“Hmmm,” said Uncle Douglas, all his attention focused on Meggie now. She’d been the cutest little girl, a benevolent tyrant to her brothers, the ruler of all the male cousins. But she wasn’t a little girl any longer. Jeremy Stanton-Greville? There were a lot of years separating them—a good dozen—too many in Douglas’s opinion. At least Jeremy wasn’t yet married; Douglas would have been notified. “All right, then,” he said slowly. “Why don’t I fetch Jeremy and we can enjoy dinner together? Get reacquainted?”
“Yes,” said Aunt Alex comfortably. “It’s always interesting to reminisce, don’t you think, Meggie? We haven’t seen Jeremy in at least five years. He appears to have become a fine-looking man.”
“Yes,” Meggie said, never taking her eyes off him. “Do I look all right, Aunt Alex? My gown? My hair? Is my nose too shiny?”
“You look perfect.” So much for flirting and just enjoying herself and not husband hunting, Alex thought, seeing her niece’s heart in her beautiful Sherbrooke eyes as she stared at Jeremy Stanton-Greville, who had now turned and was speaking to Douglas. He was nearly Douglas’s height, well formed, a big man, and his hair was a dark rich brown, his eyes dark as well. Then he smiled and nodded and walked beside Douglas toward them. Alex saw that he limped slightly and remembered that he’d been born with a club foot, but it hadn’t slowed him down a bit, according to his brother-in-law, Ryder, who’d seen that he’d learned to fight dirty and ride like a centaur. He’d been a terror, Ryder had proudly said, during his years at Eton.
As Meggie watched him come closer and closer, her stomach pitched wildly. She felt like a fool, a dolt. She couldn’t think of a word to say. All she wanted to do was hurl herself at him and beg him to marry her.
Well, perhaps not yet. That would be rushing things just a bit. Maybe tomorrow or even the next day. She cleared her throat. She had to say something, had to charm him, show off her wit, if she could manage to find it.
Oh dear. What would happen now?
At three o’clock in the morning Meggie crawled beneath the thick covers on her bed and turned onto her back. She smiled, an idiot’s smile, but it didn’t matter. She was thrumming with happiness, with anticipation. Giddiness washed through her veins, and she wanted to shout to the cherubs that adorned the ceiling of her bedchamber, she was so very happy.
Imagine, her very first week in London and she’d met her future husband.
Jeremy Stanton-Greville. Meggie Stanton-Greville. Lady Stanton-Greville. It sounded wonderful. It sounded perfect.
What a beautiful man he was. Just imagine, her almost-cousin, and she’d known him nearly all her life, and here he was in London at exactly the same time she was and surely a sign that he’d been sent here for a specific reason, namely to see a grown-up Meggie Sherbrooke through a man’s eyes and throw himself at her feet
. Oh yes, the last time he’d seen her, she’d been thirteen—bossy and loud, smacking her brothers and cousins whenever they deserved it, which was often. Not very appetizing memories for him. Her memories of Jeremy were, now that she thought of it, of a young man constantly in motion, constantly on horseback, always racing, windblown, laughing, white teeth. And he’d been full of himself. But it hadn’t mattered. She’d loved him the moment he opened his mouth that last time she’d seen him when she was thirteen years old. He’d come with Aunt Sophie for a visit. She’d taken just one quick look and it had been all over for her. She’d not let him out of her sight. Then he’d left and time had passed. Five whole years. And, after all, she was young and there was so much to do, and she’d forgotten about him, about the impact of him. He’d had but to reappear and that impact was back, slamming her hard, right in the heart. Talk about heated blood, hers was boiling her from the inside out. It was entirely too wonderful.
No, evidently, tucked away deep inside her, she hadn’t forgotten him entirely. She smiled up into the darkness.
And tonight, there he’d been and everything was different, everything had changed. When he’d taken her hand, when he’d smiled at her showing those lovely white teeth again, she’d wanted to throw herself in his arms. What would happen then—ah, kisses and more kisses. Nothing of that sort had happened, naturally, but to dance with him, she’d feel ready to burst with happiness.
After a few polite phrases had been exchanged, Jeremy had asked Uncle Douglas if he could pay a visit—today, in not more than eight hours from now.
He had another party to attend this night, a pity, but there it was. Just before he left them, he took Meggie’s hand, smiled at her yet again from his superior height, and told her she’d become a beauty, and kissed her cheek.
“Young men will take one look at you and fall to their knees,” he said.
“I used to line up Max, Leo, and Alec on their knees so Rory could walk over them,” she said, and thought, I only want you on your knees.
Jeremy burst into laughter.
“Rory got so good at it, he’d beg them to line up for him, but farther apart, so he could leap from one back to the next. Then, of course, the boys lined up so that Cleopatra, one of our racing cats, could practice her leaping by jumping from one to the next.”
“I had forgotten about the cat racing. I didn’t know you were so involved.”
“Oh yes. I’m Mr. Cork’s official trainer. He’s the current champion, at least until the next meet. We’ll see. Cleo’s leap gets longer and more timely with each race. I don’t remember, do you like cat racing?”
He shook his head. “Not really. I love horses. You must admit that racing cats is rather ridiculous compared to racing horses.”
She didn’t agree at all, felt as if he’d smacked her, but just very lightly, and said only, “That is a pity. I’m sure you’ll come about.” She couldn’t wait to see to it that he did. She would race cats and he would race his horses. It was a perfect match.
Jeremy said, “That is quite an image—of both the leaping cat and of Rory. How old is Rory now?”
When she fell asleep not five minutes later, Meggie dreamed that Cleo beat Mr. Cork in a race that lasted only three seconds. Cleo had pumped up her back legs, taken two long high leaps and landed over the finish line.
Another sign, Meggie thought when she woke up at nine o’clock the next morning, instantly awake, filled with so much excitement she thought she’d vomit. It was the sort of excitement and fear she’d never felt before in her life. If feeling sick to her stomach was the price, she’d endure it gladly. Yes, Cleo’s dream performance was a sign. Two leaps, two graceful soaring leaps, and Meggie would have him.
Jeremy Stanton-Greville, Baron Greville, of Dragon’s Jaw in Fowey, arrived at the Sherbrooke town house at precisely eleven o’clock in the morning.
Darby, only fifty years old, had taken over his butler duties six months before, and he was still basking in his new responsibilities. And finally, the staff recognized his importance. He knew he was awe-inspiring, what with his measured walk, more of a smooth glide really, his dignified set of the shoulders and his incredibly well-pressed black knee pants and white linen.
He had known Jeremy Stanton-Greville since he was nine years old, newly arrived in England from Jamaica, and Mr. Ryder Sherbrooke’s brother-in-law.