The Trouble With Dukes

by Grace Burrowes

  For now, that was enough.

  Across the room, Megan Windham was chatting up the Duke of Quimbey.

  Hamish had stood against cavalry charges, French bayonets, and the knowledge of impending torture, but he was helpless to defend himself against tenderness. A softening of the heart befell him every time he laid eyes on Meggie, an easing of all tensions, a lightness of spirit that moved him closer to the man he’d been before soldiering had made him a walking weapon.

  When Megan Windham touched him, his insides sighed, his mind turned to mush, and peace stole over him. She listened to him. Paid attention to his words, to his silences. With her hands, she drew secrets from him he’d been keeping even from himself.

  He liked when she took his hand, liked when she wrapped her arm through his. She had a way of half-hugging him from the side, a quick press of bodies and squeeze of the fingers that melted him into a puddle of adoring swain.

  “My countess claims you’re mentally composing poetry whenever you behold Megan Windham,” the Earl of Keswick said.

  “Lord Cowlick, good evening,” Hamish replied, though he did not take his gaze from his lady. “Has anybody told you sneaking up on a man isn’t polite?”

  Keswick’s countess probably loved his eyebrows, for they were dark and expressive. Now they said the earl was torn between laughter and indignation, a fine place for a prospective family member to be.

  “When you have children, Murdoch, you either learn stealth or acquaint yourself with the dubious charms of celibacy. Besides, a regiment mounted on elephants could sneak up on you when you’re watching Megan Windham.”

  “Aye.” And would Keswick please hush, so Hamish could get back to that pleasant pastime? Meggie was charming old Quimbey, who’d recently discarded avowed bachelorhood for the company of a formerly widowed duchess. Gossip said a shared love of dogs had brought them together.

  “Have you and the fair Megan set a date?” Keswick asked.

  “You’re worse than a midge. The lady sets the date, usually after her parents have announced an engagement. There’s the small matter of the settlements to deal with, and in case you hadn’t noticed—or your omniscient countess hasn’t pointed it out to you—a woman is entitled to a few weeks of courtship before plighting her troth.”

  A string quartet was tuning up over in the corner, this being a musical evening, courtesy of the Marchioness of Deene. Edana and Rhona were at the punch bowl, fans fluttering gracefully, and Colin was likely charming some widow or other on the nearest shadowed balcony.

  Siblings accounted for. Beloved not five yards away. London wasn’t so bad, once a man found favor with the right lady.

  “You haven’t set a date,” Keswick said. “This suggests you’re getting your courage together, for I have it on good authority you’ve been given leave to pay your addresses. Before you importune Megan for her hand, I’d like to put a few questions to you.”

  Keswick spoke casually—too casually.

  Hamish knew better than to visibly react, but the back of his neck prickled disagreeably. “Ask all you like. If you’re inquiring about matters that are none of your business, I might answer you with my fists.”

  His lordship fluffed the lace of Hamish’s jabot. “There’s talk, Murdoch. Not the sort of talk one wants to hear about a former fellow officer. I’m not suggesting the talk has any substance, but you should know what’s being said.”

  Hamish left off visually adoring his beloved long enough to consider the man beside him. Keswick was no fool, and Colin’s discreet inquiries had revealed a reputation in Spain for quiet competence.

  “You’re either setting me up for an ambush, or trying to warn me of one.”

  “Louisa claims you’re a bright fellow. I’m reserving—Well, damn. I thought he was hiding from his duns.”

  Sir Fletcher Pilkington had joined the gathering, and was bowing over the marchioness’s hand, another fellow at his side.

  “Megan hasn’t recognized him.” Megan had nothing to fear from Sir Fletcher and never would again. The prickling sensation at the back of Hamish’s neck skittered along his arms, nonetheless.

  “Murdoch, good evening,” the Earl of Rosecroft said from Hamish’s right. “Keswick, greetings. I don’t suppose either of you intend to favor us with a song tonight?”

  “Who’s that with Pilkington?” Hamish asked, because the man looked familiar. Lean, a shade above average height, something nervous in his bearing.

