The Trouble With Dukes

by Grace Burrowes

  Percival assayed his best ducal glower. “I should call you out, Murdoch.” Esther would never tolerate that nonsense.

  “Again, I apologize, Your Grace, to you as head of Miss Megan’s family, and I will happily apologize to Miss Megan and her parents, as well. I have no excuse and I’ve behaved wrongly.”

  Megs was quiet, sweet, unassuming, and exactly the type of young lady the head of the family most fretted about. Esther had been quiet and unassuming, as had Percival’s daughters—when they were hatching up schemes of a sort to turn a duke’s hair gray.

  “Do you know, Murdoch, just this morning, my duchess charged me with getting you to the next court levee, where I’m to present you for a royal introduction. When I’ve dealt with that exercise in tedium, I’m to procure a warrant of precedence for you that will see your sisters officially established as ladies and your brother as a lord.”

  A nose some might call impressive wrinkled. “I’m a debutante duke now?”

  “You might well be a dead duke for this morning’s work. I am quite proficient with both pistols and swords.”

  “Again, Your Grace, I tender a sincere apology. I will put my sentiments in writing if need be. Moreover I can assure you that by this time tomorrow, I’ll be bound for Scotland, never to trouble you again.”

  The Code Duello required that if an apology was offered in good faith, and no blow had been struck, then bloodshed ought not to follow. Murdoch apparently knew the rules and was relying on them to avoid a violent confrontation.

  Was this gallantry or cowardice? Esther would have a useful opinion on that question.

  “I’ll not call you out,” Percival conceded. “Somebody should, though, and Megan’s cousins and papa have not the counsel of my duchess to stay their hands in rash moments.”

  Murdoch—wisely—said nothing. He had sisters, and sisters had a way of educating a fellow in the art of discretion. As did children, and yet, Percival’s hearing was excellent.

  Don’t go … please don’t ride away as if … Megan, pleading with this oversized, taciturn, rough-hewn Scot.

  And the Scot’s response: “Meggie, I’ll never fit in here …” And something about burning letters. All very dramatic, and then … two young people locked in a desperate embrace where they might have been chanced upon by any passing duke.

  Or gossip.

  “Megan has attached the interest of Sir Fletcher Pilkington,” Percival said. “I’ve been summoned here to discuss that situation with Lord Anthony before my brother departs for Wales. Sir Fletcher is from a fine family, served his king loyally, and has been respectful of Megan in every regard.”

  More silence, and Murdoch widened his stance, as if bracing for the bite of the lash.

  “My duchess has advised caution where Sir Fletcher is concerned.” Esther had taken the poor fellow into positive dislike, accusing him of bowing too low, never passing a mirror without glancing at his own reflection, chasing after heiresses, and other dreadful transgressions.

  “Caution is always warranted where suitors are concerned,” Murdoch said—growled, more like.

  “I can still call you out, Murdoch.”

  Those blue eyes went flat again. Not merely chilly or hostile, but devoid of any human sentiment. Percival had seen eyes like that in the aftermath of battle, usually on the faces of those taken prisoner.

  “Call me out if you must, Moreland. I would decline to meet you.”

  Decline to meet? “Are you impugning my skill now, young man? Claiming I’m too enfeebled to hold a weapon?”

  “Of course not, Your Grace. But Meggie—Miss Megan, rather—would be the subject of our disagreement, would she not? No matter how carefully we chose seconds, her reputation would be at risk of harm, and that I cannot allow.”

  Oh-ho. When a fellow went from kissing to cannot-allowing where a young lady was concerned, all in the space of five minutes, a prudent duke took notice.

  “My duchess would scold us both into next week at the very mention of the field of honor,” Percival said. “You do not want to chance upon Her Grace in a scolding mood, Murdoch.”

  And yet, a challenge was in order because Murdoch was right: Suitors of any stripe deserved close scrutiny, and the duchess’s odd notions should never be lightly dismissed.

  Percival paced across the alley, weighing strategy, letting the prisoner anticipate a dire fate.

