Chapter Twenty-Five
Meg sent Dougal a sidelong glance as they descended the steps to the drive. The carriage was already waiting, her belongings packed in three chests lashed to the roof. “You’re not a murderer.”
“He doesn’t know that.” He shrugged. “As you’ve said, if they are going to use my birth against me, I may as well use their own misconceptions against them.”
“You were brilliant,” she said. She could still hear the sound of crystal glasses smashing as her uncle had vented his spleen on the furnishings before they’d even reached the front door.
“Careful, Henshaw,” Dougal had shouted over his shoulder. “Those belong to me.”
The last stragglers of the party had poked their heads out of the dining room. “Is that the duke?” someone whispered.
And now here they were. Here she was. Free. Free to make choices about her own life. Nervous anticipation sparked under her skin.
Dougal stopped at the carriage door. He looked serious, hesitant. “Meg.”
“Yes?”
“Just to be clear, I am not buying the village or your uncle’s debts in order to buy you. There is no obligation between us or ever will be. I can take you anywhere you want to go. I did this to clear the way for you. But if you choose to take it in my direction, I promise to walk beside you the rest of the way and to make you laugh every day while we do so.”
“Well, really,” she said, sounding miffed. “How am I supposed to resist a declaration such as that one?”
“You’re not.” His crooked smile was vulnerable, charming. “Please say yes.”
“Yes.” She touched his wrist, just below the cuff of his coat. “Take me home, Dougal.”
He exhaled sharply, leaning his forehead against hers. “Thank God.”
They stopped inthe village so that Meg could say her goodbyes, and also to apprise Wes of his new situation. There was a smugness to his usual friendly smile, one which Meg returned with interest. Dougal shook his hand, instead of accepting a customary bow. The etiquette was entirely wrong and Meg adored him even more for it. She was beaming like a sunflower. It was probably indecent to be this happy in public, but she didn’t care.
“I have one more surprise,” Dougal said later when they were settled back into the carriage.
“Another?” Meg asked. “I’m not sure I can take another.”
His smile was crooked. “I thought we might be married at Pendleton Hall. Priya and Tamsin are still there visiting.”
She swallowed, joy making a lump in her throat that felt suspiciously like tears. She nodded, mutely. He looked satisfied. “I had to stop there to get directions to find you. I should warn you, he already has a special marriage license with our names on it.”
“He does?”
“Apparently, Lady Blackwell wrote to him from the Abbey,” he said drily.
She smiled. “Did she, now.” Her smile wavered. “Oh, Lord, she’ll have decorated for the ceremony before we even get there. Everything will be shades of clementine and puce.”
He winced. “Do you mind very much?”
She shook her head, laughing, “As long as I don’t have to wear one of her wigs.”
“She must have the strongest neck in all of England.”
They ate biscuits and drank lemonade from the basket at their feet. Turnip leaves wilted over the side, prettier than any bouquet of perfect hothouse roses. Meg broke the companiable silence. “Have you found the treasure?”
Dougal made a face. “I’m afraid not. I’ve scoured the dining room but to no avail.”
“We’ll find it,” Meg said. “I am more determined than ever.”
“Will you mind sharing your house with my family and old women with spears?”
She kissed his nose. “In fact, I insist.”