Ashton: Lord of Truth (Lonely Lords Book 13)

by Grace Burrowes

  Sir Fletcher switched lenses, peering through the other one, but shooting Megan a glance that revealed the bratty boy lurking inside the Bond Street tailoring.

  “You have three unmarried sisters, the eldest of whom is an antidote and an artifact. Don’t think you’ll put me off until the last one is trotting up the aisle at St. George’s, madam. I have debts that your settlements will resolve handily.”

  How Megan loathed him, and how she loathed herself for the ignorance and naivety that had put Sir Fletcher in a position to make these threats.

  “My portion is intended to safeguard my future if anything should happen to my spouse,” Megan said, even as she ached to reach for her glasses. A tussle among the bookshelves would draw notice from the other patrons, but Megan felt naked without her glasses, naked and desperate.

  Because her vision was impaired without the spectacles, she detected only a twitch of movement, and something blue falling from Sir Fletcher’s hand. He murmured a feigned regret as Megan’s best pair of glasses plummeted toward the floor.

  A large hand shot out and closed firmly around the glasses in mid-fall.

  Megan had been so fixed on Sir Fletcher that she hadn’t noticed a very substantial man who’d emerged from the bookshelves to stand immediately behind and to the left of Sir Fletcher. Tall boots polished to a high shine drew the eye to exquisite tailoring over thickly muscled thighs. Next came lean flanks, a narrow waist, a blue plaid waistcoat, a silver watch chain, and a black riding jacket fitted lovingly across broad shoulders. She couldn’t discern details, which only made the whole more formidable.

  Solemn eyes the azure hue of a winter sky, and dark auburn hair completed a picture both handsome and forbidding.

  Megan had never seen this man before, but when he held out her glasses, she took them gratefully.

  “My most sincere thanks,” she said. “Without these, I am nearly blind at most distances. Won’t you introduce yourself, sir?” She was being bold, but Sir Fletcher had gone quiet, suggesting this gentleman had impressed even Sir Fletcher.

  Or better still, intimidated him.

  “My dear lady,” Sir Fletcher said, “we’ve no need to ignore the dictates of decorum, for I can introduce you to a fellow officer from my Peninsular days. Miss Megan Windham, may I make known to you Colonel Hamish MacHugh, late of his majesty’s army. Colonel MacHugh, Miss Megan.”

  MacHugh enveloped Megan’s hand in his own and bowed smartly. His grasp was warm and firm without being presuming, but gracious days, his hands were callused.

  “Sir, a pleasure,” Megan said, aiming a smile at the colonel. She did not want this stranger to leave her alone with Sir Fletcher one instant sooner than necessary.

  “The pleasure is mine, Miss Windham.”

  Ah, well then. He was unequivocally Scottish. Hence the plaid waistcoat, the blue eyes. Mama always said the Scots had the loveliest eyes.

  Megan’s grandpapa had been a duke, and social niceties flowed through her veins along with Windham aristocratic blood.

  “Are you visiting from the north?” she asked.

  “Aye. I mean, yes, with my sisters.”

  Sir Fletcher watched this exchange as if he were a spectator at a tennis match and had money riding on the outcome.

  “Are your sisters out yet?” Megan asked, lest the conversation lapse.

  “Until all hours,” Colonel MacHugh said, his brow furrowing. “Balls, routs, musicales. Takes more stamina to endure a London season than to march across Spain.”

  Megan had cousins who’d served in Spain and another cousin who’d died in Portugal. Veterans made light of the hardships they’d seen, though she wasn’t sure Colonel MacHugh had spoken in jest.

  “MacHugh,” Sir Fletcher broke in, “Miss Windham is the granddaughter and niece of dukes.”

  Colonel MacHugh was apparently as bewildered as Megan at this observation. He extracted Megan’s spectacles from her hand, unfolded the ear pieces, and positioned the glasses on her nose.

  While she marveled at such familiarity from a stranger, Colonel MacHugh guided the frames around her ears so her glasses were once again perched where they belonged. His touch could not have been more gentle, and he’d ensured Sir Fletcher couldn’t snatch the glasses from Megan’s grasp.

  “My thanks,” Megan said.

  “Tell her,” MacHugh muttered, tucking his hands behind his back. “I’ll not have it said I dissembled before a lady, Pilkington.”

  The bane of Megan’s existence was Sir Fletcher, but this Scot either did not know or did not care to use proper address.

  Sir Fletcher wrinkled his nose. “Miss Megan, I misspoke earlier when I introduced this fellow as Colonel Hamish MacHugh, but you’ll forgive my mistake. The gentleman before you, if last week’s gossip is to be believed, is none other than the Duke of Murdoch.”

  Colonel MacHugh—His Grace—stood very tall, as if he anticipated the cut direct or perhaps a firing squad. With her glasses on, Megan could see that his blue eyes held a bleakness, and his expression was not merely formidable, but forbidding.

  He’d rescued Megan’s spectacles from certain ruin beneath Sir Fletcher’s boot heel, so Megan sank into a respectful curtsy.

  Because it mattered to her not at all that polite society had dubbed this dear, serious man the Duke of Murder.

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