  Damned interesting time for Gladys to haul Tony off to the wilds of Wales. “I have every confidence that Sir Fletcher’s suit will meet with Lord Anthony’s eventual favor, but Sir Fletcher likely enjoys that same confidence.”

  Murdoch refused to rise to that bait.

  “You, however,” Percival went on, “have graduated to the kiss-stealing stage. Without excusing your behavior in the slightest, I must admit your attentions were not forced upon my niece.”

  If anything, Murdoch’s expression cooled further, from a man without hope, to a man without a heart.

  “Nor will my attentions ever be forced on any young lady, lest Your Grace mistake that matter.” Such a mistake regarding Murdoch’s gentlemanly honor would be fatal, based on the young man’s tone, Code Duello be damned.

  Abruptly, Percival knew what opinion his duchess would pronounce on the entire situation. Esther approved heartily of protective fellows, and she approved of fierce young women too.

  “Just so,” Percival said, again pacing the width of the alley. “I also hold to the quaint notion that young ladies ought to have final say regarding which fellow they wed, provided the fellow has been deemed worthy of the lady’s interest. I’m according you that honor, Murdoch. Within the bounds of discretion, and assuming my brother agrees with me, you are free to pay your proper addresses to Megan, though you will doubtless have competition from Sir Fletcher.”

  Murdoch’s brows came down. He opened his mouth, but no words emerged.

  Esther would be delighted.

  “I don’t approve of you,” Percival said, which was not entirely accurate. “I merely think Sir Fletcher will esteem more highly a prize he must work to win. If Megan decides she’d prefer an unpolished Scot who steals kisses—well, that Scot is a duke, he’s reputed to be more than solvent, and Megan was engaged in a bit of amatory larceny too. Best of luck, in other words, because you’ll need it.”

  “I was supposed to leave for Scotland tomorrow, Your Grace. I’m aware of the honor you do me, but I must in all candor—”

  “You’re reciting the wrong speech, Murdoch. I’m not proposing marriage to you. I’m using you to goad Sir Fletcher into courting Megan the way she deserves to be courted. You will join me for next Tuesday’s levee, and we’ll take my town coach. I’ll send my solicitors around to have a chat with you regarding the warrant of precedence, and my tailors will be by this afternoon to ensure you have adequate attire for the occasion.”

  The poor fellow looked bewildered, which was a vast improvement over his earlier, bleak expressions.

  “But sir, traveling north has become—”

  “One doesn’t interrupt a duke, Murdoch, or a duchess. Don’t forget that.” Unless one was family to same, in which case interruptions came from every direction. “I have two further points in need of elucidation.”

  “Yes, Your Grace.”

  “I heard you mention letters to Megan. I’ll not have heated correspondence between you and my niece. Firstly, reading is difficult for Megan because of her eyesight, so your passionate effusions are likely wasted on the page. Secondly, any man who indulges in literary fancies toward his lady risks his sentiments becoming public, and if that happens, I won’t have to call you out. My sons and sons-by-marriage will line up for the privilege.”

  Well, no, they wouldn’t—the entire lot of them were married to very fierce women—but the threat sounded impressive.

  “Understood, sir. Was there anything more?”

  Megan’s Scot was looking so serious, so willing to be chastised. The longer Percival considered the situation, the more h
e approved of his decision. He patted the younger man on the shoulder.

  “Don’t fret too much about the levee. Five minutes of chatting about the Highland scenery or discussing the fox pelt dangling from your reticule, and—”

  “Sporran, Your Grace, and that’s a badger pelt.”

  “—and I’ll have you out of there. One other thing.”

  Megan’s Scot had interrupted a duke. Moreland liked the man for that, because national dress with the Scots had become a matter of pride. Avoiding harm to a lady’s reputation was gentlemanly prudence, but avoiding all confrontation was spineless cowering, which would not do.

  “My apologies for the interruption,” Murdoch said, “but Your Grace was goading me.”

  “So I was. Now I’m chastising you. Not for sharing a stolen kiss with a willing and winsome young lady—once upon a long ago time, I did likewise a time or two.” Or two hundred. “This is for getting caught stealing that kiss and putting Megan’s reputation at risk.”

