Page 13 of The Trouble With Dukes
“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, withanyyoung 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.”
