The Trouble With Dukes

by Grace Burrowes

Hamish took a whiff of the open container, because Colin’s tastes were as unreliable as his common sense. Tonight, the brew on offer was slightly smoky, with a delicate roll of cedar and cinnamon beneath the fumes. Sipping whisky, as opposed to the ruinous variety.

  “For God’s sake, why would anybody pursue a sound pummeling on purpose?” Hamish muttered.

  “Because you get to pummel some other fellow, and it keeps a man on his mettle, to put up his fives.”

  No, it did not. Premeditated pugilism put a man within closer reach of memories best left unvisited. Hamish’s single post-war attempt at hand-to-hand combat—a bout with his former captor, the Baron St. Clair—had proved that.

  “I won’t beat you,” Hamish said. “Your guilty conscience can spare my arm.”

  Colin accepted the flask back, taking another swallow before tucking it away. “Will you at least take a swing at me if I admit I worry about you?”

  Well, hell. “I’ll have a laugh. You’re the hothead, the reckless fool about whom our parents worried the most. We all worry about you, Colin. You are not to trouble your pretty head at this late stage about me.”

  “You hate being a duke, just as you hated the army.”

  Colin was indeed feeling reckless. “How much have you had to drink?”

  “Not enough. Interferes with my ability to please the ladies.”

  Hamish had hated the army, but until now, Colin had spared them both that admission. “With the right duchess beside me, being a duke won’t be so bad. Megan’s people have been dukes for centuries. I expect a Scot new to the title of duke is a mere aristocratic corporal by comparison. Were you trying to goad me into beating you, Colin?”

  The resounding silence was answer enough.

  “Colin, don’t inspire me into raising my hand against you. You love a good scrap, while I’ve had a bellyful of fighting in all its forms. After a bout of temper, you’ll probably shake hands with the fellow who’s bloodied your nose, whereas I might well bury my opponent. I would hate for that fellow to be you.”

  The flask glinted in the light of the nearest porch lamp, though this time, Colin stopped walking and drained the container.

  “You left a part of yourself back in France,” Colin said. “I don’t know what part, but it was important, and you haven’t been truly happy since you mustered out—since you joined up, in fact. I don’t know what to do for you, and now this damned title has been slung about your neck. Somehow, that feels like my fault too.”

  Quite the confession from a man who loved to gallop breakneck across open country or across some merry widow’s sheets.

  Hamish laid an arm over Colin’s shoulders and scrubbed his knuckles against his brother’s crown.

  “I’m a duke. Soon I’ll be a husband. I do believe the one will be copious consolation for the other. Maybe instead of chasing widows and testing my temper, you ought to find a wife of your own.”

  Hamish expected Colin to laugh. Instead another silence rose between them, this one as thoughtful as the last one had been frustrated.

  “I apologize for abandoning you at the musicale,” Hamish said. “Colin got into a wee situation involving a lady and a darkened balcony.”

  “Let me guess,” Megan said as she strolled the Moreland gardens with her beloved in the morning sunshine. “The Viscountess Rothergild. She’s had her eye on him since he showed up at Aunt Esther’s ball in his kilt. I should have warned him.”

  Hamish seemed tired, or perhaps burdened, but then, he typically called on Megan in the morning, when most of polite society rested and domesticated.

  “I’m not courting you so you can take on the task of looking after my siblings, Meggie. Your family has done much for me and mine already. Getting Colin out of scrapes has been my job since he was born.”

  As, apparently, was looking after Edana and Rhona, managing the family wealth, keeping an eye on other brothers and relatives back in Scotland as well as various cousins in London, and otherwise being head of the family. Megan took Hamish’s hand, because she loved to touch him, and because the way his fingers grasped hers and the attitude of his walk told her as much as his words.

  “Sir Fletcher escorted me home.”

  “Did he bother you, Meggie?” Hamish’s tone promised woe to Sir Fletcher if he had transgressed.

  What a lovely man Megan’s intended was. “I informed Sir Fletcher that he no longer had my letters, and told him to keep his distance from me, my sisters, your sisters, and polite society in general. He seemed to take it well, but then, Rosecroft and Keswick were nearby, and Edana and Rhona were along as well.”

