The Trouble With Dukes

by Grace Burrowes

“Daft,” he whispered, kissing her temple. “Witless, mad, trapped between longing and—”

  He kissed her again, and over the beating of her heart, and the fire in her blood, Megan reached for the common sense that a plain girl who couldn’t see clearly had learned to rely on before she could read.

  Why would a man risk dishonor for her by stealing correspondence from the home of a peer, and kiss her like that, but deny her the words and deeds of a de facto fiancé? Megan sat up, which had the agreeable effect of putting certain of her parts in proximity with certain of Hamish’s parts.

  “You desire me,” she said, brushing his hair back from his brow. “I desire you. You esteem me, and I esteem you. You’ve taken risks for me, and I’d protect you with my last breath.”

  “Don’t say such things, Meggie.”

  She spoke only the truth, but another truth crowded up against her heart. “You are waiting for me to cry off. Waiting for me to change my mind, to bestow my favors elsewhere. You are waiting for me to send you one of those awful letters and claim my feelings have changed.”

  Waiting for her to abandon him, as he’d been abandoned by a previous fiancée, by his own men when he’d been taken captive, and by his fellow officers when he’d mustered out.

  “I have been given permission to pay my addresses to you,” Hamish said. “I make no presumptions, Meggie Windham. The choice goes to the lady, and unfair advantage was taken of you once before. I will not have it said your decision to wed me was anything less than—”

  Affection, understanding, and joy all collided where uncertainty had been.

  Hamish’s reticence was not indifference or indecision, but rather, respect. Great, abiding, honorable respect. The trouble with dukes—with her duke—was that he was just a wee bit too honorable.

  “You are daft,” Megan said, “but you are mine in all your daft glory, and I am yours. I choose you, Hamish MacHugh, Duke of Murdoch. I am choosing you. You are the man I want for my husband, my champion, my friend, my lover. I will not unchoose you, I will not change my mind. We will argue, disagree, weather troubles, and possibly even quarrel, but you are mine now, and that door is locked. You can’t escape, not ever.”

  Hamish tucked a lock of her hair over her ear. A simple gesture, but he imbued that small touch with reverence and caring.

  “You’re sure, Meggie? I’m stubborn, and I can’t always find words when words are needful. I can’t find the right words, at least. I’ll go off fishing or rambling for hours, and you’ll despair of me. I grow surly in late winter and snappish. I raise my voice when I’m frustrated.”

  “So do I. Kiss me. Better still, ravish me, for I certainly intend to ravish you.”

  Hamish’s features were not clear to her, but she could feel him weighing, measuring, considering, and so she waited. Bless Hamish for the gentleman he was, he’d not have it said she was coerced into an engagement. For that alone, she fell in love with him all over again.

  Megan would not have it said Hamish was merely following orders, though, or a guilty conscience, or Uncle Percy’s pronouncements.

  The silence went on. A bird thumped against the glass of the window and flew off. Across the corridor, a woman’s laughter rang out from the library. Still, Megan waited, because waiting was part of listening, and listening was part—a large part—of caring for another.

  “I’m trying to come up with a pretty speech,” Hamish said, gathering her closer. “We’ll be here until Doomsday before that happens. If it’s a thorough ravishment you want, Meggie, I’m your man. I will always be your man, and you will be my duchess.”

  Our children would have red hair.

  Anwen pushed aside that thought and led Lord Colin to the library. He was a sunnier version of his older brother—tall rather than enormous, handsome rather than striking. Her urchins would like him.

  Given that the boys at the orphanage were pickpockets and street thieves in various stages of reform, this was not entirely a compliment.

  “You intended to consult me regarding a volume of French poetry?” Lord Colin asked.

  He wore the kilt, as his brother had. On him Highland attire was dashing, whereas on the duke … everything Hamish MacHugh did was touched with boldness, while Lord Colin was more inclined to charm.

  Urchins could be charming, when they wanted to steal your watch.

  “If you’re interested in poetry, we can certainly discuss it,” Anwen said, opening the French doors. “Mostly, I sought to give my sister privacy with a man she adores.”

