The Trouble With Dukes

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by Grace Burrowes


  He was not handsome, though. Too much sorrow lurked in his blue eyes, too much wariness. His features lacked refinement but were suited to those eyes. That jaw hinted of stubbornness, and his chin reinforced an impression of implacability. Granite cliffs stood as this man did, against howling winds, crashing seas, and centuries of marching seasons.

  Though at the moment, the granite-strong man was apparently felled by indecision.

  “I recognize you,” Megan said, going toward him, her hand outstretched. “You rescued my spectacles the other day in Hatchards.”

  The gentleman’s expression went from wary to dismayed, as Megan took him by the arm and tugged him forward in Aunt Esther’s direction.

  “You must meet my family,” Megan went on, though the gentleman was apparently not used to being led about, for he remained unyielding, despite Megan’s attempted guidance. “They will certainly want to make the acquaintance of so gallant and polite a fellow.”

  Hamish knew how to survive this ambush. He must snatch Colin by the elbow, duck back out the door, and wait a safe distance down the street until Edana and Rhona were finished beggaring him.

  But the bespectacled young lady with the soft voice had already taken Hamish prisoner, and to free himself, he’d have to lift her hand away from his arm. Such a maneuver required touching her, and even Hamish knew that taking liberties with a proper woman’s person was the equivalent of social suicide.

  “Come along,” the lady said, patting Hamish’s hand. “Aunt is perfectly lovely, as a duchess is supposed to be.”

  The perfectly lovely duchess apparently had a sense of the absurd, for she extended a gloved hand in Hamish’s direction.

  “His Grace of Murdoch,” she said, “if I’m not mistaken. A pleasure, and this must be your brother, Captain Colin MacHugh.”

  Colin bowed, while Hamish took the duchess’s hand and scrabbled desperately for what a man was supposed to say to a graciously smirking duchess.

  “Your Grace,” Hamish said, bowing. “A pleasure to meet you, and you are correct, this rascal has the honor to be my brother, Colin MacHugh.”

  A flurry of curtsying and bowing and damned introducing went on for half the day. The Marchioness of Mischief was Lady Deene. The ranks of officers on the Peninsula had included a Lord Deene. The man had been a fool if he’d preferred war to remaining by his marchioness’s side.

  Edana and Rhona elbowed their way into the queue, as did a pretty little thing named Miss Elizabeth Windham, another niece of the duchess.

  Hamish’s sense of impatience worsened, because he had no pencil and paper with which to sketch these relationships, and he’d probably forget them before he was out the shop door. The person responsible for this trooping the color was off in a corner, half-hidden by a bolt of flowery and expensive-looking fabric.

  Megan Windham would be difficult to forget.

  “Your Grace will pardon me,” Hamish said, “but we neglect a member of your party in our exchange of pleasantries.”

  Hamish had sisters, he had battlefield experience, and he had keen eyesight, even in low light. Across the shop, Miss Megan went still, as if she’d heard a twig snap in a forest she’d thought to enjoy in solitude.

  “Megan,” Her Grace called in tones both pleasant and imperious. “Come make your farewell curtsy to His Grace, and then we must be on our way. Madam, twenty yards of the green silk for Miss Edana, and twenty of the blue for Miss Rhona. Maroon trim for both, maroon silk shawls and slippers, maroon stockings. The young ladies will send you an additional order for petticoats and so forth at their convenience.”

  Hamish was too glad for the duchess’s sense of command to quibble at the death blow she’d dealt his budget.

  Miss Megan glided over to offer Colin and Hamish a curtsy. From her, the gesture wasn’t an awkward bob but rather an exercise in deference and grace. Everything from the drape of Miss Megan’s skirts, to the inclination of her head, to the tempo at which she raised her hand, was … lovely.

  Colin whacked Hamish’s back.

  “Miss Megan,” Hamish said. “A pleasure.” A blessing, more like, to behold such feminine dignity, and also a sorrow. Blond, handsome Pilkington was on familiar terms with Megan Windham. For that alone, Hamish wished he’d shot the bastard when he’d had a chance.

