Page 92 of The Trouble With Dukes
“Certainly not. When you conclude your quadrille, you will bring Megan directly back here to me.”
“And then,” his lordship said, wiggling blond brows, “I will partner you for the minuet. Try to contain your enthusiasm until that happy moment.”
Deene escorted Megan to the dance floor, which afforded her an opportunity to look about for a tall, auburn-haired man in a kilt.
“Murdoch isn’t here,” Deene said. “Your duke is searching for one Garner Puget, whom I knew in passing on the Peninsula.”
The other dancers were assembling as a string quintet and pianoforte tuned up. “Is Lord Colin MacHugh in attendance?”
“Haven’t seen him. Relax, Megan. If Sir Fletcher approaches Moreland, then Westhaven will intervene. If Sir Fletcher approaches you with anything other than perfunctory civilities, I will kill him.”
The introduction began, which meant all conversation would soon cease, for the dance required couples to form a square, and to dance both with and around each other.
“You will not kill Sir Fletcher,” Megan said as she curtsied to Deene. “That privilege should belong to me.”
Deene treated her to the smile that had won him a reputation for raking prior to his marriage, and then the dance began. The quadrille was relatively new, but Megan had danced it enough to be confident of the steps.
She was not confident of this plan to keep her from Sir Fletcher’s company. He was wily and shrewd, and persistent as a rash. She dared not venture so far as the women’s retiring room, or even the card room, lest he accost her.
“Smile,” Deene murmured as he turned her in a circle. “Dance now, murder later.”
Not murder, precisely, but as Megan chasséd, jetéd, and pliéd, she battled a growing impulse to seek Sir Fletcher out and confront him, come what may. Colin MacHugh had put Hamish’s military career in perspective for her, and if anything, the information had increased her determination to thwart Sir Fletcher’s schemes.
“Where is Sir Fletcher?” Megan whispered on the next turn.
“Two squares down.”
Close enough that he was probably watching Megan’s every step. She’d always regarded her poor eyesight as a nuisance, not a curse, but for once, she wished she had the vision of an eagle.
The never-ending quadrille eventually concluded, and Deene escorted Megan off the dance floor.
“Who is to partner you for the minuet?” Deene asked.
“I don’t know. Anwen is keeping track for me. I’m partnering with only family tonight, though I’ve half a mind to approach Sir Fletcher and let him make a cake of himself.”
“Not wise, Megs. When there’s talk, it always redounds to the lady’s discredit. If you don’t care for Sir Fletcher, then leave it to Moreland to send the brave knight packing.”
“Redound to a lady’s discredit,” Megan muttered. “What does that mean? That the talk haunts her, as Sir Fletcher has made a pest of himself to me? That gossip reflects upon her, as impetuous behavior has reflected on me, even years later?”
A flash of golden hair, dark evening attire, and burgundy went by on her right. Deene shifted so he blocked Megan from Sir Fletcher’s view, and Megan wanted to shove his lordship aside.
If Sir Fletcher was to ruin her future, let it be ruin on her terms. Megan’s sisters had agreed with her on that point, and as for what Their Graces thought … Megan loved her aunt and uncle, but she loved Hamish more.
And she was heartily sick of being held prisoner by Sir Fletcher’s threats.
“One forgets how fierce the Windham womenfolk can be,” Deene said. “But now is not the time or the—”
A commotion erupted at the far end of the ballroom, when the dancers ought to be assembling for the minuet.
“What is it, Deene?”
“I can’t tell. Perhaps a footman fell on the steps to the minstrel’s gallery, or somebody’s having an argument.”
Deene was tall, but the Hazelton gathering was very well attended, so the crowd was considerable.
Megan unwound her arm from his. “Go assure yourself that your wife has not come to harm. I’ll find Anwen, and you can meet us by the punch bowl.” Megan would find Sir Fletcher first, and give him the set down of his handsome, arrogant, conniving life.
The stir and murmur from the corner of the ballroom hadn’t let up. If an argument were in progress, the crowd would have gone silent, the better to catch every word.