  “The Honorable former Captain Garner Puget,” Keswick said. “One of Lord Plyne’s younger sons without prospects. Had aspirations as a portraitist, according to the artists in the Windham family. Murdoch, you will arrange your features into something resembling a civilized expression or Lady Deene will think a Scottish brigand has joined the company. Your sisters are glaring at you already.”

  Hamish’s sisters glared at him out of habit.

  “Better still,” Rosecroft said, “get yourself out to the balcony off the family parlor down the corridor, where your younger brother is about to avail himself of the favors of a lady whose husband is the jealous sort.”

  Sir Fletcher had left off fawning over the marchioness’s hand. His attention was on Megan, who’d parted company with Quimbey and was making her way to the punch bowl.

  Hamish swore in Gaelic. Rosecroft’s brows rose. Too late, Hamish recalled that Rosecroft’s first language was Irish, a cousin to his own native Gaelic.

  “Time might be of the essence,” Rosecroft said. “Your brother appeared to be a man intent upon his goal, as it were.”

  “He was born intent on that goal,” Hamish said. “I can’t tend to Colin now with Sir Fletcher about to trouble Meggie.” Though somebody had to tend to Colin. The damned fool would get himself called out or worse.

  “See to your brother,” Keswick said. “We’ll keep an eye on Megan—a close eye.”

  “Keep a closer eye on yonder knight,” Hamish warned. “Sir Fletcher means her no good. If I’m not back in ten minutes, please see my sisters home, and tell Megan I’ll always love her.”

  Hamish bowed to them as genially as he could when battle rage threatened. Colin had a positive genius for getting into scrapes at the worst possible times, though at least reinforcements were available if Meggie needed them.

  Based on Sir Fletcher’s demeanor—brilliant smile, and a gaze that put Hamish in mind of hungry serpents—she needed them that very instant.

  A man in a kilt moved differently from a man in standard London evening attire. He moved more freely, more dashingly. Megan could not make out Hamish’s expression, but she knew her intended stood watch across the room. The Duke of Quimbey blathered on about puppies and married life, while Megan nodded, smiled, and pretended to pay attention.

  “My duchess has chosen our seats,” Quimbey said. “You will excuse me, Miss Megan—unless you’d like to sit with us?”

  The old scamp well knew Megan had other plans. “Thank you, Your Grace, but I see Lady Rhona and Lady Edana signaling me. They expect me to join them for the second half of the program.”

  Quimbey bowed over Megan’s hand and strode off. Megan hoped that was Edana and Rhona by the punch bowl—they favored bold hues, and rightly so. With their red hair and vivid coloring, greens, burgundies, blues, and browns all looked quite well on them.

  Megan was determined to sit with Hamish for the remainder of the program, and thus she nearly didn’t see the man she collided with halfway to the punch bowl.

  “Miss Megan, I beg your pardon.”

  Sir Fletcher kept his hands on Megan’s arms, his grip uncomfortable. He’d worn too much attar of roses again, and the threat underlying his greeting slithered about in Megan’s insides like a cold draft.

  “Sir Fletcher, good evening. How are you?”

  “I’ve been desolated for lack of your company,” he replied, one hand over his heart. “Might I hope you’ve missed me?”

  Megan would have missed a megrim as much, provided it was accompanied
with a toothache, a turned ankle, and dysentery.

  “I’m sure Lady Edana and Lady Rhona would like to greet you,” she said, “and they expect me to sit with them.” Right between them, if need be, for Megan had no intention of spending one instant longer than necessary beside Sir Fletcher.

  “Come,” Sir Fletcher said, taking Megan by the arm. “I know the crowded confines here are difficult for you to navigate. Stay by me, and I’ll not let you come to harm.”

  He was up to no good, attaching himself too closely to Megan’s side, and at a gathering where much of polite society would take note. Apparently, he’d yet to realize Megan’s letters had been returned to her.

  Sir Fletcher did the pretty with Rhona and Edana. All the while, Megan expected Hamish to join the discussion, though she didn’t dare try to attract his notice. Instead, Keswick and Rosecroft appeared, declaring themselves parched for both a cup of punch and the company of lovely women.

