She settled on perching her hat atop the precarious mountain of string-tied boxes beside her, placing the smallest one at the peak on her lap. Peering inside, she found a tempting selection of macarons the color of toasted cream and chose one before passing them along.
The confection was delightfully crunchy on the outside, the inside melting on her tongue in a delicious pool of almond-sugar sweetness. “Positively scrumptious.”
“I couldn’t agree more,” Maeve said, choosing one for herself. “Though, it’s entirely possible that I never would have sampled one if the nuns during the revolution had kept the original name of Priests’ Belly Buttons. Macaron sounds much more appetizing.”
Myrtle nodded as she peered into the box as well. Then she lifted a pair of them for closer inspection. “So true. Although, I cannot help but think they could be improved with a little jam sandwiched between two. I said as much to the boulanger. In the next instant, the baker’s eyes lit up like lanterns as he took my face in his hands and pressed a kiss to both cheeks. Further proof that food brings out our inner passions like nothing else.” She popped one in her mouth and sighed contentedly before issuing an offhand shrug. “Then again, I might have said something else entirely. You know how I occasionally bungle my French.”
“You do well enough when you want to flirt,” Maeve said, and her sister waggled her brows at Meg.
“When did the two of you become so good at it? Flirting, I mean.”
“Myrtle was born into it, without a doubt. Already batting her lashes at the postman at five years old.”
“And Maeve was a late bloomer,” Myrtle said, plucking the confection from her sister’s hand.
“Well, some of us are not so easily impressed and prefer a man with a certain air of distinction.”
“In other words, she likes tired old fussbudgets.”
Maeve snatched back her macaron and gobbled the entire thing with relish, challenging her sister with a glare all the while.
Meg giggled, but the jesting made her miss Ellie. She loved her brother, but she’d become terribly fond of having a sister. Someone to talk to and tease good-naturedly. Someone who knew the thoughts pressing on her heart without even needing to utter a syllable.
She would have liked to talk to Ellie about the duke and the confusing feelings she had when she was with him. Honoria was a good friend, but she didn’t understand. For her, flirting was all about the chase. And she was used to men vying for her attention.
Meg was not. It had never bothered her in the past because she’d always thought she would marry Daniel. So why should she care if gentlemen chose not to flirt with her?
After last night, however, she realized she did care.
In fact, learning that the duke’s sole reason for speaking with her was because she reminded him of another woman incensed her to no end.
She growled down at the half-eaten macaron in her hand. “What if the gentleman you try to flirt with is an utter dunderhead?”
“Oh? Did you meet someone last night, my dear?”
“A gentleman who caught your fancy, perhaps?”
Meg knew her mistake the instant she saw Maeve and Myrtle smile at her, their bright gazes brimming with wedding-breakfast expectations. And when they exchanged a look, she could almost hear their unspoken conversation.
Do you think seven courses, sister?
No, indeed. Eight at the very least.
“Merely curious,” Meg offered blandly. “In case I happen to meet someone worth flirting with. But I still have no intention of marrying anyone.”
“Of course not, dear,” Myrtle agreed with a nod, while her eyes were still dancing with thoughts of cakes, pastries and pies.
Maeve was likely estimating the number of guests they could fit in the ballroom at Crossmoor Abbey. But at least she was able to school her features. “You are quite right. This is a holiday. One should always be prepared.”
“And by sheer happenstance, there is a rather illustrious guest staying at our hotel. Perhaps you could practice on him, hmm?”
Maeve nudged her sister and discreetly shook her head. Then she returned her attention to Meg. “It’s best to remember that men believe they are the center of the universe. Of course, we know better.”
“And keep the three Fs in mind. If you cannot offer him food, then feed him flattery.”
“Indeed. Men always want to be regarded as clever, as though they were the first creatures to string syllables together to form a language. So be sure to hold his gaze and nod thoughtfully. It will make him think you are hanging on every word.”
“And keep a laugh at the ready in case he offers a quip.”
Meg frowned. “But what if he isn’t amusing?”
“A light laugh serves two purposes,” Maeve added. “It will either knock him down from his perch of condescension or make him believe that the two of you are of like mind in all things, including your sense of humor.”
“But shouldn’t it feel more natural and less . . . oh, I don’t know . . . calculated?”
Glumly nibbling on the chewy outer edge of the confection, it suddenly occurred to Meg that there might have been another reason she’d had little success with gentlemen during her Seasons. She’d never thought to try so hard to become someone she wasn’t. If a man made a banal remark, she wouldn’t praise him for it. And she certainly wouldn’t laugh if he was behaving like an utter nodcock either.
All in all, these rules of engagement seemed like something the duke might study in order to attempt to be affable. At the memory of his confession, she grumbled in irritation.
“Fear not, flirting will be effortless when you are with a gentleman you regard fondly,” Myrtle said.
Maeve nodded. “Quite true. And we were under the impression that you asked for the purpose of indulging in a mere holiday flirtation. However, if you are interested in a deeper attachment that might lead to an offer of marriage, then—”
“No,” Meg interrupted with a quick shake of her head. “You have provided the perfect advice for what I want.”
She was thankful that the carriage slowed to a stop in front of the hotel at that moment and for the distraction of the porters scurrying out to unload the packages. The only thing that interested her was a simple, uncomplicated holiday flirtation.
Maeve looked through the window and turned back to Meg with a small smile on her lips. “Nevertheless, we wish for you to know that you can always change your mind.”
“I won’t.”
“Well, then, hold these”—Myrtle suddenly thrust the box of macarons at her—“just in case, dear.”
“And what will I do with nearly a dozen macarons?”
Myrtle blinked. “Why, the same you would do with one, of course.”
Confused, Meg stuffed the remainder of her own macaron into her mouth. And it wasn’t until the hotel hostler opened the door and handed her down that she saw the reason for the aunts’ sudden excitement.
Drat it all, the duke was standing on the pavement!
She nearly choked. In fact, if the confection wasn’t primarily comprised of sugar and egg whites that were slowly melting, she surely would have done. Her eyes watered, nonetheless, as the sticky sweet clump congealed at the back of her throat.
“My gracious. Why, if it isn’t the Duke of Merleton! What a complete and utter surprise,” Myrtle said with a feigned gasp, the sound a bit too practiced for one who was actually in shock.