Miss Featherton's Christmas Prince (The Marriage Game Book 9) (20 page)

He banged on the roof of his carriage. “Why have we stopped?”

“There’s a coach in the road,” his coachman replied in a laconic tone. “It ain’t movin’.”

“Devil a bit.” Damon slammed open the door and jumped down. He would never make it to Meg’s house at this rate. Lady Bellamny told him the duchess traveled as if Beelzebub himself were after her. Not to mention that she had a team, and he had only a pair. He would be lucky to arrive before the snow started.

He took in the conveyance that covered most of the drive. Large, black, and stacked with luggage. Three women and a man occupied the interior. He quickly strode the short distance between the two carriages.

“My lord.”

He couldn’t believe his ears. Damnation. “Hartwell.” Without even trying, his voice was dangerously calm. “What are you doing in that coach?”

“I beg your pardon, my lord,” an older woman said, pushing the window down. “Her grace said to remind you that she instructed you to remain here until she arrived.”

For several seconds Damon was speechless. “That does not explain the presence of my valet.”

The woman shrugged. “I just carry out my orders, sir. If you wish to know why her grace gave them, you will have to ask her.”

He ignored her and focused on his valet. “Hartwell?”

The man flushed. “I—I was told the order came from you, my lord.”

Damon counted to ten, then to twenty. He couldn’t very well take his ire out on his servant when it was clear the dowager was at fault. Both dowagers he’d go bail and his godmother. They had most likely been the reason he had been delayed leaving the house. They were up to something. The question was what.

The duchess’s dresser might not tell him anything, but one of the others might. He glanced up. The coach windows closed, the shades lowered, and he was left standing in the road. Bloody Lucifer. Obviously, he wasn’t going to get any more information, and it was almost colder than the Spanish mountains in the dead of winter, and his freezing to death waiting for her grace to appear wouldn’t help anyone. He climbed back in his carriage, grateful for the warmth of the hot bricks and his greatcoat. He hoped she had a care for the horses.

Not long later, the sound of horses roused him from a doze. Now he would find out what the hell was going on.

“H
awksworth,” the Duchess of Bridgewater barked out as her massive traveling carriage came to a halt beside his much smaller conveyance. “Come get Meg. She will ride with you. There is not enough room for three in my coach.”

Damon did not believe that for a moment, but was not about to argue. Having Meg with him for hours was more than he could have hoped for. More than he had dreamed possible.

He’d jumped down from his carriage and opened the door of the duchess’s coach before the footman had stepped down from his perch. Lifting Meg out, he carried her to his carriage. The feel of her in his arms was all it took for lust to slam into him. Hours alone with her. No one would be around them. He could kiss her until . . .
Hell!

“My lord, if you get in, I’ll put the stairs away,” his groom said.

“Thank you.” Damon climbed into his coach and sat next to Meg on the forward-facing seat instead of opposite her, as he probably should have. He would simply control his urges. She would never know that all he wanted to do was extend the seat and lay her down on it. Although that would necessarily involve the removal of some of their clothing.

“Follow us,” the duchess commanded as her conveyance started forward.

Her carriage moved forward, followed by his, then the baggage coach.

Meg removed her bonnet, and he put it on the overhead shelf next to his beaver hat. As much as he wanted her here, he did not trust the dowagers’ motives. “I find it hard to believe that her grace’s coach was too small for three.”

“Would you rather I rode with them?” She widened her eyes and stared at him.

“No. God no.” Damon wrapped his arms around Meg and kissed her. “I simply do not understand why she could not have told me her plans.”

She settled herself against him. A warm bundle of female wrapped in fur. “I do not think either her grace or my grandmother believe it is necessary to advise anyone of their stratagems.”

“Are there more?” he asked, almost afraid of the answer.

“I have no idea.” One gloved hand fluttered airily. “The answer is either yes or no, and we have no control over it. I suggest we put their largess to good use.”

It occurred to Damon he was being perverse. Here he had his beloved with him alone in a closed coach, and he was concerning himself with the schemes of two old ladies who obviously wished to assist him to the altar. “In that case, how do you wish to spend our time?”

Her lips curved. “You could give me more kissing lessons.”

His gut clenched. That was exactly what he was afraid of. If they began kissing, he would be hard-pressed to stop with kisses. He already wanted her more than he had any other woman. He breathed, his nostrils filling with lavender, bergamot, and woman. Meg’s scent. He could already imagine what she would smell like with the musk of arousal added to her already enticing mélange.

