Page 41 of The Trouble With Dukes
Well, damn. “Is that why you came down to the library? To find a story?”
On the street before the house, a coach went clattering past, the sound isolated at an otherwise quiet hour.
“I can’t read in the dark,” Geneva said, “but I like to have a book with me, to put under my pillow. Harold likes knowing our stories are close by too.”
The cat stropped itself against Hamish’s stockings, and if the damned beast could have spoken, it would probably have asked to have a tray sent up from the kitchen, and a fire lit in the hearth.
The sound of shod hooves against cobbles slowed, then faded as the coach reached the corner.
“I must insist you return to the nursery, milady. The hour is quite late, and you need to set a good example for Harold. Perhaps tomorrow, she can go riding on Lucifer’s back if he’s in an obliging mood.”
“Lucifer doesn’t like that game. I got scratched the last time we tried to play, and Fletcher said it serves me right. My nurse tipples. I think that means she snores.”
“Something like that,” Hamish said, setting the child on her feet. “I must stay here at my post in the library until your family comes home, and you must warn Harold not to wander the house late at night. She might stub her toes, bruise her shins, or come tumbling down the stairs.”
“Harold and I slide down the bannister.”
“I’m sure you do.”
The hoofbeats that had faded abruptly sounded more loudly, as if the coach that had just passed the house was now coming up the alley.
“That’s our coach,” Geneva said, running to the window. “I know the sound of our coach.”
“Then up to bed with you and Harold this instant.”
“My sisters will tell me all about who danced the waltz and who was a fox,” she said, spinning around again. “Good night, Thomas! I hope your new livery comes soon.”
She scampered off with one more pirouette, Harold held by one wrist. Harold’s feet whipped past the hearth, and clipped the top of the stand that held all of the cast iron fireplace implements, sending the lot teetering toward the bricks.
At the same moment, Lucifer decided to strop himself against Hamish’s wool stockings again, and as Lady Geneva and her doll disappeared through the library doorway, Hamish made a dodge for the hearth stand, only to overbalance as the cat tangled between his feet.
“Murdoch!” Megan couldn’t shout across the garden, lest she wake a sister still sleeping in the house, but the dratted man did not respond to his title. “Hamish MacHugh!”
That got his attention, just as he was about to swing into the saddle. “Miss Megan. Good morning. I was told you were not at home.”
Megan looked both ways to ensure no inconvenient neighbors, sisters, or parents were strolling up the alley, then crossed the cobbles to steer His Grace through the garden gate.
“Please walk the duke’s horse,” Megan said to the groom. “We’ll be but a few minutes.”
The groom, who’d known Megan since she’d fallen off her first pony, didn’t so much as blink before flipping the gelding’s reins over its head and leading it away.
“Don’t look as if your only means of escape has just been closed off,” Megan said. “I told the staff I was indisposed because I’m dodging my papa. Why are you limping?”
“Had a wee mishap. Took a tumble onto my, er, hip, and some disobliging bricks broke my fall.”
He was being stoic, or Scottish, or simply male. “You’re probably bruised halfway to next Christmas, and I divine this is my fault. I am doomed to land you in awkward situations. Does this latest injury pain you very much?”
Nothing short of serious discomfort could have robbed His Grace of his military bearing. Megan closed the garden door behind him, and led him to the sunken fountain in the back corner. Hedges bordered the fountain—one side each given to honeysuckle, privet, lilacs, and trellised roses. The privet stood between the fountain and the house, which ensured a measure of privacy.
“Time will put me to rights,” Murdoch said. “I have your letters, Miss Meggie, and that’s what matters.” He extracted a packet of folded papers from an inside pocket and held them out to her. “I did not count them or so much as glance at them, so you’d best make sure they’re all here.”
Had King George, the entire Eighty-Second Foot, and the biggest gossips in Mayfair been peering over the garden hedges, Megan could not have stopped herself from wrapping her arms around the duke.
“Thank you,” she said against the wool of his riding jacket. “Thank you, thank you, thank you. Thank you isn’t enough, it doesn’t convey—Oh, drat, I hate to cry.”
“So do I,” Murdoch said, his arms enfolding her. “Sometimes, the tears must have their moment.”
Megan wept for shame carried too long and too close to her heart, and for relief, and for sheer joy, to have found a champion who’d defeated Sir Fletcher so handily.
