She had not communicated with him in those years, although with the news of battles, she had always scoured the Gazette for word of him. She had been proud of his mentions in dispatches and appalled by talk of his injuries at Toulouse. And now he was home and recovered, thank God. Harry, her friend.
As she gazed into the glass in her chamber, she saw instead his face, the mischievous boy with the engaging smile and floppy, dark blond hair, the smart young hussar so proud of his uniform, so desperate for life and adventure. Her friend. He might well help her…
Either way, she would not be so mean as to marry him. However, it was clear she did need to get out of London. For even if she refused Harry, or induced him not to offer for her in the first place, it would not be long before her furious parents found someone else considerably less congenial who, no doubt, owed her important father a favor. Unthinkable to be married for such a reason.
She paid no attention to how the maid dressed her or pinned her hair, though when she met her mother in the breakfast parlor, the duchess deigned to approve her, even patted her hand in a comforting sort of way.
“You will do,” she murmured.
For what? Meg wondered wryly. A ruined bride?
After breakfast, she fetched a novel she was halfway through and her largest reticule into which she stuffed a comb, toothbrush, and tooth powder. Then, she slipped downstairs to the reception room closest to the front door. From the window seat, she would be able to see Harry arrive and get to him first.
It was not a day to concentrate on reading. Instead, the book lay open and ignored in her lap while her mind dwelled on the note that had tricked her and the other ladies into attending the absent princess yesterday. Who would have done such a thing, and why? Could it truly have been an administrative mistake? Or a mischievous prank, perhaps, perpetrated by one of the luckier ladies who had, presumably, accompanied Her Highness on her travels? No one, surely, could have guessed how the princess’s hospitality would be abused by friend and stranger alike until it degenerated into the wild party she and the others had locked themselves away from.
They had been stupid. They should have known neither Her Highness nor Sir Joseph or whomever else they had imagined she was with could have ignored the racket for so long.
Footsteps in the street distracted her yet again, but this time the young man sauntering along the road wore the red and gold uniform of a hussar. And he did look familiar.
Tall and lean, almost lanky, he moved with a slightly halting step that was still somehow graceful and self-confident. His hip had been injured at Toulouse. He carried his hat under his arm, and his dark blond hair, a little too long, blew around his face in the breeze.
An involuntary smile sprang to her lips. The years fell away, and she knew in her heart he was still the Harry she remembered, still her friend. He turned up the front steps, and a second later, she heard the rap of the knocker.
She hurried across the room and into the entrance hall where the porter was just admitting him.
“Harry!” she hissed to get his attention, and then to the porter and the hovering footman. “It’s fine. I shall take him up.”
Harry stared at her in understandable surprise. “Meg?”
Pleased he could still tell her from her twin—even with slightly less confidence than in the past—she smiled and beckoned. “Quickly, in here before Their Graces realize you’ve arrived.”
He didn’t hesitate but walked toward her. She led him into the reception room and spun around to face him.
Oh, yes, he was still recognizably Harry, though she didn’t remember him being quite so…imposing. There was a new…hardness about him. She discerned lines she didn’t recall about his eyes and mouth. His skin was bronzed by the sun, which rather suited him. From an engaging youth, he had become an undeniably attractive man. Yet somewhere in the last five years, he had learned to hide what he was thinking. His once open blue-grey eyes were amiable but opaque, and she struggled to find there the carefree youth she had known.
On the other hand, she saw no obvious scars or injury beyond his slight limp.
“You look well,” she said in relief. “I’m glad.”
“I’m glad you’re glad,” he said flippantly. He made no move to come closer. “And I am delighted to return the compliment. Why are we hiding in here?”
His voice had changed slightly, too, deepened, his speech more clipped and definite. A man used to command.
Covering her sudden nervousness, she said hastily, “Because I have to warn you. My parents will try and pressure you into offering for me, but on no account must you do so.”
A smile flickered across his firm lips.
Encouraged, she sat on the sofa and patted the place next to her. “I’m in trouble, Harry.”
“Of course you are. When were you not?” He sat beside her, stretching one leg straight out in front of him as though easing it.
“This time, it is truly not my fault,” she said earnestly. “At least, I don’t think it is. I had a place in the Princess of Wales’s household and was summoned to duty last night. Only there was a horrible party going on, and we locked ourselves in the sitting room until they all went away or fell asleep. And then we discovered the princess had never been there. We’d spent the entire night in that house unchaperoned. And the story is in some vile rag of a newspaper. So, you see, I am ruined.”
A frown deepened the creases on his brow. “I should have thought His Grace the man to fix that,” he observed.
“Oh, he plans to, largely by making you marry me.”
His gaze remained steady on her face. “Calm your terrors. I have no intention of offering for you.”
Of course, he did not, and naturally, she was relieved to hear it. Only some other wayward emotion bothered her. Pique? Hurt? Surely not.
“No indeed,” she agreed. “And I have a much better plan, and I know Papa will never allow it.”
“I’m not going to like it, either, am I?”
She smiled. “It’s better than marrying me. Would you object very much to driving me to my sister at Calvert Court?”
“No, but what good would it do you?”
“Martha could say I was always there, and so I couldn’t possibly have been in Connaught Place.”
Harry appeared to consider. “It’s a good plan. I can’t quite understand why His Grace doesn’t send you there post-haste.”
“I think he would rather brazen it out, marry me to someone respectable while he forces the newspaper to retract. He imagines we would all be safer if I were married.”
“You don’t agree?”
“I’ve never wanted to be married.”
“That isn’t true.”
She flushed. “If you mean Calvert, I was glad in the end he chose Martha over me. I have quite forgiven them both for seeing them together. I know I should have hated to be married to him. In fact, I would make anyone a shockingly bad wife, so I decided years ago simply not to marry. So, will you take me to Calvert Court, Harry?”
He regarded her. “If I don’t, you will just hire a post chase, won’t you?”
“Or go on the stagecoach.”
“So, when would you expect me to go? After I’ve spoken to your parents?”
“Lord, no,” she exclaimed. “They would only stop us. No, we must go now.”