  “Your Grace,” Megan said as Hamish let her hand go. “Your sisters’ company has brightened our morning considerably, and now that we’ve been introduced, I hope they will come to call soon and often.”

  “Oh, of course,” Edana said.

  “We’d love to,” Rhona added.

  “We’ll look forward to it,” the duchess replied, linking her arm with Miss Megan’s.

  For an instant, Miss Megan appeared to resist her aunt’s gentle attempt to drag her to the door, and in that instant, Hamish locked gazes with a woman who’d provoked him to wishing.

  Very bad business, when a battle-scarred soldier got to wishing for anything more ambitious than a good ale or a well-cooked joint.

  “Do come by,” Megan said, her gaze unreadable behind the blue of her spectacles. “The preparations for the ball have turned our home into a madhouse, and sane company will be very welcome.”

  A hint of the duchess infused Megan’s parting shot. Not would you please come by, or I hope you’ll come by, but the imperative: Do come by. Hamish had given and received enough orders to know one when he heard it.

  “I am sorry, Miss Megan, but my family and I are soon to depart for the north.”

  If the words hurt the lady as much as they hurt Hamish, she gave no sign of it. Those spectacles were wonderful for disguising emotions. Perhaps Hamish would find a pair for himself. In Scotland, no lovely, kind, soft-spoken women peered at Hamish with honest curiosity, but nobody called him the Duke of Murder either.

  “Don’t be ridiculous,” the duchess said. “You are a duke, sir, and your sisters must be presented at court if they haven’t been already. I’ll not hear of you leaving Town until that courtesy has been attended to. You will call upon us to discuss that matter, if nothing else.”

  “But Your Grace, I have responsibilities, and we’ve tarried in London some while already,” Hamish replied, even knowing that arguing with a senior officer was folly.

  “Sir, I have raised five daughters,” Her Grace said, most pleasantly. “Your sisters are entitled to enjoy London in every respect. You will please come to the ball on Tuesday next, and bring your siblings. Do I make myself clear? A written invitation will be in your hands by sunset.”

  Rhona and Edana stood like recruits quivering to be chosen for a choice assignment, but unable to speak out of turn while they awaited their captain’s direction. In their yearning silence, Hamish saw them not as his pestering, expensive, bewildering sisters but as two pretty young ladies who’d endured as many Scottish winters and plain wool cloaks as they could bear.

  “Your invitation is most gracious,” Hamish said, suppressing the urge to salute the duchess. “We will be honored to attend, Your Grace.”

  Honored being the prettied-up English term for doomed, of course.

  Chapter Three

  Gayle Windham, Earl of Westhaven, was too self-disciplined to glance at the clock more than once every five minutes, but he could see the shadow of an oak limb start its afternoon march up the wall of his study. The remains of a beef sandwich sat on a tray at his elbow, and soon his youngest child would go down for a nap.

  Westhaven brought his attention back to the pleasurable business of reviewing household expenses, though Anna’s accounting was meticulous. He obliged his countess’s request to look over the books because of the small insights he gained regarding his family.

  They were using fewer candles, testament to spring’s arrival and longer hours of daylight.

  The wine cellar had required some attention, another harbinger of the upcoming social season.

  Anna had spent a bit much on Cousin Megan’s birthday gift, but a music box was a perfect choice for Mega
n.

  “You haven’t moved in all the months I’ve been gone,” said a humorous baritone. “You’re like one of those statues, standing guard through the seasons, until some obliging brother comes along to demand that you join him in the park for a hack on a pretty afternoon.”

  Home safe. Devlin St. Just’s dark hair was tousled, his clothes wrinkled, his boots dusty, but he was, once again, home safe.

  The words were an irrational product of Westhaven’s memory, for his mind produced them every time he saw his older half-brother after a prolonged absence. Westhaven crossed the study with more swiftness than dignity, hand extended toward his brother.

  “Good God, you stink, St. Just, and the dust of the road will befoul my carpets wherever you pass.”

  St. Just took Westhaven’s proffered hand and yanked the earl close enough for a quick, back-thumping hug.

  “I stink, you scold. Give a man a brandy while he befouls your carpets, and good day to you too.”

