The Trouble With Dukes

by Grace Burrowes

  Moreland swiped the box off the mantel, opened it, took the chair next to Westhaven, and set the box in the middle of the desk.

  “I’m listening, gentlemen,” the duke said, popping a sweet into his mouth. “Unless you want to see your old papa lose what few wits he has remaining after raising you lot, you will please tell me how to get your cousins married off posthaste. The duchess has spoken, and we are her slaves in all things, are we not?”

  Westhaven reached for a piece of marzipan, St. Just fetched the brandy decanter, and Valentine sent the butler for sandwiches, because what on earth could any of them say to a ducal proclamation such as that?

  The Duke of Wellington had expected all of his direct military reports to know how to waltz, and thus Hamish had made it a point never to learn. His Grace had also preferred officers with titles and aristocratic lineages. When conversation in the officers’ mess had turned to women, war, and wagering, Hamish had brought up breweries, distilleries, and commerce.

  Trade in all its plebeian glory.

  As a result, Hamish had no idea what sort of small talk was expected when calling on a duchess.

  “Colin, you’ll accompany our sisters inside,” Hamish said, while Rhona and Edana perched on the very edge of the coach’s forward facing seat. The vehicle was more properly a traveling coach than a town coach, because four MacHughs did not fit comfortably in the toy carriages favored by polite society.

  “Hamish, Miss Megan invited you,” Rhona said.

  “And the duchess ordered you to come along with us,” Edana added. “The Duchess of Moreland, who can ruin somebody with the lift of her eyebrow.”

  Hamish knew exactly which duchess, though the woman would probably be bored merely ruining somebody. If she took a man into dislike, there’d be nothing left of him to be ruined. She was the worst variety of foe—the worthy sort in full command of her foot, horse, and cannon.

  Colin opened the carriage door and sat back. On the cobbles, Old Jock stood by, chest puffed out, doing his best to uphold the dignity of the house of MacHugh.

  Shamed by an arthritic coachman.

  Hamish climbed out of the carriage, which undertaking rocked its inhabitants. Edana followed, but remained half in, half out, her gloved hand extended.

  “Eddie, for God’s sake,” Hamish said, hauling her the rest of the way out. “You’ve been getting in and out of coaches since you were a wee pest. You could drive this coach better than Old Jock”—an indignant breath sounded at Hamish’s elbow—“when he’s been swimming in the whisky barrel. Stop hanging on me.”

  Her eyes narrowed in a fashion that would have sent the last wolf in Scotland fleeing into the sea.

  Colin emerged from the coach and turned to assist Rhona. “Let’s bicker away the morning on the duchess’s very doorstep,” he suggested, “knocking on her door being tediously predictable.”

  “You were supposed to send a footman in with your card,” Rhona said, smoothing her hand over skirts that had probably cost more than the coach.

  Now she bothered to inform her own brother of the niceties? “Why get trussed up in my finest, put up with you lot, trouble the horses—and our Jock—just to send around a stupid card for which the bloody printer seeks to charge daylight robbery rates, which I am not about to pay?”

  Edana’s grip on Hamish’s arm dug into the tender spot in the crook of his elbow. Knew all a man’s vulnerable points, did Edana, because Hamish had taught them to her.

  “You left the house without your calling cards? Hamish, how could you?”

  He thrashed free of her grip. “It’s like this, Eddie. If you let the trades know they can steal from you, they steal from you. Rules of battle, plain and simple. If the enemy retreats, you rout him. If the enemy stands his ground, you engage him. You do not hand over your hard-earned coin with a superior smile like some infernal, mincing duke who hasn’t got a brain in his idiot English head.”

  Somebody shut the coach door with a bang. “I make it a point never to mince, not even when private with my duchess.”

  Colin’s features went blank, Rhona studied her slippers—pink, of all the useless colors—and Edana for once had nothing to say.

  A tall, lean, older gentleman in riding attire stood beside Hamish’s coach—blocking any retreat back into the coach, in fact. The fellow had shrewd blue eyes, and his hair was the pale gold of an aging Saxon warrior.

  Hamish had likely insulted the man on his own doorstep. “My apologies for bickering with my siblings on the very street.” He ought probably to have bowed, for this fellow was doubtless a damned duke, but taking his eyes off the gentleman seemed ill-advised.

