Page 64 of The Trouble With Dukes
“Heed me, Sir Fletcher,” Megan said, very quietly. “I have my letters back. Every one of them has been returned to me. Your hold over me has been broken, and I will make very, very sure every woman of my acquaintance knows what you tried to do to me, until there’s not a ballroom or garden party where you will be welcome. If I were you, I’d develop a sudden urge to tour the Canadian wilderness or the jungles of darkest Peru. A sudden, protracted urge.”
Megan extricated herself from Sir Fletcher’s grip and attached herself to Keswick’s free arm. “We should bid Sir Fletcher good evening,” she said. “We approach the intersection at which his path diverges from our own.”
The hell they did.
Sir Fletcher bowed nonetheless, because clearly, Megan Windham believed what she’d said. She thought her letters were again safe in her possession, and considered herself free to bestow her company on any presuming Scottish barbarian she chose.
“I bid the company good night,” Sir Fletcher said. “My ladies, my lords, a pleasant evening. Miss Megan, until we meet again.”
For Sir Fletcher’s path had by no means diverged from hers, nor would she be indulging this sudden penchant for the company of the Duke of Murdoch, of all the loutish, inappropriate, laughable specimens.
Sir Fletcher would, however, procure a special license.
“You should just beat me and be done with it,” Colin said as he walked along beside Hamish.
“I nearly threw you over the balcony.” This was not true, though Hamish had been tempted to leap over the balcony and leave his handsome, randy brother to the fate he deserved. “The lady has a reputation.”
The words echoed quietly in the dim street, also in Hamish’s heart. When would Colin learn some caution? What had the world come to, when Hamish was better informed about a wife with a propensity to stray than Colin was?
“I like the ones with reputations. They’re friendly when a fellow is all alone and far from home. How was I to know the husband also has a reputation?”
For dueling at the drop of a bodice ribbon.
Papa had tried thrashing sense into his sons, but even he had given up on corporal punishment where Colin was concerned.Let the army sort him out.
“Think of our sisters,” Hamish said. “If you’re embroiled in a scandal, then they are too, and scandal has a way of becoming a permanent fixture in a family’s reputation. I’ve done enough to tarnish the MacHugh escutcheon. But for this damned title, Eddie and Ronnie wouldn’t be accepted into such refined company as it is.”
“Eddie and Ronnie would kill me if I caused a scandal,” Colin said, steps slowing. “I wouldn’t enjoy that.”
“You’d disappoint them,” Hamish rejoined. “Fate worse than death, when they get disappointed in a man. Winters are long enough without that pair sighing and muttering.”
“That’s why you should serve me a sound thrashing,” Colin said. “If I’m sporting a few bruises, then Eddie and Ronnie won’t bludgeon me with guilt. A black eye is all it would take.”
“You’re daft, but then, we knew that.” Hamish would never strike his own brother, would likely never strike another living soul.
Colin took out his flask, had a nip, and passed it over to Hamish. “If I asked you to meet me at Jackson’s Salon, would you?”
Hamish took a whiff of the open container, because Colin’s tastes were as unreliable as his common sense. Tonight, the brew on offer was slightly smoky, with a delicate roll of cedar and cinnamon beneath the fumes. Sipping whisky, as opposed to the ruinous variety.
“For God’s sake, why would anybody pursue a sound pummeling on purpose?” Hamish muttered.
“Because you get to pummel some other fellow, and it keeps a man on his mettle, to put up his fives.”
No, it did not. Premeditated pugilism put a man within closer reach of memories best left unvisited. Hamish’s single post-war attempt at hand-to-hand combat—a bout with his former captor, the Baron St. Clair—had proved that.
“I won’t beat you,” Hamish said. “Your guilty conscience can spare my arm.”
Colin accepted the flask back, taking another swallow before tucking it away. “Will you at least take a swing at me if I admit I worry about you?”
Well, hell. “I’ll have a laugh. You’re the hothead, the reckless fool about whom our parents worried the most. We all worry about you, Colin. You are not to trouble your pretty head at this late stage about me.”
“You hate being a duke, just as you hated the army.”
Colin was indeed feeling reckless. “How much have you had to drink?”
“Not enough. Interferes with my ability to please the ladies.”
Hamish had hated the army, but until now, Colin had spared them both that admission. “With the right duchess beside me, being a duke won’t be so bad. Megan’s people have been dukes for centuries. I expect a Scot new to the title of duke is a mere aristocratic corporal by comparison. Were you trying to goad me into beating you, Colin?”
