Page 86 of The Trouble With Dukes
“Please assure me, Murdoch, that your call upon my niece was at her invitation.”
And get Megan in trouble with her uncle? Hamish remained silent, while Moreland snapped off an early white rose and twirled it in his gloved fingers.
“My duchess claims you’re a decent man, for all you sport about in that ridiculous skirt. That you don’t incriminate Megan will save me the trouble of calling you out.”
“My apologies for abusing your hospitality, Your Grace. My thanks for your discretion.”
Moreland’s posture became militarily upright. “You presume to compliment me on my discretion, young man. Allow me to instruct you on that topic. If you harbor any regard for Megan at all, you will not creep about in darkened gardens, but rather, limit your adoration to venues such as crowded ballrooms, well-lit terraces, and proper carriage parades. Half the purpose of courting a woman is to prove publicly that you hold her in the highest regard.”
“Yes, Your Grace.”
Moreland’s visage was stern in the moonlight. As the silence grew, Hamish considered confiding all in the duke, but again, disclosure would reflect poorly on Megan.
“You’ve nothing more to say, Murdoch? Not ‘Yes, Your Grace,’ or ‘It will never happen again, Your Grace’?”
“My sincere apologies, Your Grace.”
Moreland snorted. “Be off with you, and don’t let me catch you within ten feet of Megan unless you’re in public and she’s acknowledged you before others. Sir Fletcher has asked to speak with me privately, and that does not bode well for your suit, Murdoch.”
The duke disappeared into the shadows, the white rose marking his progress back to the house.
How in the hell was Hamish to communicate with Megan now, when she’d have to risk Sir Fletcher’s attentions at any social event?
Hamish helped himself to the only other white rose gracing the trellis, lobbed it onto Megan’s balcony, then slipped away into the night.
“Esther, remind me never to question your instincts.” Percival punctuated his sentiments by passing his duchess the little white blossom he’d retrieved from the garden. “Murdoch was stumbling around in the gardens, smiling the most fatuous, glorious smile. I regret to inform you that our Megan has been entertaining at unusual hours.”
Her Grace took a seat at her vanity, laid the rose down, and began pulling pins from her hair. She had strong Teutonic features, and age had gilded her loveliness with wisdom. Her hair remained golden blonde, and her figure perfection—in her husband’s eyes.
Percival stilled her hands and took up the task she’d begun.
“I like Murdoch,” the duchess said. “I do not like Sir Fletcher. If you ever tire of being a duke, I will write you a glowing character as a lady’s maid, provided you seek your first post with me.”
“I like Murdoch as well. He refrained from impugning Megan’s judgment, and when I did my best impersonation of the Duke of Outraged Propriety, Murdoch knew enough to keep his mouth shut. He’s canny, as the Scots say. I insulted his national dress, and still, he would not be goaded.”
Esther beamed at her husband in the mirror. “You were naughty, Percival. I adore your capacity for naughtiness. At least you didn’t threaten to call the poor man out.”
“I’ve every respect for the faster reflexes and damnably good aim of the seasoned soldier. Have you always used this many pins, my dear?”
“My hair is in need of a trim,” Her Grace replied. “So did you spank Murdoch’s conscience and send him quivering and apologizing on his way?”
That was the standard response when an overeager suitor was caught in the garden, provided the suitor was the young lady’s choice. Percival removed the last pin and started on the unbraiding. Esther had looked quite elegant this evening, but then, she usually did.
“Why doesn’t Murdoch offer for her, Esther? Sir Fletcher has asked for an audience with me, and I must oblige him eventually. I can’t think of a reason to refuse him, if he asks for permission to court Megan. Sir Fletcher’s father would take it amiss if I discouraged Sir Fletcher, and the old boy is tedious enough as it is when I need his vote.”
Esther’s hair flowed in long, silky skeins down her back. She passed Percival the brush, and took up the rose.
“Why not consult our sons?” she asked, twirling the blossom. “Westhaven and Valentine move in the same circles as Sir Fletcher, and they have some acquaintance with Murdoch. If you cannot make sense of a situation, Percival, then you’re not in possession of all the facts. Megan approves of Murdoch passionately, to all appearances, and she barely tolerates Sir Fletcher.”
“Right or left?” Percival asked.
“Left, please.”
He arranged her hair to accommodate a single plait over her left shoulder. “You’ve put your finger on the problem, as usual. I must not be in possession of all the facts. I did warn Murdoch that in future, his attentions to Megan will be limited to public venues and acceptable locations. One doesn’t like to think that Gladys and Tony’s first grandchild might be a seven months babe.”
Her Grace sat very tall. “Our first child was born seven months after the wedding. Gladys and Tony’s was. Westhaven’s heir was a seven months child, so was your late oldest brother. Have you no respect for tradition, Moreland?”
Percival had endless respect for his wife, and for the foolishness of young people in love.