  “Percival, Duke of Moreland, at your service. I have a small but precious cohort of grandchildren, and eight grown children, sir, all of them wed. Bickering is the music of a family with nothing serious to fight about.”

  Also the music of a family that hadn’t progressed to the breaking-furniture-and-hurling-oaths stage of a difference of opinion.

  Colin’s elbow jabbed at Hamish’s ribs.

  “Hamish, Duke of Murdoch, Your Grace.”

  Edana’s elbow hammered him from the other side, which made no sense. A duke was a “Your Grace,” of that, Hamish was certain.

  “You’re paying a call on my duchess,” Moreland said, striding up the walk. “We can continue the introductions inside and prevail upon Her Grace for some sustenance. The social season can be exhausting, but I assume you’ve already found that out.”

  Introductions.

  Well, of course. Polite society apparently had nothing better to do than exchange an endless lot of tedious introductions. Even in the military, which had been polluted with titled lords and aristocratic younger sons, protocol had wasted as much time as polishing weaponry.

  Edana took Hamish by one elbow, Rhona got him by the other, and thus he was press-ganged into the ducal mansion, Colin trailing behind.

  “Alert the ladies,” Moreland said to the footman who opened the door. “I found a stray duke wandering about on the walkway, with his two lovely sisters and a handsome brother, no less.”

  “Of course, Your Grace. The ladies are in the green parlor, and I’ll let the kitchen know more guests have arrived.”

  “Come along,” Moreland said, setting off at a brisk pace. “Her Grace is doubtless expecting you, though I warn you: She’s in the throes of planning a ball for our nieces. I tread very lightly at such times, and I’m a veteran of His Majesty’s Canadian campaigns.”

  That a military veteran and a duke, no less, was daunted by an upcoming ball comforted Hamish not one bit.

  Neither did the Moreland dwelling. The ducal mansion was a monument to fanciful plaster work, with porcelain vases tucked into alcoves, hothouse flowers arranged with artless grace, and light glinting off gilt pier glasses. The carpets were thick enough to muffle the duke’s boot steps. Hamish was reduced to silently towing his sisters forward, lest they become transfixed by the sheer wealth on display.

  Wealth and good taste. Hamish recognized good taste mostly because he hadn’t any himself. He had breweries and battle scars, and now several awestruck siblings.

  The Moreland mansion was hell with an English accent, at least for Hamish.

  “Murdoch, you’d best introduce your family to me before we brave the gauntlet within,” the duke said. “Her Grace will have all in hand, but a fellow likes to impress his duchess whenever possible.”

  Moreland’s tone was genial, and the smile he turned on Edana and Rhona hinted at the handsome young officer who’d strutted around in regimentals decades before. And yet, Hamish would comply with His Grace’s request, and not because manners required him to.

  He’d oblige Moreland with a rehearsal of the introductions because Moreland had campaigned in Canada years ago—a place as beautiful as it was dangerous—and because the officer in Hamish respected competent command when he saw it.

  He’d seen plenty of the other kind, and been guilty of it too.

 
; Two minutes later, the duke flourished the parlor doors open and led his guests into another room full of light, lovely, priceless appointments. The golden-haired duchess perched among four red-haired young women, two of whom Hamish didn’t recognize.

  Miss Elizabeth Windham sat to the right of the duchess, who brightened visibly at the sight of Moreland, as if a rider bearing dispatches had come safely through the lines.

  Opposite them was Miss Megan, and right beside her sat Sir Fletcher Pilkington, like a spider idling about in the middle of a gossamer web.

  Aunt Esther had explained to Megan long ago that introductions followed a set pattern so a woman had time to memorize names and titles. When Megan had met Sir Fletcher for the first time, she had silently repeated a silly rubric: His name is Sir Fletcher, he could never be a lecher.

  A man so goldenly gorgeous, graceful, and charming would not have to press his attentions on a woman. She’d hand over her entire evening to him, and half of her dignity, without being asked.

  Alas, Megan had handed over even more than that.

  “Ah, Moreland!” Aunt Esther said, beaming at her duke. “You have brought friends to enliven our day.”

