The Mad, Bad Duke Read online

  “Indeed, she was taken from us far too soon. She was a sweet woman and a dear friend.”

  Meagan glanced at the table with the candles and the wire twine and thought of her father’s disparaging words about Black Annie and tricksters like her. “You and my mother were friends?” she asked doubtfully.

  Black Annie’s eyes twinkled. “We were, my dear, though I was years older than she. She’d lost her own mother, you see, and looked to me as a sort of a substitute. And yes, before you ask, I made a spell for her. How do you think your mother and father fell in love in the first place?”

  “You gave my mother a love spell?”

  Black Annie looked amused. “I did indeed. Your mama came to me soon after she’d made her debut, distracted because the handsome Michael Tavistock would not look her way. She was far gone in love with him, and I had the feeling that once Mr. Tavistock noticed her he’d be easily smitten. I simply gave her something that nudged him in the right direction.”

  Meagan treasured a vivid memory of her father and mother standing in each other’s arms in the hall of their Oxfordshire house, unaware that Meagan watched from the stairs. Meagan’s father had caressed her mother’s cheek and kissed her. Her mother closed her eyes and returned the kiss, looking oh so happy. It was one of the last memories she had of her mother.

  “Are you claiming what they felt for each other was a spell? That it was false?”

  “No, indeed, Miss Tavistock, do not distress yourself. I am saying the spell brought them together, and what if it did? It turned out well for them, did it not?”

  Meagan grew indignant. “You had no right…” She stopped. “Goodness, what am I saying? This is all chicanery, isn’t it? You are not really a witch; you only make talismans to give to silly women at fifty guineas a go. You had nothing to do with my mother and father falling in love; it is all a trick I risked my father’s wrath to observe this afternoon.”

  Black Annie regarded her in silence.

  Of course it was all foolishness and trickery, except…Except last year, the devastatingly handsome Prince Damien of Nvengaria had swept into Little Marching in Oxfordshire, claiming that Meagan’s friend Penelope must follow a magical prophecy to save his kingdom. Around Prince Damien and his Nvengarians, magic seemed to work. Meagan would never have believed in enchanted sleeps, shape-shifting logosh, prophecies, and healing magic if she hadn’t witnessed it all herself.

  And now Black Annie was explaining that the strong love between Meagan’s father and mother was a bit of magic, as simple as the trick Black Annie had made for Deirdre. Meagan’s mother had come here and stood in this very room and begged for a spell to make a man fall in love with her, just as Deirdre had today.

  “You are very amusing, Mrs. Reese,” Meagan said with an uncertain smile. “You almost took me in.”

  “Believe as you please, Miss Tavistock,” Black Annie said, brisk once more. “But they were terribly happy, were they not? A more loving couple I never knew. And I only charged her a bob.”

  CHAPTER TWO

  “You cannot possibly be magic,” Meagan told the talisman.

  She sat in chemise and stockings at her dressing table and stared at the twist of feathers and wire that lay on top of Deirdre’s handkerchief. The braid of black hair glistened in the candlelight, the smooth lock of the man whom Deirdre was so anxious to ensnare.

  “Poor fellow,” Meagan murmured. “Whoever he is.”

  Meagan was dressing to attend Lady Featherstone’s seasonal ball, an annual event popular throughout the ton, to which Meagan’s stepmother had finagled invitations. Simone Tavistock had once been a baronet’s wife and had no compunction against using former connections to mingle in society. And more importantly, to find Meagan a husband.

  Simone had decided after marrying Michael Tavistock that her raison d’être was to get Meagan married. In Simone’s opinion, Meagan at twenty was far past the age when she should have been betrothed and was now in danger of being firmly on the shelf. Simone and Michael wanted to see Meagan marry well. The dear girl deserved nothing less, and after all, Simone’s own daughter Penelope had married a prince.

  Simone bent all her efforts to getting Meagan engaged, with the ruthlessness of one of the new steam-powered engines. She’d persuaded Michael to hire a house near Portman Square for the Season and dragged Meagan to every ball, soiree, musicale and outing she possibly could. Meagan suspected that Simone had another motive—once Meagan was out of the house, Simone would have Michael Tavistock all to herself with no stepdaughter underfoot.

