The Trouble With Dukes Read online

  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 royal 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.

  Chapter Two

  I’ve changed my mind,” Hamish said, touching his hat brim as some duchess sashayed past him on the walkway. “We’re leaving at the first of the week.”

  “You can’t change your mind,” Colin retorted, “and you just greeted one of the most highly paid ladybirds in London.”

  Colin was being diplomatic, for Hamish had committed his blunder in public—where all of his best blunders invariably occurred. Three days ago, Hamish had come upon Sir Fletcher Pilkington, but at least that unwelcome moment had transpired in a bookshop.

  “The lady’s clothes were expensive,” Hamish said, “and not the attire of a debutante. She smiled at me, and she had a maid trotting at her heels. How was I to know she wasn’t decent?”

  “Because of how she smiled at you, as if you’re the answer to her milliner’s prayers for the next year.”

  Hamish tipped his hat to another well-dressed lady who also had a maid but lacked the smile.

  “The damned debutantes look at me the same way. As if I were a hanging joint of venison, and they a pack of starving hounds.”

  “You aren’t supposed to greet a woman unless she acknowledges you,” Colin said as they came to a crossing.

  “That last one scowled at me as if I were something rank stuck to the sole of her dainty boot. That’s the sort of acknowledgment the Duke of Murder can expect.”

  A beer wagon rattled past, barrels stacked and lashed to the bed. Hamish owned two breweries, and in his present mood, he could have imbibed the inventory of both establishments and started on the distillery Colin had inherited upon coming of age.

  “You need a finishing governess,” Colin said. “Or a wife.”

  Oh, right. “I’m guessing among polite society they’re much the same, which is why we’ll all be heading home by this time next week.”

  Though Colin had a point. The young ladies ogling Hamish’s title all knew how to make their interest apparent without blundering. They waved their painted fans, they simpered, they smiled, but not like that. They cast lures across entire ballrooms and formal gardens, without once setting a slippered foot wrong.

  The battlefield of the London season had rules. Hamish simply hadn’t grasped those rules yet.

  He’d sooner grasp a handful of blooming nettles.

  “If we go home now,” Colin said, “you will never hear the end of it. Ronnie and Eddie have been invited to several balls, and depriving them of those chances to husband-hunt will earn their enmity until the day you die.”

  A Scotswoman was a formidable enemy, and two Scotswomen were the match of any mere mortal man.

  “When is the next damned ball?” They were all damned balls, and damned musicales, and damned Venetian breakfasts, for where Ronnie and Eddie waltzed, either Hamish or Colin must follow.

  “Next week. We take the street to the left.”

  Hamish did not ask how his brother knew the address of one of the most expensive modistes in a very expensive city. Colin was a good-looking fellow, and he had independent means. He’d taken to the bonhomi
e and challenge of army life like a sheep to spring grass, and his occasional sorties to London were just so many more bivouacs to him.

  “How can two otherwise intelligent women spend half the day choosing fabric?” Hamish avoided meeting the eye of an older blonde woman accompanied by a younger lady with the same color hair. “I swear Ronnie and Eddie left their brains back in Perthshire.”

  “And there,” Colin murmured, “you just snubbed the Duchess of Moreland and her youngest daughter, who happens to be a marchioness.”

  Hamish came to a halt. “We’re going home, ball or no ball. I’m behind enemy lines without a map, a canteen, or a sound horse, Colin. One of my blunders will soon see me married or dead in a ditch.”

  Or worse, killing somebody. When Hamish had first mustered out, he’d been provoked into challenging one man to a duel, but fate had interceded to prevent serious harm to either combatant. Hamish and his former dueling partner—Baron St. Clair—were even cordial now when their paths crossed.

  The Baroness St. Clair was a different and less forgiving article.

  “That’s why I’m here,” Colin said, tipping his hat to a flower girl. “To make sure you stay alive. I owe you that, and the last thing I want is a dukedom complicating my life. As long as you don’t call anybody out—anybody else out—an apology ought to cover most of your missteps, and you’ll soon have the lay of the land.”

