Page 23 of The Trouble With Dukes
“Those roses should never have been cut,” Charlotte said, frowning at the bouquet wilting on the windowsill. “The hothouse varieties simply do not fare well off the vine. Giving Murdoch your supper waltz is quite generous, Megs. Do you think Sir Fletcher will mind?”
He’d mind awfully. “Murdoch, like Mama and Papa, will be decamping directly after Aunt’s ball. I can give His Grace a single dance before he returns to Scotland, and there’s nothing Sir Fletcher can say to it.”
Sir Fletcher would say a great deal. His chilly glower on Park Lane assured Megan she was already due for a lecture. She moved to the sideboard to give the roses a drink from the pitcher, a futile gesture of compassion for the already doomed.
“You don’t want to marry Sir Fletcher, do you?” Anwen asked, noiselessly closing the lid of her workbasket. Everything she did was calm, graceful, and ladylike—almost everything.
“Sir Fletcher hasn’t proposed.” Not in the usual, proper sense.Thank God.
Megan’s sisters became absorbed in not looking at her or at each other.
“As long as Papa is off cavorting with Mama in Wales,” Charlotte said, “Sir Fletcher can’t very well propose, can he? All he can do is court you and escort you. The season is long, and the ballrooms are full of bachelors. Sir Fletcher had best not grow overconfident of your affections.”
Megan harborednoaffection for a man who’d exploit a young woman’s missteps, no matter how handsomely he turned down the room. The idea of fulfilling her wifely duties with Sir Fletcher made her ill, though all over England, women were doubtless enduring worse in the name of family honor or simple survival.
Besides, Sir Fletcher had no need for Megan’s affections. He had her letters—dozens and dozens, all clearly signed by her, and that was awful enough.
Chapter Six
Old, doomed feelings welled as Hamish heard himself announced as “theDukeofMurdoch!” above the heaving sea of gossip, fashion, and music filling the Windham ballroom. The herald—may he be damned to a permanent case of piles—had even thumped his pikestaff three times to ensure everybody got a good gawk at the new duke.
Edana and Rhona used the moment to preen before the entire assemblage, and well they should, for their finery was exquisite. Nevertheless, in the ballroom below, ladies whispered to their escorts, mamas drew their daughters closer, and former officers exchanged knowing smirks.
Hear ye, hear ye, the Duke of Murder has arrived.
“Now what?” Hamish muttered.
“Now,” Colin said, “we lead the ladies down to the dance floor, fetch them some punch, and glower at any who presume to approach without an introduction.”
In the past week, between perambulating about in the park, receiving callers, and paying calls, Edana and Rhona must have met half of Mayfair.
“Rather like defending the garrison,” Hamish said, escorting Rhona down the grand staircase. He knew better than to rush. Ronnie was enjoying herself, and her smile was … well, the garrison would need a good deal of defending, based on the loveliness of that smile.
“Rather like being a brother,” Rhona corrected him. “Oh, there’s Miss Windham and Miss Megan, and I see Lady Deene. We met her in the modiste’s.”
“I see Sir Fletcher over by the punch bowl,” Eddie chimed in from Colin’s side. “He is such an attractive fellow.”
They were nervous. Hamish sensed this the same way he’d known his recruits were nervous the night before a battle. Sane men were terrified going into battle, but masculine pride insisted that the only sensible reaction to impending death was to clean spotless weaponry, compose maudlin letters, or reread notes from sweethearts.
“You both look stunning,” Hamish said, reaching for a paraphrase of his pre-battle speech. “I will dower you down to my last farthing if you see a fellow who takes your fancy, provided he’s worthy of you. You are the equal of any person here, if not superior to them all. You’re as well educated as Colin or I, you know every dance, you could sing the entire ballroom to tears. You’re the daughters of Clan MacHugh, and the blood of a hundred generations of warriors flows through your veins. Victory has been in your hands since you left the coach. Stop fretting and prepare to show mercy to your prisoners, even as you put your foes to shame.”
They’d reached the bottom of the world’s longest staircase, and just in time, for Rhona stumbled on her hem.
Hamish caught her, caught the look of bewildered surprise in her green eyes.
He winked. She started to grin, smoothed her brow, and offered the room that glowingly attractive smile she’d fired off from the top of the steps.
All right, then.
“Shall we charge?” Colin muttered. “Repair to the punch bowls, rather?”
Where Sir Fletcher lurked waiting to ambush the unwary, no doubt.
“A glass of punch would suit,” Rhona said. “The first sets will form soon, and I’m promised to Sir Fletcher.”
She attempted to haul Hamish off to the left side of the battlefield—ballroom, rather.
“Be careful with Pilkington, Ronnie,” Hamish said. “Colin and I know him from our army days, and he did not distinguish himself as a leader of men.” More than that, somebody who’d been taken captive by the French, leaving his own men without any leader at all, could not say.
