Page 17 of The Trouble With Dukes
While the sorrow was Hamish’s. To her, this was just another waltz, a charity bestowed on a reluctant recruit to the ranks of the aristocracy.
To Hamish it had been—
“Now you lead her from the dance floor,” the big cousin barked. “Parade march will do, her hand resting on yours.”
On general principles, Hamish stood his ground. This fellow had begun to look and sound familiar, and one thing was certain: Hamish had the highest-ranking title in the room.
“You served on the Peninsula?” Hamish asked.
Megan’s cousin spoke with an air of command, and he had the watchful eyes of the career soldier. Hamish put his age at about mid-thirties, and his weight about fourteen stone barefoot and stripped for a fight. His waltzing had been worthy of a direct report to Old Hooky himself, his scowl was worthy of a captain, possibly a major.
“You behold Colonel Lord Rosecroft,” Miss Megan said, patting the fellow’s cheek. “Cousin Devlin is quite fierce, but he has to be. He’s the father of two daughters and counting, and the oldest of ten siblings. Her Grace contends that he joined up in search of a more peaceful existence.”
Rosecroft shot Hamish a glance known to veterans the world over.Let her make light of me, that look said.Let her make a joke of the endless horrors. We fought so that our womenfolk could pat our cheeks and jest at our nightmares. They remained at home, praying for us year after year, so that some of us could survive to make light of their nightmares too.
Miss Megan tugged at Hamish’s hand. “Now you return me to my chaperone or help me find my next partner, the same as any other dance. We make small talk, greet the other guests, and look quite convivial.”
“That’s three impossibilities you’ve set before me, Miss Meggie.”
Hamish had amused her, simply by speaking the truth. “I saw you smile, Your Grace,” she said, leading Hamish over to the piano. “Your charm might be latent, but it’s genuine.”
He leaned closer. “I won’t know your next partner from the crossing sweeper, I have no patience with small talk, and looking convivial is an impossibility when you’re known as the Duke of Mur—”
“A gentleman never argues with a lady,” the colonel observed, hands behind his back, two paces to Miss Megan’s right. He bore a resemblance to Moreland in his posture and about the jaw, and yet he was apparently not the ducal heir.
“Does a gentleman lie to a lady, Rosebud? My sisters will tell you I can’t keep social niceties straight, I lack familiarity with those of your ilk, and I’ve no gift for idle chit-chat.”
“None at all,” Edana said.
“He’s awful,” Rhona added, russet curls bobbing, she nodded so earnestly. “We despair of him, but one can’t instruct a brother when he won’t even try to accept one’s guidance. We tell Hamish to inquire about the weather, and his response is that any woman who can’t notice the weather for herself won’t notice a lack of chatter in a man.”
They meant well, and they were being honest, but a part of Hamish felt as if he’d been knocked on his arse again, kilt flapping for all the world to see.
“I’ve made the very same point to my countess,” the auburn-haired Earl of Enunciation said. Hamish forgot his name. “Why must we discuss the weather at tedious length when there’s nothing to be done about it and its characteristics are abundantly obvious? Better to discuss …”
Edana, Rhona, and Miss Megan regarded him curiously.
“The music,” said Lord Nancy Pants rising from the piano. He was a good-sized fellow, for all his lace, and he had that ducal jaw too. “Ask her if she prefers the violin or the flute, the piano or the harpsichord. Ask her what her favorite dance is, and then ask her why.”
“That is brilliant,” the earl said. “A lady can natter on about why this or why that for hours, and then why not the other.”
“You didn’t unearth that insight on your own,” the colonel interjected. “Ellen put you on to it, and you’re taking the credit.”
Nancy Pants grinned, looking abruptly like Colin—a younger sibling who’d got over on his elders,again.
“Gentlemen, please,” Miss Megan said. “Valentine’s smile presages fisticuffs, and we’ve already obligingly moved the furniture aside. The point of the gathering is not to indulge your juvenile glee in one another’s company but rather to make certain that His Grace of Murdoch acquits himself well at Aunt Esther’s gathering.”
Three handsome lords looked fleetingly abashed.
Women did this. They wore slippers that could kick a man’s figurative backside with the force of a jackboot. Their verbal kid gloves could slap with the sting of a riding crop, and their scowls could reduce a fellow’s innards to three-day-old neeps and tatties.
To see three English aristocrats so effectively thrashed did a Scottish soldier’s heart good.
“Small talk can be learned,” the ducal heir said, entirely too confidently. “You’re good with languages, Megs. Teach your duke the London ballroom dialect of small talk. If my brothers could learn it, it’s not that difficult.”
“If you hadn’t had my example to follow—” the colonel growled.
“Would you please?” Edana asked. “We’ve tried, but Hamish … he’s stubborn.”
