Page 89 of The Trouble With Dukes
“I can dance with her,” Colin said.
“You’ll be with me,” Hamish replied. “If Sir Fletcher can’t get to Moreland privately, he might try to accost the duke in the card room or the men’s retiring room tonight. Westhaven and Rosecroft can stay with Moreland, and run Sir Fletcher off if that happens.”
“I’ll have Deene and the rest of the in-laws stand up with Megan,” Keswick said. “But if Sir Fletcher asks her to dance, she’ll have to accept.”
“Why?” Colin asked.
“Because a lady either dances of an evening, or she doesn’t,” Hamish said. “She isn’t supposed to pick and choose among the gentlemen, rejecting this one, accepting that one.” Megan had explained that to him, which had made sense of a lot of die-away glances from the young ladies, and odd pairings on the dance floor.
“Damned silly if you ask me,” Colin muttered.
“My countess uses stronger language than that,” Keswick said. “She maintains if a man can’t endure being turned down for a waltz, he’s not much of a man.”
Hamish was growing to like Keswick’s countess, sight unseen. He did not like that even the best informed scions of fashionable society hadn’t heard a whisper regarding Puget’s whereabouts.
He didn’t like that at all.
Sir Fletcher didn’t like being made to wait, but at least he was being made to wait by a duke. The Windham guest parlor was lovely, with bouquets of fresh lilacs in both windows, and plenty of light bouncing off mirrors, gold-flocked wallpaper, and gilded furniture.
The room was pretty, in other words, which tempted Sir Fletcher to put his boots up on a cushion or overturn the ink bottle on the escritoire.
“Sir Fletcher, good day.” Elizabeth Windham offered him a curtsy and a smile sporting too much intelligence and not enough simper.
“Miss Windham,” Sir Fletcher said, bowing over her hand. “I am awaiting a moment of your uncle’s time, and perhaps a turn in the garden with Miss Megan. May I offer my compliments on your ensemble? That shade of chocolate is luscious.”
“Thank you. Shall we have a seat? The footman will arrive with a tea tray shortly, and I’m happy to pour out for you. How are your sisters?”
The woman excelled at small talk. Sir Fletcher was compelled to recite at length regarding his sisters, his stepmother, his older brothers, and his plans for the autumn.
The butler interrupted and had a discreet word with Miss Windham by the door, leaving Sir Fletcher to the dubious comfort of shortbread and gunpowder. Because the clubs kept punctilious track of every morsel a fellow consumed and every drop he drank, Sir Fletcher did justice to the offerings on the tray.
“Sir Fletcher, I’m afraid His Grace is unavoidably detained on a matter of pressing business. He’s closeted with no less than three of my cousins,” Miss Windham said. “I’d be happy to inspect the roses with you.”
Good God. The roses were barely blooming. Sir Fletcher knew this because Geneva had demanded he bring her a rose to apologize for not taking her riding.
“I’d like nothing better than to enjoy the fresh air in the company of a pretty lady,” Sir Fletcher said, rising and offering Miss Windham his hand.
“To the garden, then.” She ignored his glove before her nose, snatched the last piece of shortbread off the tray, and led the way through the French doors. If this was the example Megan’s older sister set, no wonder the poor darling had no idea how to go on.
When they’d marched past rows of thorny bushes, admired the lilacs, and otherwise wasted half an hour of Sir Fletcher’s day, Miss Windham took a shady bench beside a small fountain. The sculpture in the center was a swan, trapped in a perpetually graceful progress across the water.
“Do you think you can make my sister happy, Sir Fletcher? Please do have a seat.”
Sir Fletcher complied. If he tarried long enough, he was bound to catch sight of Megan. With Puget having gone to ground—and all sources of income having disappeared with him—announcing an engagement had become a pressing necessity.
“I hope I can make Miss Megan more than happy.” He’d ensure she was obedient, with child, and kept busy making his home a pleasant, commodious place. What more could a woman want, after all, than children, a roof over her head, and the protection and guidance of a man who knew what he was about?
“How will you undertake the challenge of making hermore than happy?” Miss Windham broke off a corner of the shortbread she’d purloined from the tea tray and crumbled it onto the paving stones before the fountain. Two pigeons were soon boldly pecking away at an unexpected feast.
“Married to me, Megan will have a household of her own, children if the good Lord allows, a place in society, and the protection of a well-respected name. I will cherish Megan to the best of my humble ability.”
More crumbs were tossed to the mannerless birds.
“Just the usual, then,” Miss Windham said. “You don’t speak of love, Sir Fletcher.”
Women and their infernal sentimentality. “Nor would I raise such a tender emotion in what is essentially polite conversation, madam. I esteem your sister greatly, above all other women. Many a sound marriage has been launched on less regard between bride and groom.”
Sir Fletcher esteemed Megan’s settlements and her ducal connections. She composed a fine love letter too, but her taste in sisters was sadly lacking.