  Megan was thus ensconced between two of her male cousins when the string quartet opened the last portion of the program, while Sir Fletcher was flanked by Edana and Rhona.

  And Hamish was nowhere to be seen.

  Chapter Fourteen

  Something about Megan Windham was different, though Sir Fletcher could not decide if he liked the difference. She’d been standing in the center of the room, flirting with a duke. An elderly, newly married duke, but still …

  Megan typically stayed to the perimeter of a room—probably less chance of falling on her face that way—and she wasn’t in the habit of smiling and beaming great good humor at all and sundry. Perhaps her poor eyesight meant she’d been at the men’s punch bowl rather than the ladies’.

  Sir Fletcher had certainly availed himself of the libation, and a decent offering it was too.

  The music was also fine, and the program ended with Lady Deene’s brother, Lord Valentine, dazzling the assemblage with his skills at the keyboard. His lordship was prodigiously talented, which fact he impressed upon all and sundry at tedious length.

  “Where could our brothers have got off to?” Lady Rhona mused as the gathering began to break up. “They both enjoy music, and I was sure—”

  “Some guests were listening from the library across the corridor,” Rosecroft said. “More comfortable chairs, you know. Lady Deene’s invitations are seldom refused, and the result can be a crowd.”

  “Exactly,” Keswick said. “Comfortable chairs, access to the buffet. What fellow wouldn’t be tempted? Murdoch won’t mind if we escort you ladies home, I’m sure.”

  “Capital notion,” Sir Fletcher said, affixing himself to Megan’s side. “I was about to make the same suggestion.”

  Megan Windham—the most pleasant, boring, soft-spoken, biddable spinster in captivity—muttered something under her breath that sounded distinctly unladylike.

  “I beg your pardon?” Sir Fletcher murmured, bending close. One could take liberties in public, provided one appeared solicitous while doing so.

  “A megrim,” Megan said. “I’m certain a megrim is trying to get hold of me. Perhaps the fresh air will help.”

  The fresh air would help, as would the darkened streets, and a bit of privacy.

  Sir Fletcher had been lax in his doting and adoring for the past week or so. Fortunately, a musicale was free food and drink, and not the sort of venue where he’d be harassed about his debts. The time had arrived to remind Megan Windham of a few salient facts.

  Once on the street, Sir Fletcher refused to budge from Megan’s side, while Rosecroft escorted Lady Edana, and Keswick took up a place at Lady Rhona’s side.

  “Why won’t they leave us any privacy?” Sir Fletcher asked quietly. “You should have them better trained than this, when we’re all but courting.”

  No matter how slowly or quickly Sir Fletcher walked, one of Megan’s relations remained ahead of them and one behind.

  “They are conscientious in their duties,” Megan replied. “Why would I want privacy with you, Sir Fletcher? Affording you a few moments of privacy resulted in some of my most dreadful memories.”

  For Megan to be that honest, her head must truly be paining her, poor darling. “Fear not, dearest. In time, you’ll learn to enjoy my attentions,” Sir Fletcher said, though he kept his voice down. “When are your parents returning from Wales?”

  For Anwen Windham had neglected to send Sir Fletcher the address she’d promised him.

  “Whenever they please,” Megan retorted, tugging her arm loose.

  Sir Fletcher caught her hand and curled it around his forearm, then laid his own over her fingers in a firm grip.

  “I’m all for the occasional show of spirit in a horse or a woman,” Sir Fletcher said, “but sulks and pouts do not become you. We need to set a date.”

  “Tonight will do nicely,” Megan said, sounding as if she spoke through clenched teeth. “Tonight you commence leaving me in peace, acting as a true gentleman ought. Do not for an instant think to charm Lady Edana or Lady Rhona into some linen closet or saddle room. Their brothers will kill you for going near them henceforth. You’ll leave my sisters alone too, or I’ll come after you myself.”

  Over the rattle and racket of passing carriages, the conversations of other pedestrians leaving the musicale, and the calls of the linkboys, nobody else would have heard Megan’s outburst.

