Page 22 of The Trouble With Dukes
“I don’t care why Mama and Papa are leaving for Wales,” Megan said. “I wish them safe journey and many rainbows.”
So to speak. Mama and Papa could be shamelessly demonstrative. Worse even than Uncle Percy and Aunt Esther, whose waltzing still turned heads.
“How did your outing with the Duke of Murdoch go, Megs?” Charlotte asked. “He’s quite dashing in his Highland finery.”
Anwen’s winding paused. “Kilts are a lovely fashion.”
Kilts were made of wool, while Megan’s fancies lately had been made of moonbeams and mischief.
“Our outing was prosaic,” she said. “His Grace, contrary to all gossip, is a charming man who acquits himself well on the dance floor and in conversation. He should do very nicely at Aunt’s ball, and his sisters are delightful.”
When they weren’t berating their brother in public.
“But what?” Charlotte demanded.
Beth stabbed at her hoop with a silver needle. “Leave her alone, Charlotte. Megan has a kind heart, and it won’t hurt for Sir Fletcher to know other men find her attractive.”
“Sir Fletcher found Hippolyta Jones attractive until her papa’s bank collapsed,” Charlotte replied. “The year before that, wasn’t he chasing after Sally Delaplane—or her grandfather’s sugar plantations? Too bad for Sir Fletcher that Sally caught the eye of a French comte.”
“And when Sir Fletcher first mustered out, he was dangling after the Barington heiress,” Anwen added. “Or that was my impression. I could be mistaken.”
“You’re not mistaken,” Beth said, “but you’re kinder than I am. Sir Fletcher is a younger son trying hard not to look like a fortune hunter. He’s not my first choice of husband for anybody.”
All of Megan’s joy in her Hyde Park outing, all of her curiosity regarding the Terror of Toulouse, shrank back to the girlish fancies from whence they’d sprung. Sir Fletcher had not been pleased to see her on Murdoch’s arm.
“I do wonder about Murdoch’s wartime reputation,” Charlotte said. “Lady Melodia Tarryton was engaged to him at one point, but she broke it off when His Grace mustered out. Nobody ever said why she changed her mind.”
“Perhaps she found someone else while Murdoch was away,” Megan offered.
“Or maybe she found out his true nature. One gathers Murdoch was very fierce in battle. And there are stories….”
“You’d like a fierce husband, Charl,” Anwen said, winding faster. “You need that, in fact, but I’d hate to watch you whisked off to Scotland. We’d only see you once every five years, and never get to spoil your babies.”
Anwen mentioned babies rather a lot and was passionately devoted to bettering the lot of orphans.
Megan pushed her spectacles up her nose. “I doubt Murdoch is looking for a bride, though his sisters might be inspecting the eligibles. What else have you heard about him, Charlotte?”
“The Duke of Murdoch hasn’t a reputation for bravery per se,” Charlotte said. “I’d say it’s more a reputation for savagery. One hears that when he challenged Baron St. Clair, the weapon of choice was bare fists, and Murdoch intended to beat the baron to death. Only the timely intervention of third parties prevented the next thing to murder.”
Charlotte had the ability to sit at a table playing whist, to every appearance puzzling over her next discard while in fact she was listening to a trio of men gossiping over at the window. Growing up, she’d made a formidable spy on the male cousins, and now she was simply formidable.
“Baron St. Clair is a substantial fellow,” Megan said, “and was a soldier himself. Why does one assume he’d be defeated, much less killed, in a fair fight?”
“We shouldn’t speak of such things,” Anwen said, setting her yarn into her workbasket.
“Why not?” Beth asked, knotting off a golden thread. “If Charlotte didn’t tell us what she overhears, we’d never get any of the best gossip. I heard that Murdoch had a dreadful temper in battle, and was always to be found in the thick of the fighting.”
The duke’s eyes, so glacially distant when he spoke of war, suggested the same. He’d doubtless fought with everything he had, every time, and the battles haunted him. Megan, by contrast, was facing defeat at the hands of a knighted weasel and had offered the merest whimper of protest.
“Murdoch’s years of soldiering will get him through Aunt Esther’s ball,” Charlotte said. “The matchmakers will overlook a little savagery in a man with a dukedom and two lucrative breweries. His brother will be considered quite the catch too. They won’t be so keen on the sisters, though. Very pretty, and gentlemen do seem fascinated with red hair.”
They shared a sororal moment, for all four Windham sisters had red hair. Beth was a glossy titian, Charlotte more auburn. Megan tended to strawberry blonde, while Anwen—quiet, shy Anwen—had hair that could be described only as blazingly red.
“Megs, have you saved your supper waltz for Sir Fletcher?” Anwen asked. “He’s a very fine dancer.”
Oh, wasn’t he just?“He hasn’t asked me for it. I thought I might dance the supper waltz with the Duke of Murdoch.”
Thoughhehadn’t exactly asked her yet either.