  Westhaven obliged, mostly to have something to do other than gawk at his brother. Yorkshire was too far away, the winters were too long and miserable, and St. Just visited too infrequently, but every time he did visit, he seemed … lighter. More settled, more at peace.

  And if ever a man was happy to smell of horse, it was Devlin St. Just, Earl of Rosecroft, firstborn, though illegitimate, son of the Duke of Moreland.

  “I have whisky,” Westhaven said. “I’m told the barbarians to the north favor it over brandy.”

  “If you had decent whisky, I might consider it, but you’re a brandy snob, so brandy it is. How are the children?”

  Thank God for the topic of children, which allowed two men who’d missed each other terribly to avoid admitting as much.

  “The children are noisy, expensive, and a trial to any sentient being’s nerves. Our parents come by, dispensing a surfeit of sweets along with falsehoods regarding my own youth. Then Their Graces swan off, leaving my kingdom in utter disarray.”

  Westhaven passed St. Just a healthy portion of spirits, though being St. Just, he waited until Westhaven was holding his own glass.

  “To kingdoms in disarray,” St. Just said, touching his glass to Westhaven’s. “Try uprooting your womenfolk and dragging them hundreds of miles on the Great North Road. Your realm shrinks to the proportions of one unforgiving saddle. Rather like being on campaign.”

  St. Just could do this now—make passing, halfway humorous references to his army days. For the first two years after he’d mustered out, he’d been unable to remain sober during a thunderstorm.

  “Her ladyship is well?” Westhaven asked.

  “My Emmie is a saint,” St. Just countered, taking the seat behind Westhaven’s desk. “If you die, I want this chair.”

  “Spare me your military humor. If I die, you and Valentine are guardians of my children.”

  A dusty boot thunked onto the corner of Westhaven’s antique desk, the same corner upon which Westhaven’s own much less dusty boots were often propped, provided the door was closed.

  “Val and I? You didn’t make Moreland their guardian?”

  “His Grace will intrude, meddle, advise, maneuver, interfere, and otherwise orchestrate matters as he sees fit, abetted by his lovely wife in all particulars. Putting legal authority over the children in your hands was my pathetic gesture toward thwarting the ducal schemes. You will, of course, oblige my guilt over this presumption by giving me a similar role in the lives of your children.”

  St. Just closed his eyes. He was a handsome fellow, handsomer for having regained some of the muscle he’d had as a younger man.

  “I can hear His Grace’s voice when you start braying about what I shall oblige and troweling on verbs in sextuplicate.”

  “Is that a word?” St. Just asked.

  “Trowel, yes, a humble verb. Probably Saxon rather than Roman in origin.”

  Westhaven pretended to savor his brandy, when he was in truth savoring the fact that his older brother would—in all his dirt—come to Westhaven’s establishment before calling upon the ducal household.

  “Where is your countess, St. Just? She’s usually affixed to your side like a very pretty cocklebur.”

  “Where’s yours?” St. Just retorted. “I dropped Emmie and the girls off at Louisa and Joseph’s, though I’m to collect them—”

  The door opened, and a handsome, dark-haired fellow sauntered in, Westhaven’s butler looking choleric on his heels.

  “I come seeking asylum,” Lord Valentine said.

  St. Just was on his feet and across the room almost before Val had finished speaking. The oldest and youngest Windham brothers bore a resemblance, both dark-haired, and both carrying with them a physical sense of passion. Valentine loved his music, St. Just his horses, and yet the brothers were alike in a way Westhaven appreciated more than he envied—mostly.

  “You come seeking my good brandy,” Westhaven said when Val had been properly embraced and thumped by St. Just. “Here.”

  He passed Valentine his own portion and poured another for himself.

  “We were about to toast our happy state of marital pandemonium,” St. Just said. “Or so Westhaven thinks. I’m in truth fortifying myself to storm the ducal citadel.”

  Valentine took his turn in Westhaven’s chair. “I’d blow retreat if I were you.”

  Westhaven took one of the chairs across from the desk. “What have Their Graces done now?”

