Page 6 of The Trouble With Dukes
A battle-hardened soldier grew accustomed to the way time expanded, or the mind’s perceptions contracted, so that when faced with a mortal threat, the soldier could weigh options, calculate trajectories, and assess risks in the blink of an eye.
That same sense came over Hamish in the instant necessary to perceive that the blonde duchess and the little marchioness were regarding him curiously, as if not a Scotsman but a kilted great ape had appeared on the streets of Mayfair.
“My husband has often made similar remarks about milliners’ establishments,” the duchess said. She had a smile no duchess ought to possess—wise, kind, lovely, and a hint naughty too. If Hamish lived to be a hundred, his smile would never approach this woman’s for complication, dignity, or attractiveness.
Blood would tell.
“I beg Your Grace’s and your ladyship’s pardon,” Hamish said. “I apologize to you both. In the military, I developed a sadly unguarded tongue.”
The young marchioness looked to be stifling a case of the giggles, while Hamish wanted to thump his head against the nearest wall.
“You might not have guarded your tongue, but you guarded your country,” Her Grace said, patting Hamish’s cheek as if he were a tired little fellow in want of a nap. “One has to admire your priorities, Your Grace, despite your colorful observations.”
The duchess swept into the shop, Colin snatching the door open at the last instant. The marchioness curtsied prettily, winked at Hamish, and followed her mother into the modiste’s.
“I think I’m in love,” Colin muttered when the door was once again safely closed.
“It’s nearing noon. You were overdue,” Hamish replied charitably.
Colin smiled the slightly lost smile of a man who’d appreciated the fairer sex in six different countries, and Hamish, while not in love, certainly knew himself to be in trouble.
Deeply, deeplyin trouble.
“We’re in trouble now,” Elizabeth Windham whispered, peering through the window curtains. “Aunt Esther and Cousin Evie are upon the doorstep, and we’ve yet to choose your fabric.”
Madame Doucette was still fluttering about with the pair of Scottish sisters Megan had met somewhere between the silks and the velvets. Miss Rhona and Miss Edana were both tall, merry redheads, though they lacked a fashionable sense of color.
“Not that one,” Megan said, leaving Beth’s side to take the bolt of yellow silk from Miss Edana’s grasp. “Yellow is a difficult color to wear well, though it can be a lovely accent. Say you choose this pale green, for example. A yellow lace edging to your handkerchiefs would suit, or golden-yellow bonnet ribbons and a matching parasol.”
Miss Rhona ran a hand over the yellow silk. “You even coordinate bonnet ribbons and handkerchief borders when you’re concocting an outfit?”
Didn’t everybody?“Bonnet ribbons must be some color. Why not choose a shade that suits you?”
A look passed between the sisters, as if this was a question they’d store up to fire off in some other circumstances known only to them.
Aunt Esther and Cousin Evie swept into the establishment, though mostly Aunt Esther, who was as tall as the Scottish ladies, did the sweeping.
“My dears,” Aunt Esther said, “I considered sending out the watch in search of you. What can you be thinking, dawdling here with the ball only a week off?”
Thewatchwas a familial euphemism for Eve’s older brothers: Lord Westhaven, Lord Valentine, and the oldest Windham cousin, Devlin St. Just, who’d soon be visiting from his earldom in the north. Megan loved her male cousins as much as she dreaded their fussing and lecturing.
The shop bell tinkled again, and all movement, all talk, ceased. Two sizable gentlemen stood immediately inside the door. They blocked enough of the light coming in the front windows to dim the sense of a happy feminine retreat.
“This green,” Miss Edana said, shoving an entire bolt of silk at Madame. “I’ve made up my mind, I’ll take the green.”
“Yes, Miss,” Madame said, scurrying to the back of the shop without even acknowledging the gentlemen.
Men came into modiste’s establishments, sometimes with a wife, a sister, or a daughter, more often with a mistress. A shrewd shop owner scheduled those visits, and used fitting salons in the back to ensure no awkwardness developed between patrons of different social strata.
These men did not belong in this shop in any capacity. The less tall fellow—he was in no wise short—was exquisitely attired in morning clothes, and bore a resemblance to the Scottish sisters.
The other fellow …
A queer feeling came over Megan, shivery and strange, but also happy, as if she’d recognized a friend from childhood whose features had altered with time, but whose countenance evoked precious memories …
In this shop of velvets, silks, and delicate lace, the larger man wore tartan wool. His kilt was a pattern of greens and blues, like lush pastures and summer sky woven about him, topped off with a dark blue velvet waistcoat, green wool jacket, and lacy white cravat.
His looks were like the textures he wore. Different, intriguing, and to Megan, attractive for their contrasts, like an arrangement of flowers in an unexpected vase.