  Hamish drew Megan behind a hedge of rhododendrons that had yet to bloom. His arms came around her, secure and sheltering.

  “Meggie mine, you took a risk.”

  “You took a risk, retrieving my letters. Putting Sir Fletcher in his place was marvelously gratifying. I couldn’t call him out, but I could deliver a set down. As much as I’m grateful to you for getting those letters back, I’m equally grateful that I had the chance to confront him. He’s a pestilence that wanted purging.”

  “You put up your fives,” Hamish said, kissing Megan’s brow. “Poor bastard was doubtless ambushed. Well done, Meggie, but you must promise me you’ll be cautious now. Sir Fletcher doesn’t deal well with being thwarted.”

  The hedge gave them privacy, which Megan would have liked to use plundering her beloved’s charms. Hamish, though, did not seem in a plunder-able mood.

  “Tell me the rest of it,” she said. “You know something you’re not saying, and we’re to be married, Hamish. You’re very much in my confidence, and I hope you’ll return that honor to me.”

  He kissed her, and even his kisses could convey a sense of weariness. “I don’t like to talk about my time in the army.”

  Megan rested her cheek against his chest, the better to feel his heartbeat. “Rosecroft says he prefers living up north for many reasons. He has no patience with men who’ve nothing better to do than relive a few years of gore and glory over drinks at the club. Life is not meant to be an endless reminiscence, much less one that misrepresents the past as other than it was.”

  Hamish’s hand settled on her nape, and everything in Megan relaxed.

  “Your cousin told you that?”

  “He told Emmie that, and Louisa and Eve say Keswick and Deene are of the same mind. I love the scent of you, Hamish MacHugh.” She did not love that his sporran came between them. “Let’s sit, shall we?”

  He went unresisting to the nearest bench, a plain, sun-warmed wooden seat amid potted delphiniums. For long moments, he was quiet, his hand in Megan’s.

  “While you’re gathering your thoughts,” Megan said, “may I explain something to you? I’ve only recently puzzled it out for myself.”

  He kissed her knuckles. “I like when you explain things to me. Not many people bother to try, but you have the way of it.”

  Perhaps because Hamish listened when she spoke and wasn’t in a great hurry to be elsewhere, though by rights he ought at that moment to be lounging about some gentlemen’s club.

  “My eyesight is poor,” Megan said. “Even so, with my spectacles, I can see better than many, and my cognitive faculties are in fine working order. I’m grateful for that. I see especially well early in the day, but then my eyes grow fatigued. In any case, there’s also much I cannot do because of my bad vision.”

  “Stone blind you’d be four times the woman most ladies are on their most sighted day, Meggie Windham, soon to be MacHugh, and I’ll—”

  She kissed his chin. “Put down your claymore, Murdoch. My family loves me. The people who fuss at me for imperfect vision don’t matter, and I use my relative obscurity to ponder my surroundings.

  “Why is Charlotte so restless this year,” she went on, “and what is stopping Beth from making a suitable match? Why is Anwen so devoted to those orphans, and when can you and I be married?”

  “You deserve to be thoroughly courted,” Hamish said. “Also
kissed.”

  As it happened, Megan agreed with that last sentiment, and somehow ended up in Hamish’s lap as a result. She climbed off of him, and instead of taking the place beside him, folded down to the paving stones at his feet, sitting with her back to his knees.

  “You have a talent for distracting me, Hamish. Hear me out, please.”

  His fingers whispered across her nape, as softly as sunshine. “Of course. Always.”

  What a privilege, to nuzzle a man’s bare knee, to acquaint oneself with the muscle and bone and strength of him. Megan looked forward to the day—or evening—when she could learn all of Hamish MacHugh at her leisure.

  “I think about things,” she said, before the temptation to kiss his knee overcame the last of her sense, “and that means, I’m good at puzzling out what might not be obvious. I suspect Sir Fletcher is not his papa’s son, for example.”

  Those fingers, which were distracting Megan in the best possible way, paused. “A cuckoo in the nest?”

