Page 5 of The Trouble With Dukes
“If we go home now,” Colin said, “you will never hear the end of it. Ronnie and Eddie have been invited to several balls, and depriving them of those chances to husband-hunt will earn their enmity until the day you die.”
A Scotswoman was a formidable enemy, and two Scotswomen were the match of any mere mortal man.
“When is the next damned ball?” They were all damned balls, and damned musicales, and damned Venetian breakfasts, for where Ronnie and Eddie waltzed, either Hamish or Colin must follow.
“Next week. We take the street to the left.”
Hamish did not ask how his brother knew the address of one of the most expensive modistes in a very expensive city. Colin was a good-looking fellow, and he had independent means. He’d taken to the bonhomie and challenge of army life like a sheep to spring grass, and his occasional sorties to London were just so many more bivouacs to him.
“How can two otherwise intelligent women spend half the day choosing fabric?” Hamish avoided meeting the eye of an older blonde woman accompanied by a younger lady with the same color hair. “I swear Ronnie and Eddie left their brains back in Perthshire.”
“And there,” Colin murmured, “you just snubbed the Duchess of Moreland and her youngest daughter, who happens to be a marchioness.”
Hamish came to a halt. “We’re going home, ball or no ball. I’m behind enemy lines without a map, a canteen, or a sound horse, Colin. One of my blunders will soon see me married or dead in a ditch.”
Or worse, killing somebody. When Hamish had first mustered out, he’d been provoked into challenging one man to a duel, but fate had interceded to prevent serious harm to either combatant. Hamish and his former dueling partner—Baron St. Clair—were even cordial now when their paths crossed.
The Baroness St. Clair was a different and less forgiving article.
“That’s why I’m here,” Colin said, tipping his hat to a flower girl. “To make sure you stay alive. I owe you that, and the last thing I want is a dukedom complicating my life. As long as you don’t call anybody out—anybody else out—an apology ought to cover most of your missteps, and you’ll soon have the lay of the land.”
Hamish resumed walking, because standing still in the middle of the walkway was enough to draw the notice of passersby.
Perhaps wearing his kilt hadn’t been an inspired notion. He’d hoped if any ladies were attracted by his title, they might be repelled by the sight of his bare knees. London women were apparently a stout-hearted lot, because so far, Hamish’s experiment had been a failure.
His entire visit to London had been a failure, but for that single moment when quick reflexes had spared a lady’s spectacles from harm. Hamish hoped somebody would come along to spare that same young lady from Fletcher Pilkington’s company.
That somebody wouldn’t be Hamish, more’s the pity. Miss Windham either hadn’t known or didn’t care that Hamish was the least appropriate man to hold a lofty title. Pilkington had doubtless remediedthatoversight posthaste.
“Do you get the sense that Ronnie and Eddie are enjoying all this waltzing and shopping?” Hamish asked.
He and Colin had alternated coming home on winter leave, and every two years, Hamish had returned to Scotland to find taller, prettier young women wearing his sisters’ smiles. By the time he’d sold his commission after Waterloo, he’d hardly known Rhona or Edana.
They doubtless preferred not to become too well reacquainted with their oldest brother now, though they seemed to like his new title just fine.
“Our sisters are delighted with London so far,” Colin said. “The shop is down this street. Tomorrow you’re due for another fitting at the tailor’s.”
“Bugger the tailor,” Hamish said. “He wants only to increase his bill. Aren’t there any Scottish tailors in this blighted city?”
“English tailors are the finest anywhere,” Colin replied, walking faster. “They’re the envy of every civilized man the world over. You’d bash about in your kilt and boots, swilling whisky, and embarrassing your siblings instead of taking advantage of the privileges of your station.”
Guilt assailed Hamish, the same guilt he’d felt as a captive in French hands. When he’d been led away from the scene of the ambush, bleeding in three places, his vision blurred, his head pounding, and his hearing mostly gone, he’d been in the clutches of an enemy more deadly than the French.
Shame had wrapped chains around his heart—for leading his men into an ambush, for succumbing to capture rather than dying honorably, for leaving Colin unprotected. In London, half pay and former officers abounded, and the sooner Hamish was away from them, the better.
“My station is all the more reason for me to leave this cesspit of privilege,” Hamish said. “I do not now, nor will I ever, fit in, Colin. If you didn’t want me wearing the kilt, then you might have said so before we left the house.”
Colin’s complexion was lighter than Hamish’s, and thus when Colin blushed, his mortification was apparent to all. His ears were an interesting shade of red by the time Hamish paused outside an establishment called Madame Doucette’s.
“You’re known for wearing the kilt now,” Colin said. “Once you showed up at that card party in the plaid, your fate was sealed. I’m having the full kit made up for myself.”
“London shops have the most ridiculous names,” Hamish said, hand on the door latch as foot traffic bustled past them. “Take this place, for instance. If I didn’t know better, I’d think from the name it was a whorehouse.”
Colin made an odd noise.
“Don’t act as if I’d just kneed you in the balls,” Hamish went on, peering through the door’s glass. “Madame Doucette, my handsome kilted arse.”
Immediately behind Hamish, a throat cleared.
