Page 76 of The Trouble With Dukes
“Sir Fletcher, either get to the point or prepare to enjoy the evening in solitude, for I’m promised to Murdoch for the supper waltz.”
She’d gripped her fan as tightly as some men gripped their swords. How gratifying.
Sir Fletcher took out a cheroot and ran it under his nose. Lovely scent, though too dear in his present circumstances. Marriage to Megan would change all of that, the sooner the better.
“This will be your last waltz with the estimable Murdoch,” Sir Fletcher said. “You really are not safe with him, you know. He turned on his own men, led them straight into a nest of French soldiers. His subordinates would mention that day only in whispers—those who survived—probably because he threatened to kill any who spoke against him. Murdochisa killer. You can see it in his eyes.”
Megan snatched the cheroot away and pitched it into the bushes. “I could slap you for spreading such talk. If I were a man, I’d call you out.”
“If I were not a gentleman,” Sir Fletcher said, “I’d have you on your back out in the mews. Here’s what you need to know, Megan. You think you have your letters, because you had one of your pet Scotsmen steal them from my home. I’m prepared to publicize that larceny—the duke would be tried in the Lords, but the younger brother remains a commoner, gallows bait just like the rest of us.
“Regardless of which brother I accuse,” he went on, “everybody will believe my version. The sad truth is, to explain how upset I am that my dearest literary treasures have gone missing, I will leave a trail of delicate inferences about the contents of the letters.”
He smiled, very much enjoying the transition in Megan’s eyes from distaste to fear. “I’m not very delicate when in my cups,” he mused. “I try, but often fall short of the goal.”
The violins were tuning up, and Megan’s hand was fisted at her side. Marriage to her would not be boring.
“I do have my letters,” she retorted. “Say what you please, and I’ll simply produce the letters without revealing their contents. Perhaps you’ve an entire catalog of letters from compromised young ladies. Why don’t you advertise that fact and see how much longer you’re welcome in polite society?”
Sir Fletcher’s pleasure in the encounter dimmed. A bit of spirit was interesting, but when a man exerted his superior intellect and natural authority, the woman was to simper and fuss, then turn up biddable and contrite.
“Megan, do not force my hand,” Sir Fletcher said, leaning closer. “I am a very good shot, and if your cousins, or your Scottish wolfhounds, want to call me out, I will at the very least wound them sorely and cause great scandal. I was in the army, my dear. When I wasn’t perfecting my aim, I was learning to make copies of every document that mattered. You have your letters, and I have precise copies of each one, right down to a beautiful facsimile of your elegant signature.”
Ah, finally. Her bravado faltered. “Youcopiedmy letters?”
“A man never wants such precious sentiments to leave his control,” Sir Fletcher said. “The orchestra will start on the introduction soon. Best run along, darling. From now on, though, your supper waltzes are all mine, as are your good-night waltzes. Let’s hope your parents don’t tarry in Wales for too long, hmm?”
He bowed punctiliously over her hand, and sauntered off in the direction of the card room. Let Megan have her waltz with the charmless Murdoch. Even condemned prisoners were allowed a last meal and a final prayer.
Megan was too angry to be afraid, but she knew the anger would burn itself out, leaving only the timid, compliant nincompoop Sir Fletcher had charmed and duped several years ago.
“Miss Meggie, I’ve been searching for you,” Hamish said as Megan crossed the corridor separating the terrace from the ballroom.
The duke made a stunning impression in his Highland finery, and every time Megan’s path crossed his amid the music and fashion of polite society, he looked more at ease, more a man at home among his peers, if not his friends. At this distance, Megan recognized her beloved by the swing of his kilt, his height, and his posture more than his features.
And she knew Hamish’s voice. Knew the caress lurking within the burr, and the affection and loyalty lurking deeper still.
Damn Fletcher Pilkington.
“Your Grace.” Megan curtsied. “Our waltz should be coming up. I’ve been looking forward to it all evening.”
Hamish peered at her, and Megan could not muster a smile for all the kilts in Perthshire. “Meggie, what’s amiss? Do your feet ache?”
Her heart ached. “I’m a trifle fatigued. Perhaps you’d rather sit with me?”
Though what was she to say? Sir Fletcher had copied her letters and was eager to create a scandal should Megan refuse his suit.
“Aye,” Hamish said, wrapping Megan’s hand over his arm. “I think a few minutes’ peace and quiet with my darling would be lovely.”
“Don’t call me your darling,” Megan snapped, dropping Hamish’s arm. “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean … We need to talk, Hamish.” They needed to end their engagement before it had been announced.
“We most assuredly do need to talk. Something’s wrong, and you are my darling.”
He led her to a bench on the terrace beneath a torch that had been purposely left unlit, run out of oil, or been snuffed by an opportunistic couple.
Megan settled beside Hamish, not as close as she craved to be. “I’ve been a fool again.”
Hamish’s posture changed, like a cat hearing a rustling in the undergrowth. “I’ll not let you cry off on me, Meggie Windham. Whatever talk you’ve heard, whatever rumors are circulating now, none of it matters half so much as my regard for you. Tell me who has upset my duchess, and I’ll have a word with them they won’t soon forget.”
