But the matter of his hostess’s strange behaviour vanished instantly from his mind when he laid eyes on Miss Nightingale. As they stood together to receive her father’s guests and respond suitably to their congratulations – they were mostly a motley assortment of cousins, older members of the extended De Lacy and Nightingale families rather than friends of his or persons he’d any desire at all to spend time with – he was happy to see that she must be considered completely, even miraculously, recovered from her brief illness. She was in high bloom in pearls and a charming gown of cerulean blue silk with a gauzy white overdress, looking better, in fact, than she had on any other occasion on which he’d seen her. There was colour in her previously pale cheeks, and she must have caught the sun during some outing in recent days, despite her cold, for her straight nose was scattered with a few freckles, which were surely new. In general, she now resembled a living woman rather than a statue from antiquity, and in Dominic’s eyes, at least, it was a decided improvement.
She’d also cut her hair, which perhaps contributed to her more modern and approachable air. Was it quite usual for a young lady so ruthlessly to chop off her long, lustrous and much-admired golden locks in favour of a short crop a couple of weeks before her marriage? Dominic couldn’t say. Did he mind, or think he should have been consulted? He didn’t. He detected in himself distinct signs of liking it. The change revealed the graceful arc of her long neck, unburdened by heavy curls, the fine shape of the back of her head with its feathery wisps of short hair, which somehow made him want to run a finger lightly down that swooping curve, to where her bare, creamy skin met the edge of her gown, and then around… For the first time he was conscious of a fugitive spark of sexual interest. More than that – desire. He had no reason to assume that it was reciprocated, but in the circumstances, with their wedding so close, he welcomed it as something that could perhaps be built upon, slowly and with infinite care and patience. It was surely better if at least one of them felt something more than complete indifference towards the other.
Unsure if it was wise, once the stream of arrivals to be greeted had slowed to a trickle and then stopped he could not refrain from complimenting his betrothed upon her novel and flattering way of arranging her hair. She regarded him in a measuring sort of way, and this too was new, as was her manner, which was somehow brisker than he’d known previously. She seemed about to speak – perhaps actually to offer something beyond platitudes for the first time in their acquaintance – but she was interrupted before she could do so. This was, after all, supposed to be a formal, public celebration of their impending nuptials, and must be marked as such. Lady De Lacy took swift charge of matters, since Mrs Greystone appeared to be incapable of it and Lord Nightingale disinclined to exert himself in the task, and at her instigation glasses were raised to toast the happy couple, brief speeches made, not least by Dominic himself, and renewed congratulations offered by the assembled guests. The bride to be blushed becomingly, and murmured her thanks, and everything passed off entirely satisfactorily, the company now resolving itself into various conversational groups.
‘Thank goodness that’s over!’ said Miss Nightingale unexpectedly in his ear, her breath brushing his flesh and making it tingle. ‘Now you and I must talk in private, sir. Urgently!’
He had no time to object, even had he wished to; her hand was on his arm, urging him away, and in a moment or so he found himself truly alone with his betrothed, back in the sitting room where he’d proposed to her. On this occasion both doors were firmly closed, and Miss Nightingale leaned back against the one they’d entered by, treating him to that oddly assessing glance once more. Her cheeks were still flushed, and he now realised that she had only been superficially composed before. But she was revealing her underlying agitation plainly now. Whatever the reason she had drawn him here in such a determined manner, he didn’t think, unfortunately, that it was to further their acquaintance in any of the enticing ways that had so recently occurred to him. She didn’t look in the least like a woman with an amorous purpose in mind; in fact, she appeared more likely to dress him down than kiss him.
Still he felt no sense of impending doom, no hint that his life was about to be up-ended, shaken vigorously, like a feather mattress by a chambermaid, and put down in a way entirely new to him. ‘Ma’am,’ he said, ‘Miss Nightingale?—’
She shook her head emphatically, her bright curls bouncing. She seemed – though surely she could not be – irritated, even angry.
‘I’m not Miss Nightingale,’ she said with emphasis. ‘That’s Maria, my older sister. I’m Miss Margaret Nightingale – Meg. We’ve never met before, Sir Dominic. And I must tell you that my sister has disappeared.’
3
Sir Dominic De Lacy stared at Meg with an expression of incomprehension that would have seemed foolish on a face less handsome. He was, it pained her to admit, excessively, even ridiculously, good looking. Maria had inexplicably not thought to tell her so in any of her letters, though it wasn’t the sort of thing that Meg herself would have neglected to mention when discussing her own future husband. His features were strong, masculine and regular – his nose straight, his cheekbones sharply cut, his chin strong and his eyes a pleasing shade of grey. His mouth was particularly finely sculpted, and his artfully dishevelled hair a warm honey brown. He was tall, too – Meg was accustomed to towering over men, but this gentleman was well over six foot and had several inches’ advantage over her. His immaculate black evening suit fitted him to perfection, and if the breadth of his shoulders owed anything to padding, she could see no sign of it. She knew, as did anyone who paid attention to such matters, or had done her research, that he was a notable whip, a consummate horseman and a superb amateur boxer. A leader of fashion, too, and one of the wealthiest and most eligible men in the haut ton. And her sister, his betrothed, the woman he had chosen above all others to be his bride, instead of being gratified to be so singled out, had run away from him, vanishing utterly into the teeming streets of London.