  Hamish resumed walking, because standing still in the middle of the walkway was enough to draw the notice of passersby.

  Perhaps wearing his kilt hadn’t been an inspired notion. He’d hoped if any ladies were attracted by his title, they might be repelled by the sight of his bare knees. London women were apparently a stout-hearted lot, because so far, Hamish’s experiment had been a failure.

  His entire visit to London had been a failure, but for that single moment when quick reflexes had spared a lady’s spectacles from harm. Hamish hoped somebody would come along to spare that same young lady from Fletcher Pilkington’s company.

  That somebody wouldn’t be Hamish, more’s the pity. Miss Windham either hadn’t known or didn’t care that Hamish was the least appropriate man to hold a lofty title. Pilkington had doubtless remedied that oversight posthaste.

  “Do you get the sense that Ronnie and Eddie are enjoying all this waltzing and shopping?” Hamish asked.

  He and Colin had alternated coming home on winter leave, and every two years, Hamish had returned to Scotland to find taller, prettier young women wearing his sisters’ smiles. By the time he’d sold his commission after Waterloo, he’d hardly known Rhona or Edana.

  They doubtless preferred not to become too well reacquainted with their oldest brother now, though they seemed to like his new title just fine.

  “Our sisters are delighted with London so far,” Colin said. “The shop is down this street. Tomorrow you’re due for another fitting at the tailor’s.”

  “Bugger the tailor,” Hamish said. “He wants only to increase his bill. Aren’t there any Scottish tailors in this blighted city?”

  “English tailors are the finest anywhere,” Colin replied, walking faster. “They’re the envy of every civilized man the world over. You’d bash about in your kilt and boots, swilling whisky, and embarrassing your siblings instead of taking advantage of the privileges of your station.”

  Guilt assailed Hamish, the same guilt he’d felt as a captive in French hands. When he’d been led away from the scene of the ambush, bleeding in three places, his vision blurred, his head pounding, and his hearing mostly gone, he’d been in the clutches of an enemy more deadly than the French.

  Shame had wrapped chains around his heart—for leading his men into an ambush, for succumbing to capture rather than dying honorably, for leaving Colin unprotected. In London, half pay and former officers abounded, and the sooner Hamish was away from them, the better.

  “My station is all the more reason for me to leave this cesspit of privilege,” Hamish said. “I do not now, nor will I ever, fit in, Colin. If you didn’t want me wearing the kilt, then you might have said so before we left the house.”

  Colin’s complexion was lighter than Hamish’s, and thus when Colin blushed, his mortification was apparent to all. His ears were an interesting shade of red by the time Hamish paused outside an establishment called Madame Doucette’s.

  “You’re known for wearing the kilt now,” Colin said. “Once you showed up at that card party in the plaid, your fate was sealed. I’m having the full kit made up for myself.”

  “London shops have the most ridiculous names,” Hamish said, hand on the door latch as foot traffic bustled past them. “Take this place, for instance. If I didn’t know better, I’d think from the name it was a whorehouse.”

  Colin made an odd noise.

  “Don’t act as if I’d just kneed you in the balls,” Hamish went on, peering through the door’s glass. “Madame Doucette, my handsome kilted arse.”

  Immediately behind Hamish, a throat cleared.

  A battle-hardened soldier grew accustomed to the way time expanded, or the mind’s perceptions contracted, so that when faced with a mortal threat, the soldier could weigh options, calculate trajectories, and assess risks in the blink of an eye.

  That same sense came over Hamish in the instant necessary to perceive that the blonde duchess and the little marchioness were regarding him curiously, as if not a Scotsman but a kilted great ape had appeared on the streets of Mayfair.

  “My husband has often made similar remarks about milliners’ establishments,” the duchess said. She had a smile no duchess ought to possess—wise, kind, lovely, and a hint naughty too. If Hamish lived to be a hundred, his smile would never approach this woman’s for complication, dignity, or attractiveness.

  Blood would tell.

