Page 44 of The Trouble With Dukes
“If it isn’t Murdoch and my own dear Megan,” Moreland said. “Megan, perhaps you’d be good enough to tell your parents I’ve come to call? Murdoch, don’t look so hopeful. You aren’t going anywhere until I’ve had a private word with you.”
Chapter Ten
The Code Duello was cited in officers’ messes, gentlemen’s clubs, bordellos, and every masculine venue in between. Wellington had taken part in duels, and Percival Windham, duke, former cavalry officer, and father to five sons, had seen more than his share of the field of honor.
He’d also seen every one of his children happily wed, and knew that what looked like dishonorable behavior to a doting uncle might be a harbinger of true love—or disaster.
Murdoch was a duke, however, and the trouble with dukes was that they required respectful, delicate, but firm handling—Percival’s own duchess had assured him of this—and one crossed a duke at considerable peril.
Especially a duke in love.
“Has a custom sprung up in Scotland,” Percival began, “of accosting young ladies in their own gardens and making spectacles of them with passionate overtures? Is this an accepted practice where you come from, Murdoch, when no understanding has been established with the young lady or her family?”
Murdoch assumed the posture of an officer at attention, his gaze unnervingly flat. “I do apologize, Your Grace. My behavior was inappropriate and ungentlemanly. I meant the young lady no disrespect, nor will I ever.”
As stirring declarations went, that would do nicely, but what had Murdoch truly been about?
Moreover, what would Percival’s duchess make of those gruff admissions? They were the right admissions—heartfelt apology, acceptance of all responsibility, assurance of future good conduct—and offered with convincing probity, but the nuances, like the Scot’s gaze, bore an impenetrable quality.
Percival assayed his best ducal glower. “I should call you out, Murdoch.” Esther would never tolerate that nonsense.
“Again, I apologize, Your Grace, to you as head of Miss Megan’s family, and I will happily apologize to Miss Megan and her parents, as well. I have no excuse and I’ve behaved wrongly.”
Megs was quiet, sweet, unassuming, and exactly the type of young lady the head of the family most fretted about. Esther had been quiet and unassuming, as had Percival’s daughters—when they were hatching up schemes of a sort to turn a duke’s hair gray.
“Do you know, Murdoch, just this morning, my duchess charged me with getting you to the next court levee, where I’m to present you for a royal introduction. When I’ve dealt with that exercise in tedium, I’m to procure a warrant of precedence for you that will see your sisters officially established as ladies and your brother as a lord.”
A nose some might call impressive wrinkled. “I’m a debutante duke now?”
“You might well be a dead duke for this morning’s work. I am quite proficient with both pistols and swords.”
“Again, Your Grace, I tender a sincere apology. I will put my sentiments in writing if need be. Moreover I can assure you that by this time tomorrow, I’ll be bound for Scotland, never to trouble you again.”
The Code Duello required that if an apology was offered in good faith, and no blow had been struck, then bloodshed ought not to follow. Murdoch apparently knew the rules and was relying on them to avoid a violent confrontation.
Was this gallantry or cowardice? Esther would have a useful opinion on that question.
“I’ll not call you out,” Percival conceded. “Somebody should, though, and Megan’s cousins and papa have not the counsel of my duchess to stay their hands in rash moments.”
Murdoch—wisely—said nothing. He had sisters, and sisters had a way of educating a fellow in the art of discretion. As did children, and yet, Percival’s hearing was excellent.
Don’t go … please don’t ride away as if …Megan, pleading with this oversized, taciturn, rough-hewn Scot.
And the Scot’s response: “Meggie, I’ll never fit in here …” And something about burning letters. All very dramatic, and then … two young people locked in a desperate embrace where they might have been chanced upon by any passing duke.
Or gossip.
“Megan has attached the interest of Sir Fletcher Pilkington,” Percival said. “I’ve been summoned here to discuss that situation with Lord Anthony before my brother departs for Wales. Sir Fletcher is from a fine family, served his king loyally, and has been respectful of Megan in every regard.”
More silence, and Murdoch widened his stance, as if bracing for the bite of the lash.
“My duchess has advised caution where Sir Fletcher is concerned.” Esther had taken the poor fellow into positive dislike, accusing him of bowing too low, never passing a mirror without glancing at his own reflection, chasing after heiresses, and other dreadful transgressions.
“Caution is always warranted where suitors are concerned,” Murdoch said—growled, more like.
“I can still call you out, Murdoch.”
Those blue eyes went flat again. Not merely chilly or hostile, but devoid of any human sentiment. Percival had seen eyes like that in the aftermath of battle, usually on the faces of those taken prisoner.