  Valentine preferred to prop his boots—moderately dusty—on the opposite corner from his brothers. This put the sunlight over Val’s left shoulder.

  None of the brothers had any gray hairs yet, something of a competition in Westhaven’s mind, though he wasn’t sure whether first past the post would be the winner or the loser. They were only in their thirties, but they were all fathers of small children—small Windham children.

  “His Grace is sending Uncle Tony and Aunt Gladys on maneuvers in Wales directly after the ball,” Valentine said, “while Her Grace will snatch up our lady cousins, doubtless in anticipation of some matchmaking.”

  They had four female cousins: Beth, Charlotte, Megan, and Anwen. They were lovely young women, red-haired, intelligent, and well dowered, but they were Windhams, and thus in no hurry to marry.

  A situation the duchess sought to remedy.

  “So that’s why Megan was particularly effusive in her suggestions that I come south,” St. Just mused, opening a japanned box on the mantel. “Emmie said something untoward was afoot.”

  A piece of marzipan disappeared down St. Just’s maw.

  “Goes well with brandy,” he said, offering the box to Val, who took two. “Westhaven?”

  “How generous of you, St. Just.” He took three, though the desk held another box, which his brothers might not find. His children hadn’t.

  Yet.

  “Beth and Megan have both been through enough seasons to know how to avoid parson’s mousetrap,” Westhaven said.

  “I wondered what Their Graces would do when they got us all married off,” Valentine mused, brandy glass held just so before his elegant mouth. “I thought they’d turn to charitable works, a rest between rounds until the grandchildren grew older.”

  He tossed a bit of marzipan in the air and caught it in his mouth, just as he would have twenty years earlier, and the sight pleased Westhaven in a way that he might admit when all of his hair was gray.

  “Beth is weakening,” Westhaven said. “She’s become prone to megrims, sore knees, a touch of a sniffle. Anna and I do what we can, but the children keep us busy, as does the business of the dukedom.”

  “And we all thank God you’ve taken that mare’s nest in hand,” St. Just said, lifting his glass. “How do matters stand, if you don’t mind a soldier’s blunt speech?”

  “We’re firmly on our financial feet,” Westhaven said. “Oddly enough, Moreland is in part responsible. Because he didn’t bother with wartime speculation, when the Corsican was finally buttoned up, once for all, our finances went through
none of the difficult adjustments many others are still reeling from.”

  “If you ever do reel,” Valentine said, “you will apply to me for assistance, or I’ll thrash you silly, Westhaven.”

  “And to me,” St. Just said. “Or I’ll finish the job Valentine starts.”

  “My thanks for your violent threats,” Westhaven said, hiding a smile behind his brandy glass. “Do I take it you fellows would rather establish yourselves under my roof than at the ducal mansion?”

  Valentine and St. Just exchanged a look that put Westhaven in mind of their parents.

  “If we’re to coordinate the defense of our unmarried lady cousins,” St. Just said, “then it makes sense we’d impose on your hospitality, Westhaven.”

  “We’re agreed, then,” Valentine said, raiding the box once more. “Ellen will be relieved. Noise and excitement aren’t good for a woman in her condition, and this place will be only half as uproarious as Moreland House.”

  “We must think of our cousins,” St. Just observed. “The combined might of the Duke and Duchess of Moreland are arrayed against the freedom of four dear and determined young ladies who will not surrender their spinsterhood lightly.”

  “Nor should they,” Westhaven murmured, replacing the lid on the box, only for St. Just to pry it off. “We had the right to choose as we saw fit, as did our sisters. You’d think Their Graces would have learned their lessons by now.”

  A knock sounded on the door. Valentine sat up straight, St. Just hopped to his feet to replace the box on the mantel, and was standing, hands behind his back, when Westhaven bid the next caller to enter.

  “His Grace, the Duke of Moreland, my lords,” the butler announced.

  Percival Windham stepped nimbly around the butler and marched into the study.

  “Well done, well done. My boys have called a meeting of the Windham subcommittee on the disgraceful surplus of spinsters soon to be gathered into Her Grace’s care. St. Just, you’re looking well. Valentine, when did you take to wearing jam on your linen?”

 

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