  Moreland clipped Murdoch on the jaw, a good, stout blow such as would appease a young man’s guilt and a mature duke’s pride.

  “Tell the groom to put up your horse, and I’ll introduce you to my brother,” Percival said. “And again, best of luck.” In all likelihood, Sir Fletcher was the one who’d need some luck.

  For as Percival let himself into the back garden, the Scot remained behind, smiling such a smile as would make a certain duchess quite pleased with her duke.

  “Megs, do you fancy this Scottish fellow?” Papa asked, pacing across the morning room.

  Uncle Percy had been all congenial good cheer when he’d come upon Megan kissing Murdoch in the garden, but Uncle Percy was at his most civilized when he was plotting the downfall of some encroaching member of Parliament or unmannerly viscount.

  “I like Murdoch exceedingly, Papa.”

  His lordship was pretending to peer out the window, though his objective was doubtless to give Megan a measure of privacy.

  “Murdoch hasn’t …” Papa clasped his hands behind his back. “That is to say, he’s not a refined fellow, and I’d take a very dim view of any presumption upon the good nature or the person … Megs, do you truly like him, or are you trying to spare a clueless swain a sound thrashing at the hands of your cousins?”

  What on earth had Uncle Percy said to Papa? “Both?”

  Papa left off staring at a garden he’d seen in bloom every morning for weeks. “Your Uncle Percy has taken it into his head I should allow Murdoch to pay you his addresses, though not because Murdoch is my ideal son-in-law.”

  Pay you his addresses.

  Megan had come into the morning room expecting to be chastised for forward behavior. In the alternative, she was braced for a command to pack her things, because she was being sent to the rural family seat in disgrace, or worse, she was to accompany Mama and Papa on one of their annual honeymoons.

  While Hamish rode north to his much-missed home in the Highlands.

  In all the English language, the four words Megan would have least expected her father to put together in the same sentence with “Murdoch” were “pay you his addresses.”

  Her insides rearranged themselves such that her heart was wedged more closely against her ribs.

  “Murdoch’s addresses would be welcome,” Megan said, her voice shaking only a little. “Very welcome, in fact.” The most welcome addresses in the entire history of addresses the world over.

  Papa was not merely distinguished, he was handsome. His features bore the patrician stamp of Saxon nobility—blond hair gone gold, blue eyes, bold nose, firm chin—but he also had a quickness, a perceptivity and subtlety that he usually covered with charm. He was a ducal spare, no threat to anybody.

  Megan knew better. Papa was shrewd and kind, both, and Megan loved him dearly. She did not, however, entirely trust him.

  “Murdoch’s addresses would be very welcome,” Papa said, moving away from the window to inspect a drawing Charlotte had done of Mama several years earlier. Mama smiled a naughty smile, which Charlotte had caught to the life. “Megs, your mother and I love you very much. Is there any reason you might want us to put off this trip to Wales?”

  Any reason …? “To plan a wedding, you mean?”

  Papa remained by the portrait. Megan couldn’t make out his features that clearly, nor Mama’s smile, but she knew from her father’s posture that his casual tone belied a certain tension.

  “It’s no secret your Mama and I were a love match. I happen to approve of affection between spouses, within reason. Marriage is hard enough without trying to make a go of it with a complete stranger. I also know you’re your mother’s daughter, and a Windham. Either legacy would tempt you to a certain impetuosity where matters of the heart are concerned, but both together, well, a father worries.”

  A father also—for the first time in Megan’s memory—blushed.

  “Murdoch is a gentleman, Papa.” Unlike Sir Fletcher.

  Who no longer had possession of Megan’s letters.

  “They can be the worst transgressors, which is why Murdoch has been set loose among the pigeons, so to speak. Sir Fletcher paid a call on me yesterday, also intent on asking permission to pay you his addresses.”

  Megan fluffed her skirts. “Sir Fletcher Pilkington?” The worst rotter in all of Mayfair?

  “Of course, Pilkington. Megs, he comes from good family, and Percy seems to think Sir Fletcher might mature into a worthy article, as husbands go. I thought you fancied him.”