  Uncle Percy assisted his duchess to her feet, beaming right back at her.

  Some of Their Graces’ effusive mutual regard was for public consumption—Uncle Percy did love to make an entrance—but much of it was genuine.

  “My dear,” Uncle Percy said, bowing over Aunt Esther’s hand, “the Duke of Murdoch has come to call and brings his siblings. We will need a larger parlor at the rate you’re collecting gallants this season.”

  Sir Fletcher was on his feet, muttering polite greetings over the hands of the MacHugh sisters, while their oldest brother hung back, his blue-eyed gaze watchful.

  “Anwen,” Aunt Esther said, “might you have the kitchen send us a fresh pot and some sandwiches to the terrace? The morning is lovely, and the gardens are coming along nicely.”

  Anwen shot Megan the barest glance of sympathy and scampered off, likely not to be seen for hours.

  “Good morning, Your Grace,” Megan said, taking the Duke of Murdoch by the arm before Sir Fletcher could attach himself to her side. “Shall we repair to the garden?”

  His expression could have frozen the Thames in July. “Aye.”

  Sir Fletcher offered an arm to Lady Edana, Uncle Percy escorted Lady Rhona, and Colin MacHugh was left to accompany Her Grace. All very friendly and informal, and so tediously gracious Megan wanted to shriek.

  “Uncle Percy is proud of his roses,” she said, leaning closer to the Scottish duke. “It’s too early for them, but if you compliment the gardens generally, he’ll be pleased.”

  Murdoch glowered at her. “Your uncle hasn’t held a pair of pruning shears since Zaccheus climbed down from the sycamore tree. Why would I compliment Moreland on gardens he never tends himself?”

  The question was appallingly genuine, maybe even a touch bewildered.

  “You are a new duke, he’s a duke of great consequence. His favor could benefit you,” Megan said, starting from simple premises. “Uncle is responsible for these gardens, for hiring the gardeners and supervising their progress. If the gardens prosper, Uncle Percy has managed them and those who tend them well.”

  “Meaning no disrespect, miss, but that’s not the way of it.”

  Sir Fletcher laughed at something Lady Edana said. He probably practiced laughing before his shaving mirror, he looked so charming and elegant when overcome with mirth. He tossed back his head, injected just the right quantity of merriment into his laughter, angled his smile with a calculated degree of warmth—

  “I beg your pardon,” Megan said, hauling her attention back to her escort. Murdoch looked like the word laughter had yet to find its way to his vocabulary. “I believe I grasp how Uncle Percy’s household works quite well, Your Grace. Shall we find a seat?”

  A bench, so Megan could sit on one end and put the duke on her only available side.

  “Firstly,” Murdoch said, keeping his voice down, “your uncle loves the gardens because they make his duchess happy. I suspect these gardens hold memories too, mostly the cheerful sort. The gardener is likely some old fellow who’s been on the job since His Grace was in leading strings, and the duke has little to say about any of it. Couldn’t turn the old blighter off if he killed every posy on the premises. Wealth only looks like it gives a man power. In truth it makes him less free.”

  The gardener was a fixture by the name of Murray. Megan had no idea whether that was a first name, a last name, or a nickname. He was simply Murray, and regarding the garden, he was an absolute, if kindly, dictator.

  “What’s secondly?” Megan asked as Murdoch led her across the terrace and down the steps into the garden proper.

  “Secondly, Miss Meggie, if you hate a man, you mustn’t do it so others take notice.”

  Miss Meggie. Oh, how Murdoch transgressed the bounds of decorum, and how she liked his familiarity.

  “I don’t hate you. I barely know you.”

  “I refer to Sir Fletcher. Maybe you’re jealous of the attention he shows my sister, but you needn’t be. I will gut the varlet where he stands if he thinks to take anything approaching a liberty with my Eddie.”

  Megan wished Sir Fletcher would take liberties with Lady Edana, with any young woman in a position to hold him accountable for his scoundrel ways. She wished all men were as given to honest speech as Murdoch, and she wished she’d met this gruff Scotsman much sooner.

  “Your notions of family loyalty are quite violent,” Megan said. “Is that why you’ve been dubbed the Duke of Murder?”