‘What did you do to her?’ she said fiercely, determined to catch him off guard while he was still dealing with the severe shock she’d given him. He might be the epitome of male elegance, the image of every hero of every novel she’d ever read, Mr Darcy or Lord Orville made flesh, but that didn’t mean he couldn’t be a secret monster of depravity too. She would not be so foolish as to judge him by appearances. Had he forced his attentions on poor Maria, or otherwise offended her tender sensibilities by unforgivably boorish behaviour? She, Meg, needed to stop gazing at him like a mooncalf and find out.
He shook his head, as if to clear it. ‘I?’
‘Yes, you! Who else?’
‘I have not the least notion what you’re talking about,’ he said firmly.
She scoffed in disbelief. ‘My sister has run away – at least I must assume she has – because she is horrified by the prospect of marrying you. Why else would she go so suddenly, and without telling anyone? All I know is, she’s gone. And I demand you tell me why!’
It seemed to Meg that anger was kindling deep in those grey eyes, anger to match her own. ‘If what you say is true, I’d quite like to know myself. I assure you, I have done nothing to her. Though we are betrothed, I scarcely know her. I must admit that I was aware she was experiencing some discomfort since our engagement became a subject for public speculation, but she never spoke to me of it, and I had thought her merely embarrassed by the scrutiny we have inevitably been undergoing. I see now that I was quite disastrously wrong. I suppose you’re twins?’
‘Of course we are, as must be perfectly obvious to anyone of the meanest intelligence! Is that all you can think to say?’
‘Madam, I think I’m reacting rather well, considering I’ve just been deceived into publicly celebrating my engagement in front of half the stuffiest old dragons of the ton with a woman at my side I’ve never met before in my life. Did your father not think to make some excuse – a sudden indisposition would have served perfectly and occasioned little comment – and call the damn thing off, rather than prevail upon you, as I must assume he did, to engage in such a ridiculous and dangerous imposture?’
‘Oh, he doesn’t know,’ said Meg a little more calmly. Perhaps she had been wrong in thinking that Sir Dominic must be to blame. It seemed there was some mystery here.
He appeared to be speechless for a moment. ‘Lord Nightingale doesn’t…?’ he managed at last. ‘How in the name of heaven is that possible?’
‘Maria ran away four nights ago, we believe. As soon as she realised my sister was missing, my aunt Greystone sent an urgent letter by the overnight mail, asking if Maria had come to us – to my mama’s house – and summoning me to take her place if she had not. But we knew nothing at all of the matter, and had not laid eyes on her or heard from her, and so I was obliged to do as Aunt begged me. I arrived last night on the stagecoach. You must have seen how distraught the poor creature is, which I am sure is quite understandable. But my father knows nothing at all of the matter.’
‘He hasn’t noticed? Not your aunt’s distress, and not this… this outrageous substitution?’
‘Well, he pays no attention to my aunt, or to females generally. Or people, really. All he cares for is his studies. And as for me, we haven’t set eyes on each other for five years or so. My mother would tell you that he’s forgotten he ever had another daughter. Although she is prejudiced against him because of the dreadful way he has treated her, I do think on this occasion she may be right.’
‘Your hair…’ He gestured at it somewhat helplessly with one elegant hand.
‘If he’s noticed it – which he very likely hasn’t – he probably thinks I simply had it cut. You thought so, did you not?’
‘I did. But I’m not your father, and I don’t share a home with you. I assure you, I am barely acquainted with your sister, and we have never been alone together for more than the very brief interview in which I proffered my suit and she accepted it. But I find it almost beyond belief that one daughter – even if you are identical – could be substituted for another and a parent not notice it.’
Meg said, hysterical laughter suddenly welling up in a great bubble inside her and making her voice unsteady, ‘My mother has always said… he isn’t very observant!’
Sir Dominic let out a crack of sudden mirth that transformed his features and made him appealing rather than merely conventionally handsome. ‘I would say that is something of an understatement!’
The shared moment of humour seemed to lessen the tension somehow. ‘Are we truly still identical?’ Meg asked him with unconscious wistfulness. ‘My aunt said we are, but she was so desperate for me to take Maria’s place tonight that I wasn’t sure if she was being honest, or just hoped that it might be so.’
‘My dear girl, don’t you know?’