  Sir Fletcher wasn’t sure he’d heard her correctly either.

  “My dear, are you sickening for something? I’m the fellow who has sampled your charms, if you’ll recall. The gallant officer to whom you penned torrid pages in impressive quantity. I have proof that you’ve surrendered your innocence into my tender keeping, and with that proof, I can ruin you and your sisters.”

  Also get his hands on a decent sum, thank God. What else was an earl’s younger son to do, but marry as well as he could?

  Megan walked along in silence, while Sir Fletcher considered that perhaps a strain of weak nerves ran in the Windham family. The sooner he married Megan and got her out from under her papa’s roof the better.

  Or perhaps Megan wasn’t the docile, bespectacled schoolgirl he’d singled out for his flirtations years ago. That could make married life interesting—or a damned lot of work.

  “You’ve grown quiet,” he said. Megan had also grown tense. “You’re having a bad moment, probably that dratted megrim. I’ve been considering a special license—best five pounds a bachelor ever spent, according to some. Your papa would thank me for saving him the expense of a wedding, and marriage is said to settle a young woman’s nerves.”

  “Heed me, Sir Fletcher,” Megan said, very quietly. “I have my letters back. Every one of them has been returned to me. Your hold over me has been broken, and I will make very, very sure every woman of my acquaintance knows what you tried to do to me, until there’s not a ballroom or garden party where you will be welcome. If I were you, I’d develop a sudden urge to tour the Canadian wilderness or the jungles of darkest Peru. A sudden, protracted urge.”

  Megan extricated herself from Sir Fletcher’s grip and attached herself to Keswick’s free arm. “We should bid Sir Fletcher good evening,” she said. “We approach the intersection at which his path diverges from our own.”

  The hell they did.

  Sir Fletcher bowed nonetheless, because clearly, Megan Windham believed what she’d said. She thought her letters were again safe in her possession, and considered herself free to bestow her company on any presuming Scottish barbarian she chose.

  “I bid the company good night,” Sir Fletcher said. “My ladies, my lords, a pleasant evening. Miss Megan, until we meet again.”

  For Sir Fletcher’s path had by no means diverged from hers, nor would she be indulging this sudden penchant for the company of the Duke of Murdoch, of all the loutish, inappropriate, laughable specimens.

  Sir Fletcher would, however, procure a special license.

  “You should just beat me and be done with it,” Colin said as he walked along beside Hamish.

  “I nea
rly threw you over the balcony.” This was not true, though Hamish had been tempted to leap over the balcony and leave his handsome, randy brother to the fate he deserved. “The lady has a reputation.”

  The words echoed quietly in the dim street, also in Hamish’s heart. When would Colin learn some caution? What had the world come to, when Hamish was better informed about a wife with a propensity to stray than Colin was?

  “I like the ones with reputations. They’re friendly when a fellow is all alone and far from home. How was I to know the husband also has a reputation?”

  For dueling at the drop of a bodice ribbon.

  Papa had tried thrashing sense into his sons, but even he had given up on corporal punishment where Colin was concerned. Let the army sort him out.

  “Think of our sisters,” Hamish said. “If you’re embroiled in a scandal, then they are too, and scandal has a way of becoming a permanent fixture in a family’s reputation. I’ve done enough to tarnish the MacHugh escutcheon. But for this damned title, Eddie and Ronnie wouldn’t be accepted into such refined company as it is.”

  “Eddie and Ronnie would kill me if I caused a scandal,” Colin said, steps slowing. “I wouldn’t enjoy that.”

  “You’d disappoint them,” Hamish rejoined. “Fate worse than death, when they get disappointed in a man. Winters are long enough without that pair sighing and muttering.”

  “That’s why you should serve me a sound thrashing,” Colin said. “If I’m sporting a few bruises, then Eddie and Ronnie won’t bludgeon me with guilt. A black eye is all it would take.”

  “You’re daft, but then, we knew that.” Hamish would never strike his own brother, would likely never strike another living soul.

  Colin took out his flask, had a nip, and passed it over to Hamish. “If I asked you to meet me at Jackson’s Salon, would you?”