Page 19 of The Trouble With Dukes
Mama, being Welsh, had music in her blood and bones, in her very vowels and consonants. When she got out her violin and Valentine accompanied her at the keyboard, magic happened, and Papa’s eyes took on a particular gleam.
“You don’t aid the man’s cause by provoking him to speak Gaelic,” Mama said, paging through some Mozart chamber works. “His reputation is that of a savage, one who delighted in bloody murder for king and country, if the talk is to be believed. No wonder Lord Tarryton’s daughter cried off from her engagement to Murdoch all those years ago. Then he must wear his heathen attire on the very streets of Mayfair, argue with no less person than your dear aunt before one of the biggest gossips ever to open a modiste’s shop … You aren’t listening.”
Megan was listening, to the memory of a Scottish burr apologizing for sending her top over teakettle.
“Sir Fletcher also took up arms in defense of his country,” Megan said, finding another dead specimen amid the blooms. “Nobody calls him a murderer.” He was willing to murder a young woman’s future, though.
“Sir Fletcher comes from an excellent family, he dresses appropriately to his station, he has the look of a man who’s considering making an offer for you. Your attentions to Murdoch, while exactly the sort of kindness a true lady demonstrates in all circumstances, will not advance your situation, my dear,or your sisters’ situations.”
A third wilted daisy went onto the cloth Megan had laid out beside the bouquet.
“I see your point, Mama, but Westhaven suggested this walk in the park, and Westhaven promised titled escorts for Murdoch’s sisters.”
Westhaven, as the ducal heir, was the cousin who could do no wrong. In Megan’s estimation, Gayle Windham, Earl of Westhaven, Viscount Common Sense, Baron Dutiful, was also hard-pressed to have anyfun. Uncle Percy agreed with her, which suggested the Almighty should consider documenting the same sentiment on stone tablets.
Mama’s warning—all of Mama’s many warnings—were well meant, but simple logic plagued Megan nonetheless.
Aunt Esther extended a gesture of welcome to the new duke and was commended for her graciousness. Megan supported the duchess’s overture and was now risking her sisters’ prospects? Had Sir Fletcher not been parked on Megan’s figurative doorstep, Mama wouldn’t think twice about this walk in the park.
Anwen was painfully shy, Beth painfully on the shelf, and Charlotte painfully determined to marry when she was good and ready, not one instant before.
“There’s the coach coming ’round,” Mama said with the acuity of hearing known only to mothers. “Find your parasol, lose your Gaelic, and try not to let the duke develop any expectations. Charitable impulses are commendable, but we know who Sir Fletcher’s people are, and that’s a fine thing as well.”
Mama pinched Megan’s cheek gently, as she’d been pinching that same cheek since Megan’s infancy, and marched off toward the front door, Herr Mozart forgotten.
Megan pitched her dead flowers, cloth and all, into the nearest waste bin. They’d soon stink, a servant would find them, and this minuscule, impulsive rebellion in the park against Mama’s expectations would do no harm.
And it might accomplish a scintilla of good.
“You both look exceedingly fine,” Hamish snapped. “Stop fretting, and let’s get this over with.”
Edana’s mouth firmed, and Hamish prepared for another sibling skirmish on a Windham walkway.
Ronnie put a hand on Eddie’s arm. “He’s paying us a compliment, Eddie. Ham, you’re supposed to knock. If the knocker’s up, the household is receiving. Give it a tap, please.”
“When we’re scouting unfamiliar territory, Murdoch will do,” he said, rapping the knocker against the brass plate. The result was louder than pistol shots reverberating across the Mayfair street.
“Knock genteelly,” Ronnie hissed through a fixed smile. “Not as if you’re the excise man searching house to house for contraband whisky.”
Colin would have known how to knock, but Colin had not been invited on this sortie, and Hamish hadn’t known whether a spare sibling was permitted or not. Numbers apparently had to match on social outings, as was the case with a fair fight.
“Your Grace, ladies, welcome. You are expected.” Another fellow in blue livery was bowing them into the house. “I’ll announce you, if you’d be so good as to wait here a moment?”
Ronnie and Eddie did look quite fetching. Their red hair was brushed to a shine and styled atop their heads, accentuating height and the good bones of which MacHugh women were justifiably proud. Feathers and flowers adorned their coiffures in confections too colorful to be called bonnets. Their dresses might have beggared the dukedom’s exchequer, but in green and maroon, they made a fetching pair.
“I meant what I said, about you both looking fine,” Hamish muttered. “A bit of the plaid, and you’d be ready for any proper gathering.”
They exchanged That Look, the one that said he’d Done It Again, though nobody ever bothered to tell a man whatItmight be.
“Murdoch, Lady Edana, Lady Rhona, welcome,” their host said. “If you’ll join me in the family parlor, I’ll make the introductions.”
Oh, raptures abounding! More introductions.
Their host was Gayle, Earl of Westhaven. Over a few drams last night, Hamish had sat Colin down, got a diagram from him, and then memorized the relationships as any competent commander memorized a map of the terrain for an upcoming battle.
Makingsenseof that terrain was a more complicated undertaking.
If Edana and Rhona were nicely turned out, Miss Megan was perfectly attired. She wore toast-brown velvet trimmed with deep red and the occasional dash of cream.