He would have to try to leave her hair untouched, but he could unfasten her gown and stays. He could kiss her neck and breasts. Discover if her nipples were pink, or rose, or brown. He could taste her and make her come in his arms.

He could damn well behave himself.

Grabbing a blanket from the bench across from him, he threw it over his lap.

“Or we could talk.”

“Talk.” His voice sounded rusty. He was lucky to be able to speak at all. Anything that kept his mouth off her was the best for now. “We can eat as well.”

She let out a peal of unfettered laughter. “I take it the cook packed it for you?”

“Did I tell you I am one of her favorite people?” As long as he did not enter her kitchen, that is. “What would you like to discuss?”

“You.”

“Me?” Damon sounded dubious and perhaps a little worried. “There is not much to know about me that you do not already know.”

Meg seriously doubted that was true. He may think it, but that was only because he was not puffed up in his own consequence. “Yes, you. However, you may ask me any questions you like as well.”

“I have one.” He glanced down at her. His brown eyes probing as if he wished to know a great secret. “Why Throughgood?”

She twisted around so she could look Damon in the face without straining her neck. “I met him one evening. He was very nice. He struck me as uncomplicated, and I thought he might be easy to get along with. Then he sent me flowers.”

“Sent you flowers?” Damon’s black brows shot up.

“What is so surprising about that?” She tried not to be offended, but it was hard. Did he think gentlemen never sent her flowers or other trifles?

He was quiet for a few moments, as if his thoughts needed organizing. “They would not have been roses, would they?”

“Yes. How did you know?” She wondered if Chuffy had told Damon.

“Too clever by half,” he mumbled. “The note was unsigned. What made you think they came from him?”

He had definitely been told. Yet if that was the case, why was he surprised? “The color of the livery. Blue and green. The Grantville livery was the only one that made sense.”

“Blue and red.” Damon’s jaw ticked. “The livery was blue and red. Who told you otherwise?”

“One of our younger footmen. Why are you so upset?”

He raked his fingers through his hair, causing a curl to fall on his forehead. “Do you know if he has difficulty distinguishing between red and green?”

Meg thought back to that day when her mother had come into the library and Mama’s strange comment. “He might have.”

“Sweetheart, I sent you the flowers.” He grimaced. “I wanted to pique your interest so that you would wish to discover the sender yourself. I knew you would not be able to resist the challenge. What I did not count on was your footman suffering from an eye disorder.”

“Eye disorder? I do not understand.”

“A man by the name of John Dalton documented a condition where a man could not tell the difference between red and green. Two men in my first company, brothers, had the same problem.”

She tried to speak, but nothing came out. After several moments, she managed to say faintly, “You wrote that lovely note.”

He nodded. “Would it have made any difference between us if you had known?”

What would she have done? For one thing, she would not have focused on poor Chuffy. Amanda would not have had to hide her attraction for him. But Meg was already trying not to like Damon. If she had known... “I would never have allowed you near me.” Damon scowled. “You do not understand.”

He crossed his arms over his chest. “Why don’t you tell me?”

His jaw firmed, and he had lost the warmth in his gaze. Oh dear. This was not a conversation she wanted to have, but he deserved to know the truth. “I was so hurt, betrayed if you will, and, as I told you before, I knew you were hiding something. If I had known of your interest, I would have thought that you would deceive me.”

A moment later her huge muff was tossed to the floor, and she was enveloped in his strong, safe arms. “I did not know then what you had gone through. I knew Tarlington had left for France, but I thought you had merely tired of him.”

She need not bother to ask who had told him. It had to have been Lady Bellamny. Pressing her cheek against Damon’s muscular chest, she sighed, feeling that he would always protect her. No matter what threatened her, he would be there. But could she say the same?

He pressed a kiss to her head. “What do you wish to know about me?”

Even though she was loath to leave his embrace, she simply could not have a conversation talking into his chest. Meg moved back, reaching up to kiss him before regaining her original position. “You’ve told me about your family.” She did wonder if his father was truly as horrible as he thought him to be. “What do you wish to do until you are a duke?”

His countenance told her nothing. “I told you before, that depends.”

And at that time, she had agreed with him, but it wasn’t true. “Very well, if we wed, what would you do?” His hot, sinful gaze caressed her, and she wanted to melt into him and lose herself in his kisses. “One cannot do that all the time.”

His lips kicked up. “Do what?”

Oooh, she was going to make him pay for causing her to turn as red as a pickled beet. He had not even pretended it was an innocent question. “I am not entirely naïve. My sister-in-law told me some of what goes on between a man and a woman. She said that she had known nothing, and it had been extremely awkward and embarrassing.”

