Page 31 of The Trouble With Dukes
“We’re discussing Keswick’s dereliction of duty,” Rosecroft said. “He’s lost track of Murdoch, who was last seen disappearing into the hedges with Megan in tow. You will recall that we were dragooned into an impromptu tea dance without tea cakes, the object of which was to ensure that Murdoch, known among his fellow officers as—”
Westhaven was studying his brother as if Rosecroft had burst forth into an aria in praise of spotted unicorns.
“You sound like our papa,” Westhaven said. “Though the privilege of imitating Moreland ought properly and exclusively to belong tome, you soundexactlylike His Grace lecturing on the subject of Whig politics. If you ask me, Megan is the one doing the towing.”
He nodded discreetly—Westhaven wasalwaysdiscreet—toward the end of the ballroom closest to the supper buffet. Megan Windham led a brawny, kilted fellow toward the stairs to the minstrel’s gallery. Both Megan and her nominal escort held plates of food. Murdoch wore the bemused expression of a prizefighter who’d been rendered unconscious in the first round, but had no recollection of the blow that had felled him.
“All present and accounted for,” Keswick said. “Nobody missing in action, but two people apparently wise enough to take advantage of Her Grace’s practice of opening the buffet before the supper waltz ends. Perhaps you should do likewise, Lord Rosebud. My countess claims hunger can make a man irritable.”
Dark brows swooped down while Westhaven took a sip of his champagne—or pretended to.
“If somebody doesn’t tune that violoncello, I will not answer for my behavior.” Lord Valentine, looking lacily resplendent, had emerged from a card room. “Who else is pleading a teething child, breeding wife, or aching head to leave immediately after supper?”
“You will not leave until Her Grace says you can leave,” Westhaven said as Lord Valentine plucked the champagne from his brother’s hand. “All appears to be going well, but then, this is the Duchess of Moreland’s ball.”
Benevolent providence, fate, and a sensible Deity knew better than to thwart Her Grace’s wishes on the matter of her seasonal ball. Mere grown sons and sons-in-law would dance until dawn if the duchess required it of them.
“It’s early for you to start whining,” Rosecroft said, swiping the glass from his youngest brother.
“Ellen sent me on my own tonight,” Lord Valentine replied, looking stoic in the face of such a miserable fate.
A moment of fraternal sympathy ensued, with nobody looking anywhere in particular, for a Windham fellow attending a ball without his lady was a pathetic specimen indeed. Other exponents of good breeding might pretend they barely knew their spouses socially, not so the Windhams.
“Megan and Murdoch not only took a deal of fresh evening air in the gardens together,” Rosecroft said, “they have dodged the supper waltz in favor of more conversation. Gentlemen, I believe we have a situation brewing. They were surpassingly devoted to their shared waltz at Westhaven’s tea-cake-less tea dance.”
Keswick considered taking a turn stealing the champagne, but the glass was nearly empty.
“My very point,” he said, “which is why I asked what we know of Hamish, Duke of Murdoch, before you went off into some pout about missing your sweets.”
Rosecroft turned a glower on Keswick. “My countess ensures I’m kept well supplied withsweets, I’ll have you know, very good tea cakes among them. Iced tea cakes by the dozen, with filling, and—”
“Somebody get the poor old thing to the buffet,” Lord Valentine muttered, before his expression arranged itself into a charming smile. “Megan, good evening. You look lovely, as usual. Murdoch.”
The conversation fell into a lull as the music below came to an end, and even Westhaven seemed to need a moment to muster yet another polite, proper verbal sally. Murdoch peered over the balcony at the dancers now assembling into a very long line that stretched into the ballroom itself.
“Miss Megan, you had the right of it. Sitting out the waltz in favor of a dash through the buffet line was a brilliant strategy.” He peered at the Moreland heir. “You’re accounted a canny fellow. If you intended to sit out the supper waltz, I wonder why you weren’t down there, choosing the tastiest morsels for your countess, Worsthaven.”
Lord Valentine fell prey to a spate of coughing, while Rosecroft passedWorsthaventhe empty glass, and began thumping his baby brother soundly on the back. Very soundly.
Miss Megan murmured something about finding a seat before they were all taken, and led her kilted duke off among the potted palms.
Lord Valentine recovered from his coughing fit and bowed to his older brothers. “Rosebud, Worsthaven, I bid you good night. I’m off to find a piano with which to entertain Her Grace’s guests during supper. I can’t wait to hear what verbal artillery that Scot will aim in my direction, or yours, Keswick. I confess, I begin to like the fellow.”
He bowed to Keswick and strolled away, smirking handsomely.
“Valentine has always carried something of a burden regarding his name,” Westhaven remarked, finishing the champagne. “Perhaps we ought not to have teased him quite as much.”
“We’re his older brothers,” Rosecroft said. “We had a duty to tease him or our sisters would have tormented him even worse than we did. He turned out well enough, after all.”
Rosecroft was a fine strategist, and after Keswick had consulted with Louisa regarding the evening’s developments, he’d probably consult Rosecroft as well. One thing was clear, based on what Keswick had overheard while lurking among the honeysuckle. Megan Windham could not marry Sir Fletcher.
Murdoch’s plan for salvaging Megan’s situation was—like many good plans—expedient, discreet, and did not require displays of violence. That it was illegal and dangerous was Murdoch’s challenge to meet.
Megan had not come to the ball expecting to recruit an ally in the person of Hamish, Duke of Murdoch, and yet, his worthy qualities were as obvious as the plaid on his kilt.
Hedidlisten. He didnotjudge. He was practical, kind, honorable, had a subtle sense of humor—and a sense of the absurd—and, of all things, his nature was, indeed, affectionate.
“Shall we find a table in the portrait gallery, on the terrace, or up here, Your Grace?”
