The Art of Duke Hunting (8 page)

“Of course you’re not. I would never insult you, Your Gr—”

“I told you to call me Montagu.”

“—Montagu. But I want you to know that Lionel was not like others knew him. He was very kind, very jovial.”

In truth, Derby had managed to do and say things so jovial and
offensive
, Roman remembered, that three quarters of the ballroom doors had been closed to him when he died a year or so ago.

Roman eyed the ale. Even though he was parched, he just didn’t have it in him to reach for a tall tankard of the pale golden brew. Her assumptions were ridiculous, of course, of that he held not a single doubt.

“It’s all right,” she said. “I never expected you to keep your word.”

Instead, he reached for the lemonade on the other side of the table and handed her a glass before taking one for himself. He eyed it with distrust.

She smiled and then took a sip. A dainty sip.

He gulped it down before the god-awful tartness nearly gagged him. “Delicious,” he said, his taste buds revolting at the bitterness.

“Agreed,” she replied. “Very good.”

“If you are partial to lemons that is.”

“Oh, take the bloody ale,” she retorted.

“Not if my life depended on it.”

“Well!”

“Well,” he replied. “Shall we participate in lawn bowling?”

“Oh, yes,” she said, eyes shining. “Oh, but I do not have my spectacles.”

“Thank God,” he muttered.

“That wasn’t very flattering.”

He liked it when she bristled. Females never dared bristle in his presence. They were either too much in awe or they were determined to catch the matrimonial prize of the decade by fawning in earnest. “You misunderstood. I meant that I am glad you forgot your spectacles so that I would have a better chance at besting you.”

“Well, I shall just go back and retrieve them.”

He held her back. “No. I’m actually famished. Let’s eat.”

“Are you always this grumpy and impolite?”

He almost choked with laughter. She was an original. “Grumpy? I’ve never been grumpy in my life. And I’ll have you know that I’m in an excellent mood.”

“Really?”

“Really.”

“Well, I think you are just suffering the effects of being foxed like a skunk, Montagu.”

“It takes a brave female to call me a skunk, March.” He made an exasperated sound as he picked up another glass of lemonade. This was utterly ridiculous. Just because her husband had been a blindingly mad drunk did not make him a fool when he enjoyed a pint of ale.

“Thank you, Montagu,” she murmured sweetly.

Blast it all. That damned smile of hers made him almost want to drink the rest of the vile stuff he held in his hand. Almost, but not quite.

S
he was surprised he didn’t just reach for the ale. She had never teased anyone the way she had just goaded the Duke of Norwich. She should not be so forward and provoking. It bordered on impolite—something she had never been in the past. She just wasn’t sure why she couldn’t stop herself.

Oh, she had a very good idea. It was the past. Her husband had chosen whiskey over a long life with her. And yet he had not been able to help it and so she couldn’t blame him even if she secretly did. And that irritated her more than anything for he had seen the good in her when no one else had. And he had married her when no one else would. She had been a wallflower of the first order. He had rescued her from entrenched spinsterhood, and a lifelong sentence of uncompromised virginity. And then he had taught her all about pleasure, and about love, before he had fallen into the grips of a passion stronger than his with her.

The duke was leading her to one of the long tables, and the common folk made a space for the two of them. They sat side by side instead of across from each other. It was too bad the villagers were so in awe of him that there was not a chance of anonymity. They were surrounded by avid listeners.

He seemed to be able to read her mind and so they ate in relative silence. He consumed more food than she had ever witnessed someone eat in her life. Chicken and cabbage, lamb pudding with raisins, and even the beef with boiled potatoes. He did, however, push aside the breast of duck.

His table manners were flawless. He held his fork and knife as if they were artist’s tools and the food was the medium. She watched as he quickly and deftly removed the skin of a pear without once touching the fruit with his fingers. And then she remembered what those same fingers had done to her.

