Page 62 of The Trouble With Dukes
“Murdoch, good evening,” the Earl of Rosecroft said from Hamish’s right. “Keswick, greetings. I don’t suppose either of you intend to favor us with a song tonight?”
“Who’s that with Pilkington?” Hamish asked, because the man looked familiar. Lean, a shade above average height, something nervous in his bearing.
“The Honorable former Captain Garner Puget,” Keswick said. “One of Lord Plyne’s younger sons without prospects. Had aspirations as a portraitist, according to the artists in the Windham family. Murdoch, you will arrange your features into something resembling a civilized expression or Lady Deene will think a Scottish brigand has joined the company. Your sisters are glaring at you already.”
Hamish’s sisters glared at him out of habit.
“Better still,” Rosecroft said, “get yourself out to the balcony off the family parlor down the corridor, where your younger brother is about to avail himself of the favors of a lady whose husband is the jealous sort.”
Sir Fletcher had left off fawning over the marchioness’s hand. His attention was on Megan, who’d parted company with Quimbey and was making her way to the punch bowl.
Hamish swore in Gaelic. Rosecroft’s brows rose. Too late, Hamish recalled that Rosecroft’s first language was Irish, a cousin to his own native Gaelic.
“Time might be of the essence,” Rosecroft said. “Your brother appeared to be a man intent upon his goal, as it were.”
“He was born intent on that goal,” Hamish said. “I can’t tend to Colin now with Sir Fletcher about to trouble Meggie.” Though somebody had to tend to Colin. The damned fool would get himself called out or worse.
“See to your brother,” Keswick said. “We’ll keep an eye on Megan—a close eye.”
“Keep a closer eye on yonder knight,” Hamish warned. “Sir Fletcher means her no good. If I’m not back in ten minutes, please see my sisters home, and tell Megan I’ll always love her.”
Hamish bowed to them as genially as he could when battle rage threatened. Colin had a positive genius for getting into scrapes at the worst possible times, though at least reinforcements were available if Meggie needed them.
Based on Sir Fletcher’s demeanor—brilliant smile, and a gaze that put Hamish in mind of hungry serpents—she needed them that very instant.
A man in a kilt moved differently from a man in standard London evening attire. He moved more freely, more dashingly. Megan could not make out Hamish’s expression, but she knew her intended stood watch across the room. The Duke of Quimbey blathered on about puppies and married life, while Megan nodded, smiled, and pretended to pay attention.
“My duchess has chosen our seats,” Quimbey said. “You will excuse me, Miss Megan—unless you’d like to sit with us?”
The old scamp well knew Megan had other plans. “Thank you, Your Grace, but I see Lady Rhona and Lady Edana signaling me. They expect me to join them for the second half of the program.”
Quimbey bowed over Megan’s hand and strode off. Megan hoped that was Edana and Rhona by the punch bowl—they favored bold hues, and rightly so. With their red hair and vivid coloring, greens, burgundies, blues, and browns all looked quite well on them.
Megan was determined to sit with Hamish for the remainder of the program, and thus she nearly didn’t see the man she collided with halfway to the punch bowl.
“Miss Megan, I beg your pardon.”
Sir Fletcher kept his hands on Megan’s arms, his grip uncomfortable. He’d worn too much attar of roses again, and the threat underlying his greeting slithered about in Megan’s insides like a cold draft.
“Sir Fletcher, good evening. How are you?”
“I’ve been desolated for lack of your company,” he replied, one hand over his heart. “Might I hope you’ve missed me?”
Megan would have missed a megrim as much, provided it was accompanied with a toothache, a turned ankle, and dysentery.
“I’m sure Lady Edana and Lady Rhona would like to greet you,” she said, “and they expect me to sit with them.” Right between them, if need be, for Megan had no intention of spending one instant longer than necessary beside Sir Fletcher.
“Come,” Sir Fletcher said, taking Megan by the arm. “I know the crowded confines here are difficult for you to navigate. Stay by me, and I’ll not let you come to harm.”
He was up to no good, attaching himself too closely to Megan’s side, and at a gathering where much of polite society would take note. Apparently, he’d yet to realize Megan’s letters had been returned to her.
Sir Fletcher did the pretty with Rhona and Edana. All the while, Megan expected Hamish to join the discussion, though she didn’t dare try to attract his notice. Instead, Keswick and Rosecroft appeared, declaring themselves parched for both a cup of punch and the company of lovely women.
Megan was thus ensconced between two of her male cousins when the string quartet opened the last portion of the program, while Sir Fletcher was flanked by Edana and Rhona.
And Hamish was nowhere to be seen.
Chapter Fourteen