  “I beg Your Grace’s and your ladyship’s pardon,” Hamish said. “I apologize to you both. In the military, I developed a sadly unguarded tongue.”

  The young marchioness looked to be stifling a case of the giggles, while Hamish wanted to thump his head against the nearest wall.

  “You might not have guarded your tongue, but you guarded your country,” Her Grace said, patting Hamish’s cheek as if he were a tired little fellow in want of a nap. “One has to admire your priorities, Your Grace, despite your colorful observations.”

  The duchess swept into the shop, Colin snatching the door open at the last instant. The marchioness curtsied prettily, winked at Hamish, and followed her mother into the modiste’s.

  “I think I’m in love,” Colin muttered when the door was once again safely closed.

  “It’s nearing noon. You were overdue,” Hamish replied charitably.

  Colin smiled the slightly lost smile of a man who’d appreciated the fairer sex in six different countries, and Hamish, while not in love, certainly knew himself to be in trouble.

  Deeply, deeply in trouble.

  “We’re in trouble now,” Elizabeth Windham whispered, peering through the window curtains. “Aunt Esther and Cousin Evie are upon the doorstep, and we’ve yet to choose your fabric.”

  Madame Doucette was still fluttering about with the pair of Scottish sisters Megan had met somewhere between the silks and the velvets. Miss Rhona and Miss Edana were both tall, merry redheads, though they lacked a fashionable sense of color.

  “Not that one,” Megan said, leaving Beth’s side to take the bolt of yellow silk from Miss Edana’s grasp. “Yellow is a difficult color to wear well, though it can be a lovely accent. Say you choose this pale green, for example. A yellow lace edging to your handkerchiefs would suit, or golden-yellow bonnet ribbons and a matching parasol.”

  Miss Rhona ran a hand over the yellow silk. “You even coordinate bonnet ribbons and handkerchief borders when you’re concocting an outfit?”

  Didn’t everybody? “Bonnet ribbons must be some color. Why not choose a shade that suits you?”

  A look passed between the sisters, as if this was a question they’d store up to fire off in s
ome other circumstances known only to them.

  Aunt Esther and Cousin Evie swept into the establishment, though mostly Aunt Esther, who was as tall as the Scottish ladies, did the sweeping.

  “My dears,” Aunt Esther said, “I considered sending out the watch in search of you. What can you be thinking, dawdling here with the ball only a week off?”

  The watch was a familial euphemism for Eve’s older brothers: Lord Westhaven, Lord Valentine, and the oldest Windham cousin, Devlin St. Just, who’d soon be visiting from his earldom in the north. Megan loved her male cousins as much as she dreaded their fussing and lecturing.

  The shop bell tinkled again, and all movement, all talk, ceased. Two sizable gentlemen stood immediately inside the door. They blocked enough of the light coming in the front windows to dim the sense of a happy feminine retreat.

  “This green,” Miss Edana said, shoving an entire bolt of silk at Madame. “I’ve made up my mind, I’ll take the green.”

  “Yes, Miss,” Madame said, scurrying to the back of the shop without even acknowledging the gentlemen.

  Men came into modiste’s establishments, sometimes with a wife, a sister, or a daughter, more often with a mistress. A shrewd shop owner scheduled those visits, and used fitting salons in the back to ensure no awkwardness developed between patrons of different social strata.

  These men did not belong in this shop in any capacity. The less tall fellow—he was in no wise short—was exquisitely attired in morning clothes, and bore a resemblance to the Scottish sisters.

  The other fellow …

  A queer feeling came over Megan, shivery and strange, but also happy, as if she’d recognized a friend from childhood whose features had altered with time, but whose countenance evoked precious memories …

  In this shop of velvets, silks, and delicate lace, the larger man wore tartan wool. His kilt was a pattern of greens and blues, like lush pastures and summer sky woven about him, topped off with a dark blue velvet waistcoat, green wool jacket, and lacy white cravat.

  His looks were like the textures he wore. Different, intriguing, and to Megan, attractive for their contrasts, like an arrangement of flowers in an unexpected vase.