It would mean taking his hand, and walking into the fire of whatever might be with him. Of surrendering to it, and him.
He didn’t know if she would, but he was a soldier, a risk-taker—he would risk all to have her as his wife.
He heard her footsteps tapping on the tiles.
She swept out from a corridor, his card in her hand. “Gaston—”
He held up a hand. “I know—you are busy. But that is why I have come.” He caught her cornflower blue eyes. “You are wrestling with the seating for the dinner, are you not?”
Her only answer was a tightening of her lips.
He relaxed. “Well, I have come to assist you—to tell you that, for instance, you need to keep half the table’s length between Robert’s Tante Helene and the Comtesse Vraitot. If you do not, they will be at each other’s throats.”
She frowned, those lovely, unusual, mid-blue eyes narrowing on his, then she humphed, swung around, and waved him to follow. “Very well—come and be useful.”
He followed her down a secondary corridor and into the huge library. She’d been sitting on the chaise before the hearth, uncounted lists spread on a low table before her.
“Why,” she asked, sinking back on the chaise, “are you French so damned melodramatic?”
“Because it makes life more interesting.” He sat alongside her, not so close as to crowd her. He was well aware that his nearness ruffled her senses; he felt the same in reverse. While he was eager to learn what might happen, what it would feel like, when they were even closer, skin to naked skin, she was presently skittish, stepping back, shying away. In terms of persuading her to accept his offer, he would know he’d succeeded when she stepped over the line, when she turned her back on safety and stepped into his arms. He cast a knowing eye over her lists. “What do you have so far?”
He’d been a chevalier—a senior knight—in Louis’s household for nearly a decade; he knew as much about the intricacies of precedence as she. While she knew the English attendees, he knew the French; by pooling their knowledge, they made a better fist of the seating arrangements than she would have managed alone.
“Thank you.” Meg gathered the sheets containing their final plan, leaving him to crumple the discarded versions. “The place cards are already written—now I just need to set them out.” She glanced at the clock. “Great heavens! Is that the time?”
She honestly hadn’t noticed the hours ticking past. Too engrossed with listening to the intriguing snippets about various guests Gaston had constantly let fall. The devil could be thoroughly entertaining when he wished, in a wholly unpushy way. She’d actually relaxed—and now she was going to be late getting ready. She rose.
He did, too, and waved at the door. “Come—fetch your place cards and I will help you put them out. Together we will do it in half the time, and then I will leave you to get ready.”
She met his eyes and nodded. He was right. And he’d done nothing all afternoon to make her wary.
She grabbed the place cards from her escritoire, then they hurried to the formal dining room and paced quickly back and forth down the table, already laden with silver and plate, crystal and porcelain. In ten minutes they’d created the disposition of persons around the table that they’d earlier determined.
“Bon—it is done.” Gaston caught her hand, raised it to his lips and pressed an almost distracted kiss to her knuckles. “And now I must away.” Releasing her, he swept her a flourishing bow as he backed to the door. “I will see you tonight, mignonne.”
Meg stood and stared as he turned and strode from the room. The phantom brush of his lips still burned her skin, sending a wave of heat through her.
The door closed behind him, and still she stared. Mignonne? She was five feet ten inches tall, and wore her dark hair up in a swirling knot, adding an inch at least.
She wasn’t exactly slender, either; Junoesque would be nearer the mark.
“Mignonne.” Her lips twitched, then she glanced at the clock on the mantelpiece. “Good Lord!” Grabbing up her skirts, she rushed for the door.
If there was one rule above all others in planning a wedding, it was that the wedding planner could never be late.
June 16, 1820, 10:00 P.M.
Gardens of Durham House, London
“Dare I say it, but that went better than even you might have hoped.” Gaston followed Meg onto the terrace running alongside the Durham House drawing room.
“Thus far.” Meg scanned the moonlit lawns, then spotted her quarry—the affianced couple— strolling with Cicely, her husband Hugh, and another of Robert’s groomsmen farther down the terrace. Appeased, she drew back into the shadows by the wall. “Never before have I had to organize a dinner with three effective hosts, even if Robert’s parents are dead.”
“I thought your parents did an admirable job of taking the lead and smoothing things over.”
“I had them well-rehearsed. Besides, they’ve done such deeds often enough, while the vicomte and vicomtesse are so . . . well, babes-in-the-woods when it comes to such affairs.”
“Not everyone is born and bred to the purple.” Gaston reached out and captured her hand, holding tight when she started, then tried to ease her fingers free. “Come and show me your lovely gardens. Everyone in there”—he tipped his head toward the drawing room—“is presently comfortable, and our bride and groom are being suitably watched over.”
She hesitated, but he gently drew her on, knew when her feet started to move that he’d won.
“There’s not much to see.” She followed him down the shallow steps to the graveled path.
He wound her arm with his, then set out, slowly strolling. “But the air here is fresher, and the noise so much less.” He glanced at her, smiled. “Surely, having steered the event so successfully thus far, you are due a moment of respite, to catch your breath and clear your head before returning to guide the throng out of the door.”
Her eyes narrowed on his. “That sounds far too reasonable for you.”
He grinned and looked ahead. Debated his next move. He knew what he wanted, but how to get it . . . In the curve of the path ahead, tucked under the overhanging boughs of a large tree, he spotted a small summerhouse. “Mignonne, there is something I wish to discuss with—”
“You can’t call me mignonne. I’m not anyone’s mignonne.”
“Ah, but you most assuredly are.” He guided her up the two shallow steps into the dense shadows of the summerhouse.
Retrieving her hand, she turned to glare at him. “That’s nonsense. Juliette might quite rightly be termed a mignonne, but as for me—”
“What do you think mignonne means?”
Meg blinked. Studied him. After a moment spent checking her translation, she replied, “Dainty. Delicate.”
He grinned; she saw his teeth flash white in the darkness. Knew without sight that his eyes were twinkling as he stepped closer, inclining his head. “That’s one version.”
She frowned direfully, even if in the dimness he wouldn’t get the full effect. “What else does it mean?” What was he, in his devilish way, calling her?
“I will tell you one day, but not tonight. As I said”—he drew closer yet, lowered his voice, tipped his head down, closer to hers, as if to whisper some secret—“there is something I wish to discuss with you.”
Her traitorous gaze had slid to his lips. She felt faintly dizzy, almost as if she swayed, the blood slowly draining from her brain to throb in her lips, then slide lower . . . “What?” The word was a mere whisper; she tried to raise her gaze to his eyes, but couldn’t drag it from his lips. So close . . .
They moved slowly closer.
“This.”
The word, carried on a single breath, washed over her lips, then he closed the last fraction of an inch as she, entirely involuntarily, following an impulse as old as time, tipped her face up to his.
In a wordless invitation she’d never meant to offer.
An invitation he accepted.
; The kiss . . .
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, swirled 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 stretched, 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
“Hugh 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
“No, no, no!” Meg waved her hands, halting Juliette and Robert, who were practicing their waltzing in preparation for the next day. “Robert, you cannot 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, and 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
The 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.
Royal Weddings: An Original Anthology Page 3