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, / 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.