Goodness.
She cleared her throat. “Even so.”
He leaned against a column, crossing his arms. “There are roses in your cheeks.”
Was she blushing? Damn it. Best to pretend she wasn’t. “Are there?”
“You weren’t in any danger of swooning, I reckon.”
She pretended great interest in the giant pots of white roses scattered around the terrace, mostly held aloft by marble Roman nymphs. Dougal followed her gaze, at which point she realized they were surrounded by rather a lot of white breasts. The Pendleton terrace was forbidden to many a young lady, and not just this evening. Meg refused to blush further. She was too old to be all aflutter.
“Tell the truth,” he said coaxingly, a big, muscled man with a gentle voice that shivered across every inch of bare skin revealed by her ballgown. “You were playacting.”
She inclined her head.
“Why?”
She gave a small sigh. “There are gentlemen in that ballroom who do not deserve the title.”
“I believe it.”
“Lord Eaton was descending upon a young lady, barely out.” She used his name because she vaguely recalled that Dougal also had a younger sister. He ought to be armed with the proper information. “I don’t believe she or her mother knew of his reputation. His real reputation, that is.”
His eyes narrowed. “Which is?”
“He has more hands than an octopus. And he is very adept at cornering women.”
“You speak from experience?”
“Only once. And never again since.”
“Once?” He pushed from the column, furious. His voice went hard, she could hear knives and swords in every syllable.
She smiled grimly. “Ask him why he can no longer bend the little finger on his left hand.”
“You will point out this man to me.”
“He’s already abandoned the dancing,” she assured him. He looked like a storm cloud, all coiled menace and purpose. She probably shouldn’t find it attractive.
She really, really, found it attractive.
She was saved by the Horde. Younger debutantes, forbidden from leaving the ballroom by their parents, hovered by the open terrace doors. A few bolder ladies ventured outside, claiming, loudly, to be interested in seeing the stars as they were so seldom visible in London.
“Is it true, then?” Meg asked, watching them. “What the Prince Regent decreed?”
“That son of a—” Dougal broke off with a cough.
Meg smiled a little. “Definitely true then.”
It was said that in order to safeguard the vulnerable Thorncroft dukedom, Dougal had been ordered to marry with haste. Should he not be quick enough, the Prince Regent would choose his wife.
He didn’t look the sort to be pleased about that sort of thing.
“I must marry by Christmas,” Dougal said. “If I have any hope of choosing my own bride.”
“So soon?” Meg asked. “Is that even legal?”
“The seven different lawyers I hired assured me it is unusual but legal. More to the point, he is the prince and will be the king one day and he can make my family’s life very difficult.”