Page 46 of The Trouble With Dukes
Megan’s Scot had interrupted a duke. Moreland liked the man for that, because national dress with the Scots had become a matter of pride. Avoiding harm to a lady’s reputation was gentlemanly prudence, but avoiding all confrontation was spineless cowering, which would not do.
“My apologies for the interruption,” Murdoch said, “but Your Grace was goading me.”
“So I was. Now I’m chastising you. Not for sharing a stolen kiss with a willing and winsome young lady—once upon a long ago time, I did likewise a time or two.” Or two hundred. “This is for gettingcaughtstealing that kiss and putting Megan’s reputation at risk.”
Moreland clipped Murdoch on the jaw, a good, stout blow such as would appease a young man’s guilt and a mature duke’s pride.
“Tell the groom to put up your horse, and I’ll introduce you to my brother,” Percival said. “And again, best of luck.” In all likelihood, Sir Fletcher was the one who’d need some luck.
For as Percival let himself into the back garden, the Scot remained behind, smiling such a smile as would make a certain duchess quite pleased with her duke.
“Megs, do you fancy this Scottish fellow?” Papa asked, pacing across the morning room.
Uncle Percy had been all congenial good cheer when he’d come upon Megan kissing Murdoch in the garden, but Uncle Percy was at his most civilized when he was plotting the downfall of some encroaching member of Parliament or unmannerly viscount.
“I like Murdoch exceedingly, Papa.”
His lordship was pretending to peer out the window, though his objective was doubtless to give Megan a measure of privacy.
“Murdoch hasn’t …” Papa clasped his hands behind his back. “That is to say, he’s not a refined fellow, and I’d take a very dim view of any presumption upon the good nature or the person … Megs, do youtrulylike him, or are you trying to spare a clueless swain a sound thrashing at the hands of your cousins?”
What on earth had Uncle Percy said to Papa? “Both?”
Papa left off staring at a garden he’d seen in bloom every morning for weeks. “Your Uncle Percy has taken it into his head I should allow Murdoch to pay you his addresses, though not because Murdoch is my ideal son-in-law.”
Pay you his addresses.
Megan had come into the morning room expecting to be chastised for forward behavior. In the alternative, she was braced for a command to pack her things, because she was being sent to the rural family seat in disgrace, or worse, she was to accompany Mama and Papa on one of their annual honeymoons.
While Hamish rode north to his much-missed home in the Highlands.
In all the English language, the four words Megan would have least expected her father to put together in the same sentence with “Murdoch” were “pay you his addresses.”
Her insides rearranged themselves such that her heart was wedged more closely against her ribs.
“Murdoch’s addresses would be welcome,” Megan said, her voice shaking only a little. “Very welcome, in fact.” The most welcome addresses in the entire history of addresses the world over.
Papa was not merely distinguished, he was handsome. His features bore the patrician stamp of Saxon nobility—blond hair gone gold, blue eyes, bold nose, firm chin—but he also had a quickness, a perceptivity and subtlety that he usually covered with charm. He was a ducal spare, no threat to anybody.
Megan knew better. Papa was shrewd and kind, both, and Megan loved him dearly. She did not, however, entirely trust him.
“Murdoch’s addresses would bevery welcome,” Papa said, moving away from the window to inspect a drawing Charlotte had done of Mama several years earlier. Mama smiled a naughty smile, which Charlotte had caught to the life. “Megs, your mother and I love you very much. Is there any reason you might want us to put off this trip to Wales?”
Any reason …? “To plan a wedding, you mean?”
Papa remained by the portrait. Megan couldn’t make out his features that clearly, nor Mama’s smile, but she knew from her father’s posture that his casual tone belied a certain tension.
“It’s no secret your Mama and I were a love match. I happen to approve of affection between spouses, within reason. Marriage is hard enough without trying to make a go of it with a complete stranger. I also know you’re your mother’s daughter, and a Windham. Either legacy would tempt you to a certain impetuosity where matters of the heart are concerned, but both together, well, a father worries.”
A father also—for the first time in Megan’s memory—blushed.
“Murdoch is agentleman, Papa.” Unlike Sir Fletcher.
Who no longer had possession of Megan’s letters.
“They can be the worst transgressors, which is why Murdoch has been set loose among the pigeons, so to speak. Sir Fletcher paid a call on me yesterday, also intent on asking permission to pay you his addresses.”
Megan fluffed her skirts. “Sir Fletcher Pilkington?”The worst rotter in all of Mayfair?