Damon fought his grin. Meg was adorable when she was on her dignity. Not to mention that her heightened color made her even more beautiful than she already was. He would have to think of more ways to make her blush.

She was also intelligent and perceptive. Even if she loved him, she would not marry a wastrel. He did need something useful to occupy himself. His father was in good health, so it might be years before he was a duke. “What does your brother do?”

“I suppose you mean Kit.”

Damon nodded. “It is an heir-in-waiting dilemma.”

“He manages most of my father’s estates, and he has one of his own as well. He and Papa discuss politics, and I know Kit has written at least two of my father’s speeches for the Lords.”

Damon was gobsmacked. Except for the times he spent with Lord Bellamny, when he caught glimpses of what it would have been like to have a man such as he for a father, Damon had a hard time imagining what it would be like to have a father who appreciated one’s talents and encouraged them. “My father has never discussed anything with me, much less politics. That, however, might be a blessing. I do not think we would agree.”

She drew her brows down as she considered his problem. “I am sure my father, or perhaps Lord Bellamny, would be happy to instruct you.”

“As much as I care about his lordship, he is vastly more interested in his scientific endeavors than in estate management. As for your father, I’m not sure that your brother would like me intruding.”

“He probably wouldn’t mind at the moment.” Her countenance lightened. “He is enjoying married life a great deal.”

Damon would like to be enjoying married life as well, with Meg. “What do you think I should do?”

“Find a cause.” Her answer was swift and sure. “There must be something you are passionate about.”

“Other than pink silk neck-cloths?” He had meant it as a joke, but she cast him a gimlet look.

“Yes. What would you like to change?”

As much as he enjoyed being in the coach with Meg and would not trade places for the world, his frustration was growing. “The difficulty with that is that the things I do care about, I cannot do anything about. I am not a peer. My father would never consent to my running for the Commons. I don’t even have my own house.” That was it in a nutshell. The real reason for his dissatisfaction. He had no place he could call his own home. No servants that were not his father’s. Recently he had felt like a piece on a chessboard, to be played at his father’s will. Which was the reason he had not opened the letter he’d received from Catherine this morning. “The only property I own is in Greece.”

Meg canted her head to one side, considering him for several moments. “Other than the allowance you receive from your father, do you have any money?”

He did. Quite a lot of it, actually. It had amused him to spend his allowance on things his father would not approve of. The majority of his funds were invested. But what that had to do with anything, he did not understand. “Yes.”

She lifted one shoulder in an elegant shrug. “Then buy a house, or a small estate, or both, if you have the funds for it.”

His mouth gaped open. He became aware of it when she placed one gloved finger under his chin and shut it for him. The idea had never occurred to him. “What would I do with more property? You would not believe the extent of the dukedom’s holdings.”

“Oh”—she smiled slowly, a knowing look on her face—“I think I might have a relatively good idea.”

He remembered then that despite Viscount Featherton’s rank, he was extremely well-off, and she had been raised around the duchess.

She gazed up at Damon, her earnest sapphire-blue eyes mesmerizing him, and took his hands in hers. “You need a place to call your own. To be able to do with what you wish. After you become a duke, you may sell the property or, oh, I don’t know, do any number of things with it. You do not need a plan for that now. It is the present and immediate future you should look to.”

He allowed the idea to sink into his brain. Houses of his own
would
solve many of his concerns. If his father would not allow him to take charge of any of the dukedom’s estates, having one of his own was the perfect way for him to learn how to manage his holdings once he came into them. He did have ideas about farming and estate management and wished to experiment with new methods. On his own estate, he would not be required to have his father’s or the steward’s permission to implement them.

A town house of his own would enable him to hold political entertainments with people who held the same beliefs he did. He would have his own servants. Ones whose loyalties would be to him and not his father. He had no doubt at all that, with the exceptions of Hartwell and his groom, the other servants sent regular reports to the duke. It would be necessary for Damon to set up his own stables, but that was no hardship.

The solution was so utterly simple that he didn’t understand why the devil he had never thought of it before. Had he been on his way to becoming nothing more than a worthless fribble?

“I’ll do it,” he said. “I shall write to—” Not his father’s man of business. He would ask for a recommendation from a friend or perhaps Lord Featherton. Damon should do it soon before all the houses in Mayfair had been snapped up for the Season. He also should buy an estate at the same time so that he’d have time to make plans for spring planting and animal husbandry. “A land agent as soon as I find one and have him send me listings.”