  On the walkway beyond the window, Murdoch escorted Mama past the sundial. As chance would have it, they occupied the exact distance necessary for Megan to see their expressions. Mama was all earnest discussion—Mama was usually earnest—and Murdoch was the attentive young gentleman at her side.

  He was such an attractive man. Not handsome in the pretty, golden sense, but stalwart, honest, durable. Thirty years from now, his looks would have changed little, and he’d be just as well mannered, just as—

  “Megs?”

  “Yes, Papa?”

  “What about Sir Fletcher?”

  Sir Fletcher no longer had Megan’s letters, that was what about Sir Fletcher. “I would not be marrying his good family, Papa, I’d be marrying him, and he’s done nothing to earn my particular esteem in all the time I’ve known him.” Not one damned thing. Turn her head, yes. Manipulate her into granting liberties, certainly. Make a complete fool of her—beyond doubt.

  But Megan’s esteem had been earned by the Scotsman who might still be planning to leave for his homeland in the next twenty-four hours.

  “You hardly know this Murdoch fellow,” Papa said. “He’s only recently come into his title, and hails from so very far away. Percival has spoken on Murdoch’s behalf, but I’ll not discourage Sir Fletcher just yet. Consider your options while your mama and I are in Wales, but Megs?”

  “Yes, Papa?”

  “Be careful. Percival endorsed Murdoch’s suit, but my brother has a taste for matchmaking that I don’t share. I rather like having my ladies about me, where I know they are safe and well loved. If you decamped with your Highland laddie, I would miss you awfully all the rest of my days.”

  Megan hadn’t seen that ambush coming, a genuine expression of paternal sentiment right in the middle of lectures and awkward warnings.

  “Papa, I haven’t gone anywhere, and you are the one leaving for Wales.”

  “Wales makes your mama happy, and that makes me happy. You are all a-quiver to accost your Scot in the garden again, but Megs, no more kisses where any visitor, gardener, or parent peering out an upper window might see you. Moreland caught you too—he fancies himself quite the intelligence officer, does Percival—so I had to act surprised. A bit of discretion will go a long way toward sparing me my brother’s preening in future.”

  Gracious, Megan loved her Papa terribly.

  “Yes, Papa. I do understand.” Megan understood that Murdoch had been given permission to pay her his addresses, which was even bett
er than having her letters restored to her—provided Murdoch had given up his fixation on returning to Scotland.

  Papa kissed her forehead and Megan offered him a curtsy. As soon as she reached the privacy of the corridor, she picked up her skirts and ran full tilt for the garden.

  The only experience Hamish could bring to bear on the morning’s developments was the aftermath of a blow to the head. A fellow’s hearing was sometimes affected, or his balance, but more than that, reality took on a distant, storied quality. Everything happened at a mental remove, as if instead of Hamish himself wandering around the garden on the arm of Megan’s mother, some other dazed fellow enjoyed that honor and made small talk about …

  Robert Tannahill, a contemporary of Mr. Burns who’d also died young and left a beautiful legacy.

  “But the songs that aren’t written down are my favorites,” Lady Anthony was saying. “You should ask Megan to sing some for you. She’s quite talented, and here’s our Megs now.”

  Our Megs.

  Megan had come out onto the back terrace. She stood at the top of the steps, no glasses, no gloves, just a swatch of lovely blue muslin, a white shawl, and glorious red hair in a simple twist. At this distance, she’d have difficulty seeing him clearly so Hamish waved. The movement apparently caught her attention for she waved back. Her smile beamed across the roses, hedges, and dewy grass, so that all of Hamish’s awareness was focused on her, the most perfect blossom in the garden.

  In a few awkward moments with her father and her uncle, Hamish had been granted permission to offer the lady his heart. He wanted to sprint across the grass, scoop her up, and whirl her around in his arms like a prize secured.

  He also wanted to haul her by the hand back to the secluded fountain, and there inspect her entire inventory of kisses, before inventing a few more with her nobody had yet thought of in all the history of kissing.