  As Meagan waited for their lady’s maid, Rose, to come and dress her hair, she studied the talisman. It lay innocently on the handkerchief, nothing but cloth and wire and a braid of black hair. It had nothing to do with love and everything to do with Black Annie beguiling foolish women like Deirdre out of fifty guineas.

  “I ought to go into business,” Meagan declared. “I will become Madame Meagan, telling ladies what they want to hear for a guinea a turn. I shall become quite rich.” She picked up the talisman, turning it toward the light.

  A sudden wave of dizziness swamped her, and the small bedroom with its light yellow and white wallpaper, the comfortable chair on which she sat, and her dressing table and mirror—went away.

  She opened her eyes and found herself in the arms of a brutally handsome man, their entwined bodies making love in the warm water of a sunken bath. Deep, satisfying love. Meagan sensed the imprint of his fingers in her skin, the heat of his breath on her face, the scent of lavender in the bathwater. And she could feel the exact shape and length of every inch of him inside her.

  His lips opened hers without permission, his tongue scraping into her mouth. “That’s it, love.” His voice was deep and melodious, the words slightly accented.

  Meagan drew a sharp breath. He lifted his head, his eyes clearing as though just becoming aware he held her in his arms.

  They stared at each other, his eyes hot blue under a slash of black brows. He had swarthy skin, darker than an Englishman’s, reminiscent of gypsies or the wild Magyar tribes on the eastern edge of Europe. His black hair was slicked back from a broad forehead and square face, and an intricate, interlaced tattoo snaked around his right bicep.

  She recognized that he was Grand Duke Alexander Octavien Laurent Maximilien, ambassador to England for Prince Damien of Nvengaria. She’d seen pictures of him in the newspapers and noticed him at opera houses and theatres, but she’d never met him in person.

  As his lips formed the words Who are you? the vision tore away, and Meagan was sitting again in her chemise in front of her dressing table, shaking all over. The gold wire of the love charm shone in the candlelight.

  Meagan was not soaking wet, in a marble bath chamber, or making love to a wildly handsome man with sinful eyes. She stared at the talisman, still able to feel his hands on her body and his vast hardness pressing her open.

  She’d never been with a man—had only experienced innocent and rather chaste kisses from one or two gentlemen she’d let corner her on ballroom terraces. The sheer carnality of the vision with Alexander of Nvengaria shook her from head to foot.

  Her maid popped her head around the door. “Ready for your hair, miss?” Rose asked cheerily.

  Meagan gasped and jumped. She thrust the talisman back into her reticule as Rose bustled inside, smiling and ready to serve her young miss.

  When Lord Featherstone’s major domo intoned, “Lady Anastasia Dimitri and Grand Duke Alexander Octavien Laurent Maximilien of Nvengaria,” Meagan swore the temperature in the ballroom jumped twenty degrees.

  She thrust her painted Chinese fan over her scalding face and peeped over the slats as the man from her vision glided down the ballroom stairs, a beautiful woman on his arm.

  Oh, dear lord.

  Meagan thanked heaven that, as usual, she was a wallflower. She sat in a corner of the vast ballroom behind potted palms, with plump matrons chattering in chairs nearby. She also had her wide fan with which she c
ould cover half her face, under the pretense that she was too warm.

  Which she was. The memory of the vision flooded back to her so vividly that her skin flushed and sweat beaded on her forehead.

  A dream. She’d fallen asleep waiting for Rose and had a dream, for heaven’s sake. It had nothing to do with Deirdre and her talisman and Deirdre’s wishful thinking. It had to do with Meagan being overly tired and distraught by Black Annie’s pronouncements.

  She must have remembered seeing Grand Duke Alexander in the newspaper and about town and conjured him in her dream, that was all. She had never been in a lavender-scented bath chamber with him, letting the wildly handsome man with sinful eyes make love to her.

  But it had felt so real that seeing him now made her doubt her own common sense. She remembered his lips hard on hers, his tongue scraping her mouth like he wanted to scoop up every bit of her. The room had smelled of steam and sex, and the sensation of him so deep inside her had awakened feelings she’d never known she had.