  “After a fashion, I adore Hamish too,” Lord Colin said, “when I’m not exasperated with him. Siblings, ye ken.”

  His accent was soft, but always detectable. Siblin’s, not siblings.

  “I’ve wondered if older brothers are as burdensome as older sisters. My family is well-intentioned, but as the youngest, I enjoy a surfeit of instruction, lectures, examples, and cosseting.”

  Lord Colin came up behind her. “Smothering, you mean. You being so wee, they’ve probably been at it since you were born.”

  Well, yes, though lately, Anwen had been fighting back. She’d soon be five-and-twenty, and her health was quite sound.

  “Shall we step outside for some fresh air, Miss Anwen?” Lord Colin was much bigger up close, about the size of Anwen’s male cousins, who were a lot of strapping, bothersome cosseters at large, where their female relations were concerned.

  Blast the lot of them. “You’re welcome to enjoy the garden. I’d need to fetch my bonnet.”

  “We’ll keep to the shade,” he said, winging his arm and winking.

  Nobody winked at Miss Anwen Windham. She took his lordship’s arm and let him lead her to a bench beneath the maple near the back wall.

  “We’re visible from the music room,” she said. “In case you were worried about propriety.”

  “I don’t think the occupants of the music room will be a reliable source of chaperonage, but you’re safe with me, Miss Anwen. If my gentlemanly honor were to weaken in the face of your many charms, my brother’s fists would soon see my priorities properly reestablished.”

  He bore the fragrance of freshly scythed meadows and soft sea air. Good scents, and they went well with the garden.

  “Murdoch would beat you for stealing a kiss?”

  “Aye, but if the lady were to do the stealing, that would be a different matter entirely.”

  Perhaps this was flirtation? “You’re a frequent victim of such thievery, I take it?”

  “Never frequently enough. Do you think they’ll be happy?”

  Anwen didn’t know what to make of this flirting, if flirting it was, but she approved of a man who’d worry about his brother.

  “Megan is easy to underestimate. If she’s enamored of your brother, then she’ll do her best to make the union a happy one. If she’s not enamored, then there shouldn’t be a union.”

  Lord Colin folded his arms, fabric bunching over muscles. “You favor the love match, then?”

  “You don’t?” Scotsmen were rumored to be practical to a fault.

  “I know a lot about infatuation, Miss Anwen, but very little about romance. A little diversion, a harmless frolic, what’s not to like about that? But the great passion the poets write about? Not my cup of tea, as you English would say.”

  The morning was glorious, and to sit outside without a pestilential bonnet shielding half the world from Anwen’s view was a surprising treat. She should enjoy the fresh air more often.

  “If you’re not an expert on romance, my lord, where does your interest lie?” She was honestly curious, and not because Lord Colin could become a family connection.

  “Whisky,” he said, lowering his voice and leaning near. “I own a distillery and have shares in a second whisky-making venture. I’m among that rare few who’re willing to pay the damned excise man rather than have him constantly blowing up my stills. If you make a good product, people will pay for it, and the king’s man needn’t be avoided. Novel concept, but it’s
working so far.”

  If he’d made gin, Anwen would have had a lecture prepared about the evils of blue ruin. Half the population of her orphanage was the result of lives wrecked by inebriation.

  He didn’t make gin, so Anwen fell back on a simple scold. “Language, Lord Colin.”

  “My apologies, but there’s no such thing as a blessed excise man. You want poetry, there’s plenty likening him to the devil’s familiar. Where do your interests lie, Miss Anwen?”

  He assumed she had interests, other than bonnets and bachelors. How novel. “I am much absorbed with charitable work, Lord Colin. The plight of our poor children in particular concerns me.”

  “Plight?”

  “To be homeless, friendless, and starving, with no hope of betterment is a plight. They are children, and entirely undeserving of such suffering.” Anwen would argue with the archbishop of London himself on that score.

  “To be free,” Lord Colin replied, “to live by their wits, to come and go as they please, and take up with whatever mates they fancy, that is a plight many a Highlander would love to share.”

