Page 47 of The Trouble With Dukes
“Of course, Pilkington. Megs, he comes from good family, and Percy seems to think Sir Fletcher might mature into a worthy article, as husbands go. I thought you fancied him.”
On the walkway beyond the window, Murdoch escorted Mama past the sundial. As chance would have it, they occupied the exact distance necessary for Megan to see their expressions. Mama was all earnest discussion—Mama was usually earnest—and Murdoch was the attentive young gentleman at her side.
He was such an attractive man. Not handsome in the pretty, golden sense, but stalwart, honest, durable. Thirty years from now, his looks would have changed little, and he’d be just as well mannered, just as—
“Megs?”
“Yes, Papa?”
“What about Sir Fletcher?”
Sir Fletcher no longer had Megan’s letters, that waswhat aboutSir Fletcher. “I would not be marrying his good family, Papa, I’d be marrying him, and he’s done nothing to earn my particular esteem in all the time I’ve known him.” Not one damned thing. Turn her head, yes. Manipulate her into granting liberties, certainly. Make a complete fool of her—beyond doubt.
But Megan’s esteem had been earned by the Scotsman who might still be planning to leave for his homeland in the next twenty-four hours.
“You hardly know this Murdoch fellow,” Papa said. “He’s only recently come into his title, and hails from so very far away. Percival has spoken on Murdoch’s behalf, but I’ll not discourage Sir Fletcher just yet. Consider your options while your mama and I are in Wales, but Megs?”
“Yes, Papa?”
“Be careful. Percival endorsed Murdoch’s suit, but my brother has a taste for matchmaking that I don’t share. I rather like having my ladies about me, where I know they are safe and well loved. If you decamped with your Highland laddie, I would miss you awfully all the rest of my days.”
Megan hadn’t seen that ambush coming, a genuine expression of paternal sentiment right in the middle of lectures and awkward warnings.
“Papa, I haven’t gone anywhere, and you are the one leaving for Wales.”
“Wales makes your mama happy, and that makes me happy. You are all a-quiver to accost your Scot in the garden again, but Megs, no more kisses where any visitor, gardener, or parent peering out an upper window might see you. Moreland caught you too—he fancies himself quite the intelligence officer, does Percival—so I had to act surprised. A bit of discretion will go a long way toward sparing me my brother’s preening in future.”
Gracious, Megan loved her Papa terribly.
“Yes, Papa. I do understand.” Megan understood that Murdoch had been given permission topay her his addresses, which was even better than having her letters restored to her—provided Murdoch had given up his fixation on returning to Scotland.
Papa kissed her forehead and Megan offered him a curtsy. As soon as she reached the privacy of the corridor, she picked up her skirts and ran full tilt for the garden.
The only experience Hamish could bring to bear on the morning’s developments was the aftermath of a blow to the head. A fellow’s hearing was sometimes affected, or his balance, but more than that, reality took on a distant, storied quality. Everything happened at a mental remove, as if instead of Hamish himself wandering around the garden on the arm of Megan’s mother, some other dazed fellow enjoyed that honor and made small talk about …
Robert Tannahill, a contemporary of Mr. Burns who’d also died young and left a beautiful legacy.
“But the songs that aren’t written down are my favorites,” Lady Anthony was saying. “You should ask Megan to sing some for you. She’s quite talented, and here’s our Megs now.”
Our Megs.
Megan had come out onto the back terrace. She stood at the top of the steps, no glasses, no gloves, just a swatch of lovely blue muslin, a white shawl, and glorious red hair in a simple twist. At this distance, she’d have difficulty seeing him clearly so Hamish waved. The movement apparently caught her attention for she waved back. Her smile beamed across the roses, hedges, and dewy grass, so that all of Hamish’s awareness was focused on her, the most perfect blossom in the garden.
In a few awkward moments with her father and her uncle, Hamish had been granted permission to offer the lady his heart. He wanted to sprint across the grass, scoop her up, and whirl her around in his arms like a prize secured.
He also wanted to haul her by the hand back to the secluded fountain, and there inspect her entire inventory of kisses, before inventing a few more with her nobody had yet thought of in all the history of kissing.
And he wanted to weep, because for all Megan’s family had made it possible for him to court her, he was still bound for Scotland.
“Your smile when you behold my daughter is …” Lady Anthony bent to sniff at a precocious sprig of honeysuckle. “You put me in mind of my husband when we were courting. We feared our union would not meet with the approval of our parents, and we were making plans … Well, that’s a tale for another time. You have exactly thirty minutes, Murdoch, before Megan will be summoned to take tea with her Papa and me. Use your thirty minutes wisely.”
“Yes, your ladyship, and safe journey, ma’am.”
Lady Anthony kissed Hamish’s cheek—the Windhams were an affectionate family, when they weren’t violent—and glided away. She said something to Megan, squeezed her daughter’s hand, and disappeared into the house on an elegant rustle of green velvet.
Megan lifted her skirts, as if she’d descend the steps in imitation of her mother’s dignity, but then she sprinted across the garden and smacked into Hamish’s waiting embrace.
They were visible from the house, so Hamish merely held her, and treasured the lovely, luscious feel of her in his arms. Her crown fit beneath his chin, her breasts—
