“Lady St. Ives.”
Lady St. Ives was a widow in her early thirties: stunning, clever, kind. She was known for taking in kittens.
Kittensfor heaven’s sake.
And she was at the top of the Prince’s list of future wives for Dougal. For good reason. Not only did she have an obscenely large inheritance, but she wasn’t fussy or cruel. She’d make a perfect duchess. And she had seen enough of life not to be frightened of Dougal’s strong thighs and scarred hands.
Meg could see Dougal marrying her. Being happy with her.
Bollocks.
“Oh, Miss Swift,” Lady St. Ives said, in her husky voice. Even her voice was delicious. Double bollocks. “How good to see you. Now we may be introduced, and no one will be shocked by my forward behavior.” She winked at Dougal. Because widows could wink at strange men. And be shocking. Whereas spinsters like Meg, only a couple of years her junior, still had to lower their eyes meekly and follow the rules.
Triple bollocks to that.
“Your Grace, may I present Lady St. Ives.”
Lady St. Ives curtsied. “Your Grace.”
Dougal bowed, somewhat flummoxed, with a sidelong glance at Meg. He would recognize the name from his royal list. “A pleasure.”
“Since I gather there is every chance I am being sold by the prince, or else you are, and to each other possibly, I thought I may as well take the bull by the horns as it were.”
“Erm.”
Lady St. Ives smiled at Dougal as though he were charming. Meg wanted to stab her a little less. She wouldn’t let him marry a ninny or a bully. It mattered not a whit that she had no say in the matter. Facts were facts.
Lady St. Ives and Dougal continued to chat until the widow tilted her head. “You are more handsome than I expected and have not tried to look down my gown once. We shall suit quite well.” She curtsied. “It was lovely to meet you, Your Grace. And to see you again, Miss Swift. As always, your dress is both unique and fanciful in a way I could never pull off and I am quite jealous.”
She sailed away, a liveried footman in tow. There was a beat of silence.
“I gather she is not the one who would be scared of me?” Dougal asked drily.
“No,” Meg replied in an equally dry tone. “She would not.” She wanted to be back in the ocean where she could dunk her head in cold water and get herself together.
“Your Grace,” a man interrupted, stalking out of the alley between two shops. “I was hoping I’d run into you.”
Dougal sighed. “No.”
“I beg your pardon?”
“Just no.”
He forced a laugh. “You think me one of the usual treasure hunters. I promise you I am not.”
“Aren’t you?”
“Not like the others,” he assured him in a smooth voice. “If you’ll let me search the estate, we could split the profits. Seventy five-twenty five.”
“Let me guess, you’d get the seventy-five percent.”
“Exactly. I would do all of the work. You wouldn’t have to lift a finger!”
Meg nearly rolled her eyes. That was exactly the wrong tactic.
Dougal’s expression was shuttered and hard. “And your name, sir?”
“Mr. Willows.”