Page 12 of The Trouble With Dukes
“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.