  Chapter Four

  The Duke of Murder?

  Miss Megan’s gaze was merely curious. She couldn’t know how that sobriquet twisted in Hamish’s gut like a rusty bayonet wielded by enemy hands.

  “That’s what they’re calling me, aren’t they? I suppose it fits.”

  She patted his arm. “You were a soldier. My cousins Devlin and Bart were soldiers. Devlin came home the worse for his experiences, Bart lost his life in Portugal. War results in a lot of ugly death. Even ladies grasp that unfortunate reality.”

  Ladies—a few ladies—might grasp the generalities, but no lady should have to hear the details as Hamish had lived them.

  “Tell me about this ball, Miss Meggie. I’ve been to a few of the regimental variety, but they’re mostly about staying sober until the womenfolk go home, and cutting a dash in dress uniform.”

  Her gaze went to Sir Fletcher, who was courting death by standing too close to Edana. Colin was monitoring the situation from the duchess’s side, and Rhona stood nearby with Moreland.

  Sir Fletcher was surrounded, did he but know it. If he thought to offer for Edana, he was a worse fool than Hamish knew him to be.

  Miss Megan was a calm sort of lady, or maybe those blue-tinted spectacles gave her a calm air. She trundled along beside Hamish, preserving him from all the small talk and silliness transpiring on the terrace.

  “A ball is a test of endurance,” Miss Megan said. “Think of it as a forced march. You provision as best you can, but traveling lightly is also important. Dress for comfort, not only to impress. Eat little beforehand, for there will be abundant food and drink, and study the morning’s newspaper so you’ll have some conversation to offer your dinner partner.”

  Hamish had carried men on his back through the snow on the retreat to Corunna. Not merely a forced march, but a complete rout, the pursuing French promising death for any who faltered. He’d sooner endure another such march than the London season.

  “It’s that sort of ball, with dinner partners?”

  “One dinner partner, usually, though people congregate in groups too. Your partner for the supper waltz is generally your dinner companion, and the supper waltz tends to happen around midnight.”

  She peered at him, a man facing doom. “Shall I save my supper waltz for you, Your Grace?”

  Sir Fletcher would hate that. Hamish had
studied the assembled company as the introductions had plodded on, and Major Sir Fletcher Pilkington was an accepted friend of the Windham household. He’d been sitting practically in Miss Megan’s lap, and she’d tolerated that presumption.

  And yet, in the bookshop, Sir Fletcher had been bullying the lady.

  “Sir Fletcher hasn’t spoken for your waltz?” Hamish asked.

  Miss Megan had led them to a fountain that featured a chubby Cupid with an urn on one shoulder and a slightly chipped right wing. She took a seat on a bench flanking the fountain, which meant Hamish could sit as well—as best he could recall.

  “Sir Fletcher is much in demand as a dancing partner,” Miss Megan said.

  The dashing knight had been a slobbering hound where the camp followers were concerned, until they became acquainted with his temper.

  “Sir Fletcher is a jackass,” Hamish replied, perching on the edge of the fountain. “If that insults your intended, I do apologize, but you deserve better.” Any woman deserved better than Sir Fletcher Pilkington.

  “He is the son of an earl, a decorated war hero, and considered handsome,” Miss Megan said. “Uncle Percy has assured me Sir Fletcher’s prospects are sound enough.”

  Then Uncle Percy hadn’t bothered to ask the moneylenders who watched the comings and goings at Horse Guards. Too busy flirting with his duchess, perhaps. He’d be better off protecting his niece’s flank, as it were.

  “So you’ll waltz with your Knight of the Sound Prospects,” Hamish said, not liking the idea at all. “You’ll make a fetching couple. That matters to some.” Though Miss Meggie didn’t strike him as a lady to be taken in by a handsome face or a lot of flirtatious blather—and those were Sir Fletcher’s best qualities.

  “Please sit beside me,” Miss Megan muttered.

  “I beg your—?”

  She got a grip on Hamish’s sleeve and hauled stoutly. He took the place to her right.

  “You’re a determined woman. Edana and Rhona are too, but they’ve had to be.”

  “They are Lady Edana and Lady Rhona now,” Miss Megan said. “You have become a duke, so your siblings’ status has changed as well.”