Page 21 of The Trouble With Dukes
The words … hurt. They brought to mind the horrendous noise and stink of battle, but also the surprise and bewilderment of men who’d got up that morning never expecting to end the day—or their lives—on the end of Hamish’s bayonet.
In Hamish’s eyes, they would have seen apology, regret, and a determination to kill again.
“You were a soldier,” Miss Megan said. “I suspect you were a very good one, maybe too good.”
He nearly went stumbling onto his arse again. This woman was capable of wielding words with more deadly skill than any sniper could fire a weapon.
“Let’s leave the matter there, shall we? I would not want to argue with a lady. Why do you suppose ladies are not prohibited from arguing with gentlemen?”
Miss Megan showed him mercy, and allowed the change of subject. “Because an argument takes two parties at least. If one refuses to engage, then there can be no argument. Ladies might attempt to provoke a fellow to a disagreement, but if he thwarts their efforts with his charm and politesse, then no argument will ensue. Who is your favorite composer, Your Grace?”
Rabbie Burns, closely followed by Robert Tannahill, a pair of brilliant fellows who’d died too soon and worked too hard.
“That Beethoven seems to know what he’s about.”
Hamish had apparently surprised her, but Eddie and Ronnie had dragged him to a few musicales. Highland winters were long enough that even Hamish had dawdled about on the keyboard a bit.
“Do you have a favorite among Beethoven’s works, sir?”
The soft, sweet, tender ones appealed, though they could be deceptively difficult to learn. “The Third Symphony is a thumping good air. What of yourself? Have you a favorite?”
“I like the music my mother sang to me when I was a child, though much of it is in Welsh and may not be written down anywhere. For chamber music, Mozart will do. He’s very elegant.”
Boring, he was. Never got together enough instruments to really shake the rafters. One set of pipes on a battlefield produced more sheer sound and fury than all Mozart’s fiddles and twiddles combined.
“Elegant is fine.” Elegant music provided covering fire for gossip and flirtation, which was, after all, the very business of polite gatherings. “Which of Mozart’s operas do you prefer?”
Miss Megan prattled on with the ease of one born to Mozart and Haydn, Hyde Park, and symphony concerts. By the time their party returned to the gates facing Park Lane, they’d been conversing amiably, to appearances, for more than half an hour.
“I think you’ll do, Your Grace,” she said as they waited to cross the street. “I’ve enjoyed taking the air with you.”
Hamish wanted to ensure she’d not go asking Pilkington about Spain—or Portugal, or France, or Waterloo—and was about to raise that impolite topic when the man himself came trotting down Park Lane on a fashionably underweight bay.
The moment Miss Megan spotted Sir Fletcher, her posture changed. Her chin came up, her shoulders went back, her smile wilted into a strained caricature of good cheer.
Sir Fletcher caught sight of them and trotted closer, the moment putting Hamish uncomfortably in mind of when the French cavalry came pounding out from behind their artillery. The English infantry in their squares had waited as those big, deadly animals trotted closer, their riders ready to slash a man’s head from his body….
Hamish nearly shoved Megan behind him, for as Sir Fletcher came ever closer, he aimed a pointed inspection at them. At the last moment, Pilkington switched his reins to one hand and touched his hat brim with a gloved finger.
He hadn’t been smiling, and now neither was Miss Megan. If Hamish didn’t know better, he would have said the woman who could inquire bluntly about sieges and murder looked … afraid.
She wouldn’t be asking Sir Fletcher difficult questions if she could help it, and that was … that was a relief.
Troubling too, but mostly a relief.
“Why do you suppose Mama and Papa are haring off to Wales just as the season is getting under way?” Charlotte asked.
Charlotte, veteran of many seasons, wasn’t as daunted by the upcoming weeks as Megan was, but then, nothing much daunted Charlotte.Ever.
“Perhaps they’re leaving London after the ball because another spring in Town is tedious, expensive, and boring,” Beth muttered from behind her embroidery hoop. Beth did exquisite close work, which Megan couldn’t attempt without bringing on a megrim.
“Perhaps Mama and Papa retrace their wedding journey because they are in love,” Anwen said. “They know Aunt Esther will happily look after us, so Mama and Papa can have one of their honeymoons when Wales is looking gorgeous.”
Wales was always gorgeous. Half-wild, relentlessly green, music in the very names of the villages, magic in the hills, and lovely, fluffy sheep more plentiful than Mayfair dandies.
The sheep were often better mannered than the dandies too.
Maybe that was why Anwen loved yarn, knitting, crocheting…. Anything that put soft wool in her hands would remind her of summers spent near Cardiff. She wound a pile of sea-green merino into a ball, her movements graceful and rhythmic.