  “He’s a fourth son, meaning his late mama had done her duty by the title, and he came along a good five years after the next oldest brother. He doesn’t look anything like his siblings, his papa hardly takes notice of him.”

  “And he has the put-upon air of one treated unfairly from a young age. You might be right. That would shed light on his behavior in Spain, though it wouldn’t excuse it.”

  Two thoughts coalesced in Megan’s awareness. The first was silly and delightful: Even Hamish’s knee tasted of heather, suggesting he was fastidious in all particulars.

  The second was delightful and not silly at all: Perhaps Hamish talked to her and listened to her so well in part because her eyesight was poor. A reserved man, a shy man, one uncomfortable in London society, would be more at ease when free from endless visual scrutiny.

  How wonderful, that a lack of keen eyesight could be such a valuable asset.

  “Tell me about Spain, and about Sir Fletcher,” Megan said, twitching Hamish’s kilt over his knee.

  The wool was soft, the sense of tenderness Megan endured nearly unbearable. She’d never have to pretend with Hamish as she so often did with her family, never have to make light of a moment turned awkward because she’d forgotten her spectacles.

  Hamish’s palm smoothed her hair in a slow caress. “Sir Fletcher was a great one for having his men flogged. Any pretext would do, and his superiors turned a blind eye. Army discipline is a curious thing. We were downright social with the French sometimes, then word would come down that any man caught fraternizing would be court-martialed. For a time, distance would be kept. Very confusing for the men, and sometimes they got caught in the spats and stupidities of their officers.”

  That was all preamble, of course, though enlightening. “Sounds like the social season with guns. I can’t imagine a less appealing undertaking.”

  Hamish’s thumb traced the curve of Megan’s jaw. “Sir Fletcher was mostly competent, from what I could gather, but his tolerance for the Irish or Scottish lads when they got to scrapping was poor. He accused a fellow of stealing from regimental stores, which is viewed very dimly. The boy was barely shaving, none too bright, and probably starving. I intervened.”

  “With your fists?” What did it say about a proper lady, that she relished the notion of somebody pummeling Sir Fletcher?

  “Meggie dearest, you have a bloodthirsty streak. My papa, God rest him, would approve.”

  “Sir Fletcher needs to be held accountable,” Megan said. “I have memories of him I wish I could wash out of my mind, Hamish.” She knew how Sir Fletcher breathed under intimate circumstances, knew the feel of him between her legs.

  And abruptly, tears threatened. She hadn’t cried, not when Sir Fletcher had ignored her upon mustering out, not when he’d decided to take notice of her weeks ago. Not when he’d explained, in blunt, disrespectful terms, what his plans were for her.

  “Ach, Meggie, let me hold you.”

  She was back in Hamish’s arms, beside him on the bench, tears spilling in hot profusion down her cheeks. From her middle, a wail was building, a cry of regret and outrage.

  “I prayed for him,” she said, pressing her forehead to Hamish’s shoulder. “I promised to wait for him, and prayed for his safe return. I told myself all couples need time, and eventually, I’d have children and a home of my own. I assured myself he couldn’t answer my letters without risking my reputation, not very often. Then he mustered out, and the first time we encountered each other, he treated me like …”

  “Don’t speak of it, if it pains you,” Hamish said. “He can’t hurt you anymore, Meggie.”

  Oh, but he could. Sir Fletcher was hurting Megan at that moment, haunting her with memories of rejection and humiliation.

  “He acted as if he barely recognized me. I didn’t have my glasses. For a moment, I wondered if I’d mistaken some other gentleman for my very own Sir Fletcher. Before half of polite society, he made a prodigious fuss about recalling a few dances with me, graciously greeting a besotted young woman who’d made a complete cake of herself. With every gossip looking on, I realized how great a fool I’d been. I’ve spent my seasons since avoiding him, and then, this year, he decided to make a greater fool of me still.”

  Hamish held her, let her cry and sniffle and regret, but the longer Megan remained in his arms, the more the hurt and anger faded.

  “I wish him to perdition for all time,” she said. “I was an idiot—I hate that I was such a blind idiot—but he was no gentleman.”

  “He was, and is, a scoundrel of the first water.”