  She watched over the top of her fan as the Grand Duke and his companion moved across the polished parquet under the scrutiny of every quizzing glass and lorgnette in the ton. The Grand Duke was tall and so broad of shoulder that lesser men had to get out of his way. His back was ramrod straight, his unfashionably long hair caught in a tail at the nape of his neck. His severe military blue frock coat glittered with medals, and a gold and blue sash stretched from his right shoulder to cup his firm left hip.

  He walked with the wary grace of a prowling panther, his careful gaze taking in every person in the room. Female heads turned as he walked by and no wonder. Meagan wagered that more than one lady wondered what he’d look like sauntering naked across her boudoir while she watched from the bed. The way he moved promised that his body would be just as elegant when he danced, and when he made love.

  Oh, yes, when he made love…

  Meagan tore her gaze from Alexander to examine the poised, black-haired beauty on his arm. She was not English, nor did she look Nvengarian. She had a tall, willowy body that made Meagan conscious of her own plumpness, creamy skin and sleek hair, and was dressed in the most elegant, understated, shoulder-baring frock money could buy.

  She walked confidently beside Alexander as though she belonged there, her hand lightly on his arm. This lady knew that every woman in the room coveted her position at his side and the fact amused her.

  The palms beside Meagan crashed as though a tropical storm tore through them, and Deirdre plopped into an empty chair in a cloud of perfume and satin.

  “That’s him,” Deirdre said breathlessly. She glittered from head to foot with diamonds, wearing every single jewel she owned and a gold satin gown that bared plenty of bosom. “Grand Duke Alexander of Nvengaria. The Mad, Bad Duke, they call him.”

  “Who calls him?” Meagan asked absently, her gaze fixed on his dark blue back and broad shoulders.

  “Oh, everybody. My husband told me the most delicious story about him—apparently young Lord Mortinson got it into his head to challenge the Grand Duke to a duel over who knows what. The Grand Duke refused, and Mortinson claimed he was a coward. The next day, the Grand Duke took Mortinson and his friends to a green near Islington and held a shooting competition. The Grand Duke shot his target three times in the bull’s-eye, each shot dead center of the last. My husband was there—he says Mortinson put his finger on the bullet holes in a kind of shock, realizing the bull’s-eye could have been his heart. Then the Grand Duke took him for a drink, and Mortinson has worshipped him ever since.”

  Meagan imagined Alexander’s sharp blue eyes narrowed over the pistol, his body turned to the side, his long arm steady as a rock as he potted his target with unerring ease. She had met Lord Mortinson, a somewhat vapid young man, and suspected he’d stared at Alexander’s shots with his plump mouth hanging open.

  Deirdre leaned closer in a wave of patchouli. “I intend to unbutton that Nvengarian coat tonight and discover everything beneath it. You did bring the spell, did you not?”

  Meagan lifted her gloved wrist, from which dangled a silk reticule embroidered with tiny roses. The talisman, still wrapped in the handkerchief, lay inside. Meagan’s first instinct upon emerging from her vision had been to put it on the fire, but then she had admonished herself not to be silly. And anyway, Deirdre would demand the cost of it, and Meagan had nowhere near fifty guineas.

  “He seems to be with someone,” Meagan remarked.

  Deirdre made an airy gesture. “Oh, her. She is an Austrian countess or some such. I am not afraid of her.”

  “They make a beautiful couple.” They did, the tall man and tall woman matching each other in attractiveness, coolly self-confident against the ton’s scrutiny. “Are they lovers?”

  “Well, of course they are, rumor is rife with it. Look at the way she drapes herself all over him.”

  Just then the countess moved her fingers on Alexander’s arm in a possessive way and slanted a lovely smile up at him. The gesture sent a small hurt into Meagan’s heart, though she could not for the life of her fathom why.

  “How do you propose to cut him away from her?” she asked. “If they are lovers, and she is so beautiful?”

  “Because you will help me, my friend.”

  Meagan dragged her gaze back to Deirdre. “I will not. Going with you to buy the talisman was one thing, but I draw the line at helping you betray your husband. He is too kind for that.”

