He’d been thinking of a red-haired lady whose lips were curved and warm, whose thighs were soft under his fingers, whose broken cries of passion had aroused him like nothing had in ages. She’d smashed through Alexander’s aloof shell and touched the volatile man inside him, the one he’d suppressed for years.
It startled him, but at the same time he relished the awakening. Violent Nvengarian emotions could be inconvenient, but Meagan had tapped ones he’d forgotten—joy, elation, happiness.
“I would ask a favor of you, Anastasia,” he began. “Come home with me tonight and make it obvious that you are doing so.”
She studied him with a frown, and then her eyes widened in shock. “Dear God, you were with the Tavistock girl. Alexander, have you run mad? She is an innocent miss, untouchable. Or are you playing some sort of game against Damien, since she is Princess Penelope’s friend?”
“I am playing no games. I have fallen in love with her.”
She stared at him, mouth open. “Love? You have run mad.”
“It was a spell,” Alexander explained. “Someone is using her to get to me. I do not know who. I do not believe she knows either, but she knew about the spell.”
He withdrew the talisman from his pocket. Anastasia’s gaze moved to it, and she nodded. She’d seen spell talismans before.
“Would you like me to destroy it for you?” she asked.
Alexander stroked it absently, then dropped it back into his pocket. “No. I wish to discover who had it made. I doubt Meagan did it herself. I cannot see her plucking feathers and chanting over candles.”
“How do you know? You’ve only just met her.”
“I know.”
Anastasia’s gaze was piercing. “You are too used to political intrigue, Alexander. Perhaps she simply wanted to catch herself a husband.”
“A dangerous way to land a proposal. Love spells create only physical attraction, and most gentlemen walk away at the end of them, forgetting about the woman as soon as the magic has gone.”
“Yes, but you are not most gentlemen.”
Alexander shrugged. “She had no way of knowing that. Tomorrow, I will approach her father. The English have a habit of tearing to pieces any who break their rules, and I do not wish that to happen to her.”
“I see. Hence, I go home with you tonight so people talk about me and you, not her.”
He nodded, his mind still turning over the procedures he needed to follow, while another part wondered about von Hohenzahl and his secret and how Alexander would extract it from him. “I want no hint of gossip or speculation to touch her until it is a fait accompli.”
“Very well.” She subjected him to her scrutiny a moment longer, then began to laugh. And laugh and laugh.
Alexander’s brow twitched in annoyance. “I find nothing amusing.”
“I do. Good lord, Alexander, how many women have thrown themselves at you? All in vain, like battering the most fortified castle in the world. And one red-haired girl with freckles brings you down with feathers and a twist of gold wire. This is delicious.”
Somewhere deep inside, a man within Alexander laughed with her for the joy of it, but that man was far from the surface. “I do not like being laughed at.”
“I know,” she said, wiping her eyes. “You are Grand Duke Alexander, the most ruthless man in the world. I am enjoying this.”
Suddenly Alexander pulled her into his arms and kissed her. Not for sudden affection or to stop her laughing, but because he’d heard a step in the hall.
One of Lord Featherstone’s guests, a portly man with little hair left, peered at them and made a grunting noise.
“Disgusting,” he said, then walked disapprovingly away.
CHAPTER FIVE
Meagan sat rigidly at the breakfast table while Simone chattered on about the Featherstones’ ball and everything Meagan had missed by g
oing home early.
“Lily Carmichael danced with Lord Oberforce, can it be credited? And her engagement to Sir Samuel Rice only recently announced. What delicious scandal! And did you see what Lady Musgrave was wearing?”
Never had Meagan found toast soaked with fresh golden butter so unappealing, never had the breakfast chocolate, rich and hot, smelled so nauseating.
Meagan’s father sat behind his newspaper, letting Simone talk. When he paused to turn the page, Meagan saw his smile and the fond twinkle in his eyes as he glanced at his wife. He enjoyed listening to her chatter, he’d told Meagan. Very soothing, like birdsong in the garden.
On a usual morning, Meagan might laugh at Simone’s anecdotes, but this was not a usual morning. Her head ached and buzzed, the chocolate tasted bitter, and she could barely swallow the toast. Pretending to be ill the night before, as Nikolai had directed, had not been difficult.
It had all worked as Nikolai predicted. He’d gotten her home and into the house without anyone seeing, and she’d followed his instructions of putting herself to bed and then calling her maid. The delay had given her a chance to wash herself, rebraid her mussed hair, put on her nightdress, and slide between the covers. By the time Rose arrived, Meagan had been shaking so much that Rose had become alarmed and brought out the laudanum.
A heavy laudanum sleep on top of the night’s insanity had left her with a sticky taste in her mouth, a foul headache, and an aching throat.
“And Katie Southington was asked to dance twice by a baron’s son,” Simone continued. “Her mother is in such transports. A baron, just think, and the Southingtons barely able to buy coal for their fires. That would be a feather in Mrs. Southington’s cap and possibly a nice roof over her head as well. Not that I thought much of him—he has no chin and a concave chest, as though a horse kicked him when he was a child. And with Katie’s looks, their children will be horribly ugly, poor things. But then, he will be a baron when his father dies, and they are besotted with each other. No, the handsomest man in the room by far was Grand Duke Alexander. All of the mothers threw their daughters at him and, poor things, he took no notice of them. But you danced with him, Meagan. Is he just as handsome up close?”