Chapter Twenty-Two
How was anyone supposed to survive dinners like this, never mind look forward to them? The starched cravat Dougal had hired a valet to tie for him, the stiff formal talk about the weather, smiles that said too much and nothing at all.
It was torture. Worse than the burn of his muscles from days of hard abuse. His horseback skills were improving through sheer force of will and repetition. Some days he stumbled home, barely able to walk. His thighs spasmed at night, his knees hated him from the hard floorboards of the dining room. They’d had to convert the breakfast room into a dining room for this gathering.
And all of it was still better than missing Meg, which bit at him in every unguarded moment. Better to be exhausted. But this: formal gold painted plates, crystal goblets, the crisp white gloves of hovering footmen. It was a different type of pain.
He longed for a dinner with Meg, wayward duck included.
He longed for Meg, full stop.
Instead, he was seated at the head of the table, acres of polished wood and lace cloths, and ladies wearing pearls. There were roses from the hothouse that made him think of Meg, lilies that perfumed the air. He missed the wildflowers that Meg brought into the house. His sister stifled a sneeze and sat back, looking as though she was sitting on a hedgehog.
He knew exactly how she felt.
Colin, more pragmatic than he appeared, was basking in the attention of women eager to praise everything they saw and heard, if it meant being noticed. After all, as he said, only one of them would get to be a duchess and the others might not mind being a duke’s sister-in-law. And a viscountess.
Dougal understood the mercenary aspect to the whole business. Aristocratic marriages were about land and contracts and power. Love was for affairs, or so he’d been assured. It was a neat system, but not one he had any experience with. It wasn’t that people in his former life didn’t also sometimes marry for comfort or a nine-month necessity. Love grew.
It was just that none of them were Meg Swift.
He was starting to feel as though this might not be love, but the ague. It was too soon for love, wasn’t it? And he felt ill, tired, irritable, with a certain jagged edge that threatened to cut anyone in his vicinity. It was with great willpower that he swallowed another sharp comment and drank fine wine and nodded amiably when someone spoke to him. He didn’t even know what they were saying. He didn’t care.
But he had to care. Like it or not, this was his life now. And he owed it to any future wife to not be a complete ass.
Not that he had any intention of marrying Miss Spencer, who watched him as though he were a rabid wolf inexplicably loose in the dining room, or the girl next to Colin who kept giggling and fluttering her eyelashes. Someone had clearly told her it was the best way to flirt. He wanted to call for a doctor in case she scratched her retinas. Colin didn’t seem to mind. He was taking it all in stride, making the best of a situation Dougal knew full well hundreds of men envied. Thousands even.
None of them had met Meg. Had heard the sound of her laugh, even the same night she’d been threatened at knife point, or knew her determination, her secret whimsy. The sounds she made when she came, spread out on the bed beneath him. He was going to have to get rid of that bed. Or switch rooms entirely. He couldn’t bring a wife to a room that held such memories. Not when he wanted to hold onto them so badly.
What was the use in being a bloody duke, if he couldn’t have the one thing he wanted? If it wasn’t for his family, he’d walk away from it all now just to find her.
Except he wasn’t good enough for her.
That hadn’t changed.
He wasn’t technically good enough for the others either, but they were so intent on catching him for a husband that it seemed to balance out.
Except for Lady St. Ives. She was sophisticated, droll, beautiful. They would rub along together fairly well. He might never feel for her what he felt for Meg, but he would be a good husband. And she wasn’t jittery over his background. They could be friends. Good friends.
It was more than so many others got.
For some reason it made everything worse.
He was greedy to want more.
He stifled a sigh and turned his attention to the lamb with blackberry sauce on his plate before someone else asked what he thought of gardens, or horses, or London. He’d never even been to London. The idea of taking his place in the House of Lords, of making parliamentary speeches soured his mood even further. So did the knowledge that Meg would scold him to think of all the good he might do with the power to fight laws made by people who didn’t know the first thing about the Norfolk farming system or going to bed hungry.
“Is the dinner not to your liking?” Lady St. Ives inquired.
He glanced up, hastily arranging his expression into something less feral. “It’s delicious, as always. Is there anything you need?”
She shook her head and then leaned a little closer, lowering her voice. “You’re doing very well.” When he only stared at her she smiled. “I’ve been on the Marriage Mart,” she reminded him. “It’s gruesome. The trick is not to take it too seriously.” She studied his pained expression. “Oh dear, have I gone too far? I apologize. I am too outspoken.”
“Not at all.” He drank more wine. It gave him something to do with his hands. “I prefer it.”
“That is encouraging.” She watched him drink more wine for a moment. “I hear there was some excitement about a treasure recently?”
“Yes.” He should say something else. He was just so tired.