  “They’d be free to starve on the streets of London,” Anwen retorted. “To freeze, to endure diseases without number, and to—I’m arguing with you.”

  Or something. This discussion was like an unbonneted view of the garden, wider, more varied, not restricted to what was in sight directly ahead.

  “We’re no’ arguin’, lass. We’re having a wee chat. Arguin’ imperils breakables in my family. My sisters excel at it. What else holds your interest besides poor children?”

  What would it be like, to imperil the breakables with Lord Colin? Anwen could hardly fathom the notion.

  “Very little, if you must know. I’m passionate about my charitable work. Do you suppose we ought to wander past the music room windows?” The curtains were pulled, and the French door closed, so Megan’s privacy should be safe enough.

  “You’d risk freckles.”

  Anwen rose, because that observation graduated from teasing to a challenge. “I can survive a few freckles, and you can tell me what interests you besides whisky.”

  He prosed on about medicinal uses of Highland herbs, Neil Gow’s fiddle tunes—whoever that was—and a surprising range of topics, most of which related to his native Scotland. He put Anwen in mind of her boys—curious about many things, collecting interests like a mud lark would collect buttons and coins on the tidal flats.

  “You don’t mean to tell me your every waking hour is concerned with a lot of dirty children,” he said.

  “Not my every waking hour, and the boys aren’t dirty when I get through with them.”

  “Aye, they are. The moment your back is turned, they’re off skinning their knees, tearing their trousers, and being boys. Getting dirty is part of it.”

  She loved that about them. Normal boys got dirty, and all she wanted for those children was some normality—meals, prayers, a home, a few years of stability. Not too much to ask.

  A comfortable silence stretched while Anwen cast about for some other subject in which she could profess an interest.

  Lord Colin’s knees came to mind. Sitting on the bench in the shade, Anwen had resisted an urge to stare at his manly knees, exposed by his Highland attire. Who knew that a man’s knees could be interesting?

  Not that her interest signified anything.

  Maybe the preachers had the answers after all. Maybe joy and pain balanced, and divine justice put matters right if a man were patient enough. Hamish would ponder philosophy later—maybe.

  For now, he’d seize the joy with both hands and hold tight, for Megan Windham intended to hold tight to him.

  “The past week has been an eternity,” he muttered, burying his nose against her throat. “I’ve seen you fluttering by on the dance floor, smiling at this baron or that twit—you smell like lemons. I love lemons. Always have.”

  Lemons and cinnamon. The scent concentrated as he nuzzled lower, suggesting the lady had applied her perfume with an intent to entice. She need not have. Megan Windham fresh from a hog wallow would have scrambled Hamish’s wits beyond recall.

  “Blast this bodice,” Megan muttered, shimmying. “Let me—That tickles. Do it again.”

  She squirmed, she fussed, she flung orders and suggestions at him. When Hamish undid the bow in the middle of her décolletage, she sighed, her breath warming his ear. Instead of a corset, she wore old-fashioned country stays, which laced up the front, ending in another satin bow at the top.

  “What is a mortal man to do when faced with such temptation?” Hamish mused, gliding his hands up the sides of Megan’s breasts. She was well endowed, a fact he’d managed to mostly ignore until she’d taken up residence in his very lap.

  “You pick locks in the dark,” Megan said, untying his cravat. “Surely a pair of bows doesn’t exceed your abilities?”

  Her fingers glossed over his throat and chest, which Hamish took for Megan’s version of an inspection. She might not be able to see him in detail, but she would know him as well as or better than a fully sighted woman could.

  Hamish undid the second bow with his teeth. “Do you know, under Scottish law, a man and woman are considered married if they express an intent to wed, then consummate those intentions. Is that what you want, Megan?”

  She paused, her palm resting over Hamish’s heart. “I want you, now and always. I’m not without experience, you’ll recall. You needn’t fret over my maidenly sensibilities.”

  Megan certainly wasn’t fretting, which reassured the part of Hamish that hesitated despite the bounty before him. Sir Fletcher had much to answer for, which Hamish would also ponder later.