  “He is a bore and never pays me any attention. And you will do it, or I will tell your father that you went with me to Black Annie’s, and we both know what he’d say about that.”

  Meagan’s anger rose. She knew Deirdre would make good on the threat, and while Meagan might have sheepishly confessed to her father and borne his disapproval, Black Annie’s claim to have made a spell for her mother made her sensitive on the subject. She wanted to think things through before she endured a lecture from her father about why innocent young ladies should stay away from women like Black Annie.

  “You will say nothing to my father,” she hissed.

  Deirdre gloated. “Excellent. Then you will help me.”

  “Oh, botheration, do be quiet.”

  Meagan flapped her fan and tried not to follow the Grand Duke with her gaze as he and the Austrian woman made their way across the room. People watched him in fascination and fear, and he regarded them coolly, as though he knew their reaction and damn well wanted it to stay that way.

  She sensed him size up each person he met and categorize them—inconsequential, possible ally, enemy. There were no categories, she noticed, for friend, acquaintance, would like to know him better.

  Meagan did not know how she knew this, but she did. The vision seemed to have given her the strange insight that Alexander saw each person as either a threat or someone to stand with him against a threat. That was all. It struck her as ruthlessly efficient and incredibly lonely at the same time.

  Meagan wondered into what category he’d placed the Austrian woman. She seemed to have many friends and acquaintances, though Meagan noticed that most of them were male. The ladies, on the other hand, regarded her with jealous and even hostile eyes.

  Seeing the lady so comfortable with him made Meagan feel odd. In the vision in the steam-fogged room, Alexander had been hers and hers alone. Thinking of the Austrian lady or, God forbid, Deirdre, sliding her hands inside his shirt and stroking his muscular chest made Meagan feel wretched.

  What the devil is the matter with me? It was only a dream, for heaven’s sake. I am nothing to him and he is nothing to me.

  Meagan flicked her attention back to Alexander and found his gaze directly on her.

  She jumped and thrust the fan in front of her face, but too late. He was staring at her with harsh intensity, his eyes sharp and blue, penetrating all the way across the room. That gaze was for her, not for Deirdre preening herself next to Meagan, not for the dowagers chatting together on Meagan’s other side. Grand Duke Alexander assessed Meagan, his gaze like the e
dge of a razor.

  He knew.

  But good lord, how could he? She’d had a ridiculous dream, a waking vision—it had not been real. No one could know, thank heavens, what lurid thoughts went on inside Meagan’s head.

  She remembered the way he’d looked down at her in the bath chamber when he’d come out of his sexual languor, his gaze as intense as it was now. “Who are you?” he’d started to say before the vision ended.

  Across the ballroom, Alexander leaned to the Austrian countess, murmuring to her while keeping his gaze on Meagan, obviously asking who Meagan was. The woman glanced at Meagan in eager curiosity, her eyes bright, her red-lipped mouth moving in answer. Meagan imagined her saying in her rich Austrian voice, “That little one? She is nothing. The nobody daughter of a nobody. Do not waste a second thought on her.”

  Deirdre pinched Meagan hard. “Oh, do you see? He is looking at me!”

  Meagan knew differently, but she held her tongue. The Grand Duke murmured back to his companion, as they strolled toward Meagan and Deirdre.

  “Lud, he is coming this way,” Deirdre gasped. “I knew it. When he asks me to dance, you run up to the sitting room on the third floor, the one two doors from the top of the stairs, and wait for me. I’ll entice him up, and then you slip the talisman into his pocket while I chat with him.”

  Deirdre was a fool, and Meagan was suddenly sick to death of her. She’d put up with Deirdre’s clinging friendship this Season for old time’s sake—they’d grown up near each other in Oxfordshire and Deirdre had often joined Meagan and Penelope in their games or dreaming talks of the future.

  “They will hardly speak to either of us, as we have not been introduced,” she said churlishly.

  “Oh, bother that. They are foreign. Perhaps they will speak to us anyway, not knowing English manners.”

  Meagan had found that non-English Europeans often had even more scrupulous codes of politeness than Englishmen, but she said nothing.