Page 61 of The Trouble With Dukes
“I have often wanted to ask my brilliant sister, what manner of freedom is delivered on the end of a French bayonet? What sort of equality requires a self-crowned emperor to ensure it? What variety of fraternity is earned by forcibly conscripting, and violently ending, the lives of countless hundreds of thousands? You fought for something honest and real, Hamish, so families wouldn’t starve, so your men would get home. Who has dared criticize you for that?”
Somebody apparently had. Maybe many somebodies.
A raindrop splatted onto the bench beside Megan, and Angus gave a shake of his harness.
“Ah, damn. Now I have you out in the wet,” Hamish said. “Take the reins for a moment, will you, Meggie?”
Megan accepted the ribbons, though she wasn’t wearing driving gloves, and had only a general notion where the path lay. The horses were perfect gentlemen, and trotted along smoothly despite the change of driver.
Hamish shrugged out of his topcoat and draped it about Megan’s shoulders. As more raindrops spattered down, she was enveloped in warmth, the fragrance of heather, and a lovely sense of rightness.
Talk of war had left her unsettled—Hamish hadn’t told her the whole of his situation, she was sure—but they had time to learn each other’s histories and each other’s hearts. The war was over, after all. Hamish had given her what protection he could from the weather, and he’d see her safely home.
For now, that was enough.
Across the room, Megan Windham was chatting up the Duke of Quimbey.
Hamish had stood against cavalry charges, French bayonets, and the knowledge of impending torture, but he was helpless to defend himself against tenderness. A softening of the heart befell him every time he laid eyes on Meggie, an easing of all tensions, a lightness of spirit that moved him closer to the man he’d been before soldiering had made him a walking weapon.
When Megan Windham touched him, his insides sighed, his mind turned to mush, and peace stole over him. Shelistenedto him. Paid attention to his words, to his silences. With her hands, she drew secrets from him he’d been keeping even from himself.
He liked when she took his hand, liked when she wrapped her arm through his. She had a way of half-hugging him from the side, a quick press of bodies and squeeze of the fingers that melted him into a puddle of adoring swain.
“My countess claims you’re mentally composing poetry whenever you behold Megan Windham,” the Earl of Keswick said.
“Lord Cowlick, good evening,” Hamish replied, though he did not take his gaze from his lady. “Has anybody told you sneaking up on a man isn’t polite?”
Keswick’s countess probably loved his eyebrows, for they were dark and expressive. Now they said the earl was torn between laughter and indignation, a fine place for a prospective family member to be.
“When you have children, Murdoch, you either learn stealth or acquaint yourself with the dubious charms of celibacy. Besides, a regiment mounted on elephants could sneak up on you when you’re watching Megan Windham.”
“Aye.” And would Keswick please hush, so Hamish could get back to that pleasant pastime? Meggie was charming old Quimbey, who’d recently discarded avowed bachelorhood for the company of a formerly widowed duchess. Gossip said a shared love of dogs had brought them together.
“Have you and the fair Megan set a date?” Keswick asked.
“You’re worse than a midge. The lady sets the date, usually after her parents have announced an engagement. There’s the small matter of the settlements to deal with, and in case you hadn’t noticed—or your omniscient countess hasn’t pointed it out to you—a woman is entitled to a few weeks of courtship before plighting her troth.”
A string quartet was tuning up over in the corner, this being a musical evening, courtesy of the Marchioness of Deene. Edana and Rhona were at the punch bowl, fans fluttering gracefully, and Colin was likely charming some widow or other on the nearest shadowed balcony.
Siblings accounted for. Beloved not five yards away. London wasn’t so bad, once a man found favor with the right lady.
“You haven’t set a date,” Keswick said. “This suggests you’re getting your courage together, for I have it on good authority you’ve been given leave to pay your addresses. Before you importune Megan for her hand, I’d like to put a few questions to you.”
Keswick spoke casually—too casually.
Hamish knew better than to visibly react, but the back of his neck prickled disagreeably. “Ask all you like. If you’re inquiring about matters that are none of your business, I might answer you with my fists.”
His lordship fluffed the lace of Hamish’s jabot. “There’s talk, Murdoch. Not the sort of talk one wants to hear about a former fellow officer. I’m not suggesting the talk has any substance, but you should know what’s being said.”
Hamish left off visually adoring his beloved long enough to consider the man beside him. Keswick was no fool, and Colin’s discreet inquiries had revealed a reputation in Spain for quiet competence.
“You’re either setting me up for an ambush, or trying to warn me of one.”
“Louisa claims you’re a bright fellow. I’m reserving—Well, damn. I thought he was hiding from his duns.”
Sir Fletcher Pilkington had joined the gathering, and was bowing over the marchioness’s hand, another fellow at his side.
“Megan hasn’t recognized him.” Megan had nothing to fear from Sir Fletcher and never would again. The prickling sensation at the back of Hamish’s neck skittered along his arms, nonetheless.