  “I wish your maidenly sensibilities had received the respect they were due, Meggie. I adore your passion, but—” How did a man with his lap full of half-undressed, willing, adult female express both regret for the loss of her virtue, and joy to be the recipient of her trust and generosity?

  That man didn’t express his gratitude with words, not if he was Hamish MacHugh. He instead pushed aside layers of linen and muslin, feasting his senses on shades of ivory, cream, and pink. Lovely, delectable, sweet, silky, luscious—lemony too—and wondrously pink.

  “I wasn’t ignoring you, Meggie. I was trying to be respectful,” he said, switching from one breast to the other. “Trying to show you the restraint a proper gentleman—I was a fool.”

  Megan tugged at her skirts. “My fool.”

  “All yours, Meggie. You seem so confident and self-reliant. I never thought I was leaving you to doubt. I’m sorry. We’ll learn, though. We’ll get the knack—merciful winged cherubs, Meggie Windham.”

  While Hamish had kissed and nibbled and licked and teased, Megan had rearranged their clothing, so nothing came between them. Not a kilt, not a chemise, not a sporran, and not much gentlemanly restraint either.

  “Enough blather,” Megan said, fishing through all the petticoats and whatnot frothed around them, and wrapping a hand about the part of Hamish least inclined to any restraint whatsoever. Her touch was sure, possibly bordering on desperate.

  He’d blundered, in other words. He’d tried to show the lady and the world that he’d never presume on her good will, and he’d left her uncertain of his regard. Hesitating now would only allow more doubt to plague her.

  “You do it,” Hamish said. “Take your time, and take me, however it pleases you to do so.”

  She tormented him, learning his contours, feathering soft, sweet caresses over him in locations that had gone uncaressed for too long. Somewhere amid sighs, kisses, curious explorations, and silent oaths, Hamish concluded that a special license was a fine custom, though not as fine as handfasting.

  Because from this day forward, he considered himself committed to Megan in every way that mattered.

  “Now?” Megan asked, fitting them together.

  God, yes. Now. “I am in your hands, Meggie. Do as ye please.”

  She pleased to end one torment for Hamish in the interest o
f beginning another. One slow, cautious wiggle, push, retreat, glide, and advance after another, Megan Windham pleased. From the intensity of her focus, Hamish gathered that her previous experience had not been great, nor had it afforded her an opportunity to do more than endure Sir Fletcher’s pawing.

  “This feels …,” Megan said, taking more of him. “I like how … this is intimate.”

  She hadn’t been sure, in other words. She hadn’t been given any intimate confidence in herself.

  “If you merely like it, then I’ve some convincing to do,” Hamish said, adding a minute thrust to the festivities.

  Megan went still. “Do that again. Exactly like that.”

  Hamish obliged, and before long, they’d established a glorious, urgent rhythm.

  Megan kissed him and linked her hands at his nape. “This isn’t like—Oh, that’s lovely. More of that. Please, Hamish.”

  More attention to her breasts, while counterpointing the movement of her hips, and refusing the screeching need to hurry. Megan’s breathing quickened to a soft pant, while Hamish closed his eyes, lest the sight of her in the grip of passion rout his self-discipline.

  Closing his eyes didn’t help. That only made the weight and warmth of her more compelling, only made the pleasure well higher and faster.

  And yet, as Megan keened softly against Hamish’s shoulder, and then went limp in the aftermath of her pleasure, he managed to hold off his own satisfaction. A man protected those who belonged to him, and that meant until vows had been spoken. Hamish might please his lady eight times a day, but his own gratification would have to wait until she’d taken not only his heart but also his name.

  Chapter Twelve

  The morning was fair, while Sir Fletcher’s mood was bloody awful. He’d snapped at Geneva for sticking her finger in the jam pot at breakfast, and then his lordship had snapped at Sir Fletcher, and the smirking from the harpies around the table had been unbearable.

  “Let’s walk, shall we?” Sir Fletcher said, rising from the bench along the perimeter of Grosvenor Square. Puget fell in step beside him, suggesting the former captain understood when an order had been given.