Not for the first time did Esme remember what had happened between them not so very long ago—but what seemed almost a lifetime ago. He was so very handsome, like a prince—no, a king—come to life. But she was no princess. She was more the coach that turned into a pumpkin at midnight. And she was certain the events of that night would never be repeated. She wasn’t even certain she would want them to be repeated. The intensity of it had been unnerving.

Eventually a small group of musicians gathered and began tuning their assorted instruments. “Shall we?”

“Are you certain you want to?”

“Why I love to dance, March. I like it almost as much as I like gambling and drinking and carousing.”

“Of course you do.”

He was trying to tease her.

“And besides, March, you won’t need your spectacles to dance.” He stretched out his palm and she placed her own in his and he led her to the center of the square. The shadows of the trees and the lanterns within them created an eerie yet romantic atmosphere. Surprisingly, in this rustic setting, the musicians began a waltz.

He grasped her waist in one hand and her fingers in the other, exerting complete control of their movements—just like he had at the end of the surreal, intimate act in the ship’s cabin. It was a minute or two before he chanced to speak.

“So what was he really like, March?”

“Who?”

“Your husband of course.”

“Why do you ask?”

“Because I refuse to talk of the weather. And . . .”

“And?”

“And I refuse to talk about me.”

“But all dukes like to talk about themselves.”

He smiled. “Not always. I rather remember your husband now. He was a, ahem, jovial sort as you said.”

“That is putting it kindly,” she said. “He was a desperate case.”

“And yet, you loved him.”

She started. “That’s a very private matter.”

He examined her face closely and she wanted to look away. “Yes,” he continued gently, “you loved him and I suspect he loved you.”

She swallowed. “And how would you know these things?” Her voice was a bit too high-pitched to her own ears.

“I am good at guessing.”

She didn’t know how to respond. She didn’t want to respond. She had not spoken of this to anyone.

“Perhaps you’re correct,” she finally admitted. “It was a very good match even if it was officially an arranged marriage. My father was his father’s best friend in the world and we had known each other most of our lives.” She didn’t want to tell the whole story. But for some odd reason she felt compelled to speak. “Something grew of it. He was very gentle and kind to me. He encouraged me. In the end, I do believe he liked me very much. And I him.”

“He loved you,” he stated again.

She stared at him and said nothing.

“And so you are in mourning.”

“No. It has been a year since he died. A year and four months.”

The waltz came to an end and he eased his grip on her waist. She was sorry he released her and led her back to the serving tables now filled with custard and fruit pies. His appetite was unimaginable.

“May I ask how he actually died?” He gathered two plates full of desserts and found a table where all the occupants had departed.

“Oh, the doctor would tell you all manner of complicated terms. Does it matter?”

“It explains your request.”

“You cannot say it’s a surprise. But now that you know, I am letting you off the hook again, Montagu. You have done your duty. You may go ahead and drink that ale you long for.”

He looked at her with those unnerving pale blue eyes of his and did not move. “Thank you. I think I shall.” He paused but did not move to pour a drop. “A bit later perhaps.” His eyes had become quite serious.

A trumpet sounded and the voices of the revelers dimmed again as the haphazard orchestra struck the notes of a country dance. Sets were forming in the middle of the green and the Duke of Norwich raised one eyebrow and again offered his hand without a word.

She grasped it. “Oh, thank you. I suppose I should warn you that I make it a point never to refuse the opportunity to dance.” The wallflower within her had never wilted. She would have to have one foot in the grave before she would refuse to dance with anyone. She had spent too many years on the edges of too many ballrooms, a smile plastered to her face, as every other lady was asked to dance except her.

He smiled. “I only am asking you to dance to show you there is nothing wrong with living solely for diversions and entertainments.”

She felt deflated.

He tilted up her face with a finger under her chin. “Ahem. I suppose I should now warn you that I sometimes say the opposite of what I mean in jest.”

A warm feeling, very much like her favorite plum pudding hot off the fire, invaded her heart.