  Something in Hamish’s voice caught Megan’s ear. She sat up, tucking herself against his side. Before too much longer, some helpful sister—or duchess—would come strolling along, inspecting the beds of roses that were still not ready to bloom. If Megan was found in tears, all manner of meddling might result.

  “You’ve foiled him,” Megan said. “Thank God, you’ve put Sir Fletcher in his place once and for all. I suspect it’s not the first time you’ve frustrated a scheme of his.”

  “I’m marrying a woman of discernment. Sir Fletcher got the worst of our encounter in Spain too, though I suspect that’s why he later sent Colin off on a goose chase.”

  “As long as Sir Fletcher got the worst of it,” Megan said, snuggling closer to her beloved. “May he always get the worst of it in the end, and I do want to hear the details. But first, Hamish, you must know that my sisters agreed I should have the last bedroom in the family corridor. It’s the one overlooking that border of heartsease. Will you join me tonight?”

  He took to studying the flowers Megan had mentioned, cheerful little purple and yellow blooms that tolerated cold and wet easily. Shading the heartsease was a maple whose branches made climbing to the balcony the work of a moment for a fit and determined suitor.

  “Your cognitive faculties have turned to organizing my evening schedule?”

  Well, yes. More or less, and Hamish hadn’t offered an immediate refusal either.

  Chapter Fifteen

  Army life had taught Sir Fletcher all about suffering—how to avoid it, how to inflict it on others, and even how to endure it when necessary. He hadn’t liked the enduring part at all.

  “Poppet, might you practice your singing somewhere else?” Geneva’s voice would shatter crystal at thirty paces, for the child had operatic aspirations. Her older sisters, damn them to eternal spinsterhood, encouraged the girl’s musical fancies.

  “Papa says I must practice in the library for it has the thickest walls. When will you take me riding, Fletchie? You promised.”

  The late morning sun made patterns on the parquet floor, though even reflected sunlight was so many daggers plunged into Sir Fletcher’s pounding skull.

  “I’ll take you up before me when the weather’s fine,” Sir Fletcher said, pouring himself a tot of brandy. The housekeeper doubtless kept track of whose visits to the library coincided with a reduction in the sideboard’s inventory—one of the many indignities
Sir Fletcher would not miss when he set up his own household.

  “The weather is fine today,” Geneva said, climbing onto the sofa. “Papa said the day is lovely, but my beauty surprises even the sun.”

  When the girl smiled like that, the sun very likely was surprised. “Not surprises, surpasses. It means goes beyond. Jumping on the sofa surpasses the worst manners I’ve seen you display heretofore, Lady Geneva Louise Marie Hamilcar Pilkington. Little girls who hop about and make noise won’t find themselves sharing the saddle with their favorite older brother.”

  Sir Fletcher was her favorite, which mattered more than it ought.

  She kept up her gymnastics, blonde curls bouncing against her little shoulders. “Thomas didn’t scold me for jumping on the sofa. I like him. When will he get his livery so he doesn’t have to work in that skirt? Is that why I haven’t seen him abovestairs? Because his livery hasn’t arrived?”

  Her questions hammered against Sir Fletcher’s aching head, a counterpoint to her unladylike hopping about.

  “Would you like a sip of my drink?” Geneva was his sister, at least in name, though he doubted they shared any blood. All the same, scolding him had never worked when he’d taken a childish notion to abuse the sofa cushions, so he didn’t bother to scold her.

  “Your drinks are awful, and you forget to use your toothpowder in the morning. When can we go riding?”

  “Where’s Harriet?” Sir Fletcher asked, lifting the candlestick on the left side of the mantel. “A lady typically rides out with her friends, and Harriet will be wroth if you don’t take her along to the mews.”

  Harriet was the best distraction Sir Fletcher could come up with on short notice.

  “Her name is Harold,” Geneva said, leaping from the sofa with an athletic bound. She landed hard, the impact reverberating between Sir Fletcher’s throbbing temples. “Harold has a megrim, like you. You didn’t answer my question about Thomas. He talked funny.”

  The key to the desk drawer was exactly where it should have been, under the candlestick, but no amount of reaching about or rearranging of the drawer’s contents turned up Megan Windham’s letters.