Page 20 of The Trouble With Dukes
Hamish bowed over her gloved hand. “You put me in mind of a perfectly baked scone, slathered with raspberry jam and fresh butter.” He’d offered this compliment at a point when the general conversation had paused, and that pause became a silence.
An awkward silence.
“Well done, Murdoch,” growled some earl or other. “Now we’re all famished.”
Megan Windham was apparently related to half the titles in Mayfair. This earl fellow was dark-haired, not exactly handsome, and had no pretensions to charm. Hamish liked him on sight. He had blunt features and the swooping scowl of an officer who didn’t waste his troops, horses, or shot, and waltzed at Wellington’s command and no other’s.
He also looked familiar, but Hamish could not place him, not with Megan Windham’s perfume stealing into his senses. She did look good enough to eat, and her fragrance … her fragrance was lovely enough to dream about.
“We’re to work on our small talk,” Miss Megan said as the party marched out into the afternoon sunshine. “Have you thought up any questions suitable for the dance floor, Your Grace?”
He’d made a list after he’d studied Colin’s battle map. “Who is madam’s favorite composer? Does the lady have a preferred musical instrument? What is her favorite season of the year? What scent recommends itself to her on a gentleman’s person?”
Thanks to the pianist, Hamish knew to append “Why?” to each of those inquiries.Whynot only kept the lady talking but probably revealed more tactical intelligence than all the foregoing questions put together.
Meaning Hamish would not underestimate Megan’s pianist cousin, despite his lace.
“That last one might be risky—the one about a gentleman’s scent,” Miss Megan said. “Late at night, the typical ballroom can be … close.”
“Rank, you mean? I’ve smelled worse.”
“You mustn’t say that, Your Grace. When I made my come out, I developed a list of bachelors whom I dubbed the Parsley Princes—gentlemen who ought to spend more time freshening their breath before they ask to stand up with a lady. Call upon your thespian skills if you must, but try to exude equable good cheer, pleasure in the lady’s company, and gentility at all times.”
The very qualities that would have got Hamish’s men killed on the Peninsula. “I’m known for exuding rage, Miss Megan. I’m the Berserker of Badajoz, the Terror of Toulouse. You needn’t spare my sensibilities.”
“Why?” She’d fired off her question quietly, so the rest of the party would not have heard her over the rattle of passing coaches and clip-clip of hooves.
Honesty was a relief, but a sad one. “Why not bother with delicacy? Because I haven’t sensibilities to spare.” Not the polite variety, at least.
“No, I meant, why are you the Terror of Toulouse and the Berserker of Badajoz. Why are you the Duke of Murder? There were other soldiers at all those battles, doing what soldiers do.”
Across Park Lane lay the green beauty of Hyde Park, relatively quiet at this hour, though it would fill up with carriages soon. The high flyers and their escorts, polite society, and everything in between assembled on fine days in the late afternoon for parade inspection.
To Hamish, veteran of too many battles, Hyde Park’s hedges and wrought-iron fences prevented orderly retreat. The towering maples might hide snipers, the Serpentine could drown recruits unable to swim, and firing at water turned the trajectory of bullets unpredictable.
“If I discuss the war with you, I will commit a great breach of etiquette,” Hamish said, though kissing Miss Megan would be a greater breach—and a far lovelier memory.
“I’ll just put my questions to Keswick, Deene, or St. Just. They’ll tell me.”
Keswick was apparently the cranky dark-haired earl, while the Marquess of Deene was the little marchioness’s husband, and Devlin St. Just was the Earl of Rosecroft.
“They won’t tell you much, Miss Meggie. Wartime memories are best not shared in genteel company.”
She marched along at a good clip until they’d crossed the street and entered the park through a pair of imposing gates.
“I can’t deflect the gossip if I don’t know its source, Your Grace. Forewarned is forearmed, and my cousins will so tell me. One will let something slip if I’m persistent, probably Keswick because he’s so softhearted. I’ll take that morsel to Lord Deene and imply that I know more than I do. Deene will let one more fact slip, which I’ll stitch together with the first to create an inference. The process takes patience and timing, but my family numbers several veterans. On Mama’s side, they can be quite garrulous in the right mood.”
When tipsy, in other words. The London season involved a fair amount of tipsiness, apparently.
The park was quiet, which meant Hamish had to lower his voice. “I notice you do not solicit the assistance of Sir Fletcher.”
Pilkington would be happy to explain the particulars of Hamish’s military record to her in all their gory ignominy, and his version of Hamish’s history would be ignominious indeed.
“I wouldn’t start with Sir Fletcher.”
They’d put some distance between themselves and the rest of the party, which was fortunate. Miss Megan should have been instructing Hamish about small talk, not digging tunnels under his defenses.
“You’d go to Sir Fletcher if your cousins refused to oblige? Very well, then, I killed people.”