H
e didn’t know why he kept up this front with her. She was a kindhearted lady and there was no reason for him to try and charm her. It was just that he had always assumed different façades for different people for so long that he didn’t know how to be himself. Unless he was alone. There was only one thing he was serious about, and it wasn’t diversions. It was physics and geometry and mathematics. There was nothing humorous about absolutes. And he loved the beauty of solving concrete problems without any remaining gray areas clouding the resolution.

There were only three people who knew a few details—a very few—of his life and interests and they were Kress, Abshire, and Candover, all members of the exclusive royal entourage. It was just a shame that the three of them did not get on. Abshire and Candover positively loathed each other. And Candover considered Kress a half-baked Englishman with French revolution on his mind, while Kress considered Candover a priggish bore devoted solely to duty and without an ounce of humor. They were both correct in their assumptions. Abshire and Kress’s friendship showed promise but was still in the making.

Roman accepted Esme’s gloved hand in his and led her to the set that was forming. He had never bowed to dairymaids, or do-si-do’d with innkeepers, but there was always a first time. He followed the pattern of the simple dance and enjoyed the effort. There was none of the jaded elegance of the amusements in town. There was only much laughter and boisterousness. And these simple folk sweated and didn’t try to hide their enthusiasm.

Roman kept an eye on March. She was enjoying the dance too. There was a sparkle in her gray eyes and a lightness to her step. The way she held her head and the arch of her back was lithe and graceful. She might not be a ravishing beauty but there was something about her that intrigued him. If she were not a gently bred lady he would have enjoyed taking her to his bed again and making love to her. And he would kill to see and touch and stroke those legs of hers again.

But there was something else about her that stopped him. She had this untouchable air to her. She had dignity and he couldn’t bring himself to suggest a liaison. It was ridiculous, really. Widows were his prime favorites in town. But he worried her heart might become engaged, and he would not hurt her after all she had done for him.

The only question was why had this intelligent lady loved her husband. And while she had loved him, it had been obvious he had loved spirits more than he had loved anything else.

Yes, Lord and Lady Derby were just one more example of what was wrong with marriage. And there was a lot that was wrong with marriage. His parents’ cold, dutiful, typical ton union was a prime example.

And he was the result.

Chapter 5

W
hat was that confounded sound? Roman opened one eye to find that his chamber at the small inn was still dark.

Birds. It was birds chirping. Oh, for God sakes. This was the reason he preferred Town. No bloody birds to wake one up. The clattering of hooves on cobblestones, yes. Birds, no.

He tried to settle back into the cocoon of the bed and could not. He finally groaned and got out of the great yawn of a mattress which took up more than three quarters of the quaint room not fit for a duke.

And he was exhausted. Country hours were for the birds. Quite literally. He grimaced.

The scent of oil was about; he sniffed to be certain. She was at it again in the room adjacent to his.

Painting. Forever painting. He crossed to the window and opened the sash for fresh air.

Her industriousness was astounding. Since he loved his own work, he understood her devotion, but it was unusual for a female. As he watched a maid pumping water from the well on the green, his fingers itched to find paper and a ruler to further his designs.

He was torn about his immediate concerns. On the one hand he needed to be in Town; on the other, his mind froze at the thought of stepping onto a gangplank again. But his ideas were in delicate balance right now. He had to go back. His desire to find a permanent solution to supply all of London with clean water had flaws.

It was beyond ridiculous that the center of Christendom had seven private companies who refused to provide water more than two hours each day. He would find a solution or die trying.

Indeed, before that fateful night with Candover, Kress, and the others in the entourage, he had been certain he was on the verge of solving the pump problem plaguing the huge design.

His evenings were spent thusly—lost at his drafting table, except when forced to play the part of draconian brother while his beautiful sister Lily selected a husband. This at least served to occupy his mother so she wouldn’t harass him to find a bride to continue the bloody, cursed Norwich line. One would think his mother would know better than to urge further creation of Norwich dukes. Why, he found it bordering on premeditated murder during his more lighthearted moments.