Duke and His Duchess

by Grace Burrowes

  “I have not.” Nor would she, not when all that ailed her was a crushing fatigue and a passing touch of maternal melancholia. “You’re neglecting your meal, sir.”

  He studied braised carrots swimming in beef juices. “Peter has not left his chambers since we departed for Town. He doesn’t come down for meals.”

  Esther’s ire at Percival’s mention of a physician faded. She spoke as gently as she could. “Hectoring me to see a doctor will not restore your brother’s good health, Husband.”

  He sat back, his expression unreadable. “Will you come riding with me tomorrow? Take a short turn in the park at midday?”

  He was up to something, though Esther had no idea what. Percival worried about Peter, about the duke, about the infantry in the colonies, and about the king’s health.

  And her husband worried about her.

  “Of course, I’ll ride with you, weather permitting.” She’d be in the saddle by midday if she had to be carried to the mews. “Have you given any more thought to a seat in the Commons?”

  That was stab in the dark, because no matter how she studied him and reviewed the day’s events, Esther could not fathom what burr had gotten under Percival’s saddle. Peter had taken to his bed before, and Arabella jollied him out of it eventually.

  They finished the meal in silence, and when the dishes had been removed, Percival confirmed Esther’s suspicion that he was pursuing some objective known only to him—for now.

  “I’m for bed, Wife. You will join me?”

  She’d like nothing better, unless it was to have an honest answer from him regarding his present preoccupation. Not until they were in bed, side by side and not touching, did it occur to Esther that her husband might be feeling guilty.

  Last night might have resulted in conception—it probably had, in fact. They were that fertile—that blessed—as a couple.

  “Percival?”

  “My dear?”

  “Do you regret last night?” She could ask that in the dark. She could not ask him what was wrong and what she could do to help him with it. Beneath the covers, she felt his fingers close around her hand.

  “I could never regret making love to my wife.”

  Another prevarication, though not exactly an untruth. Esther rolled against his side, hiked a leg over his thighs, and felt his arms encircle her. She remained silent, and that was a form of prevarication too.

  What Esther wanted to say, the words that were burning to fill the darkness of that bedroom, had to do with a single, sharp moment etched into her memory from their visit to the park.

  Cecily O’Donnell had emerged from her coach when the boys had vanquished a patch of ice along the Serpentine bank. She had towed a small child with her. A girl sporting hair as red as Mrs. O’Donnell’s was revealed to be beneath her striking green caleche.

  Esther had been helpless not to watch as the solemn child had regarded Bart and Gayle hurling their rocks, laughing, and carrying on like boys who’d been cooped up too long.

  The girl was stoic, not succumbing to tears even when slapped stoutly by her mother—for she had to be Mrs. O’Donnell’s child. She had her mother’s generous mouth, had her mother’s red hair. If Esther had to guess the girl’s age, she’d place her a year older than Bartholomew at least, based on height and also on a certain gravity of bearing. She was pretty now and destined for greater beauty in a few years.

  A year before Bart had been conceived, Percival would have been in Canada. The realization was no little comfort.

  ***

  “I cannot fathom why any man of sense would argue for the purchase of more ammunition without also advocating for more uniforms. Muskets won’t fire if the fellows holding them are perishing from cold. Men can’t march if the jungle has rotted their boots.”

  Tony rarely became agitated, though his fussing was welcome.

  Percival steered Comet around a pile of pungent horse droppings steaming in the middle of the path. “Their argument is, we should outfit our fellows in something other than scarlet regimentals. Our boys might as well have targets painted on their backs.”

  “But in the smoke and noise of battle, when the cannon have been belching shot in every direction, those scarlet uniforms are all that keep a man from being killed by his own troops.”

  This was also true, and morale was somehow bound up in the traditional uniforms too.

  “There are no good solutions to some problems,” Percival replied, “and in any case, cannonballs are easier to requisition than new uniforms. If I asked you to head back to Morelands, would you go?”

  Tony’s horse was not as fastidious as Comet. At the next evidence of another horse’s recent passing, the gelding plodded right through, landing his off hind foot in the middle of the rank pile.

  “You are going to be head of the family soon, Perce. I don’t think you’re facing this as squarely as you ought. If you want to dispatch me to Morelands, to Morelands I will go. Gladys understands.”

  Esther understood too, about some things. “Peter is bedridden again. Because Arabella is preoccupied with her spouse, His Grace is no longer coming down for meals either.”

  Tony’s lips pursed. Around them, few others had braved the park’s chill this early. Sunlight bounced off the Serpentine in brittle shards, and Percival wondered if he ought to cancel his outing later in the day with Esther.

  “His Grace isn’t one for pouting,” Tony observed. “What does old Thomas say?”

  “Old Thomas is posting me regular reports. Says His Grace is off his feed, too.”

  Which was alarming. The duke Percival recalled from boyhood had been a hale, articulate, supremely self-possessed man, the equal of any occasion. The elderly, confused fellow at Morelands bore only the saddest resemblance to Percival’s sire.

  “I’ll go, Perce. Gladys will want a day or so to shop and organize, but I’ll go.”

  “My thanks.”

  They both fell silent as they came around a bend in the path. A woman sat perched on an elegant bay mare several yards ahead, the lady’s unpowdered hair nearly matching the horse’s gleaming coat.

  And not a groom to be seen.

  Percival’s every instinct told him this was an ambush. Seeing Kathleen St. Just had brought the past to mind, and for Percival, that past included Cecily O’Donnell. Their paths had not yet crossed this trip, and Percival had been hoping to avoid the woman altogether.

  While Percival liked Kathleen, respected her and wished her well, his association with Cecily O’Donnell was a small collection of expensive, rancid memories and uncomfortable regrets.

  “Your lordships, good morning!”

  The O’Donnell had always been abominably forward. Percival nodded coolly and urged Comet along the path.

  She turned her horse to more completely block the way, which was bloody stupid when she was on a mare and Percival was on a frisky young stallion. “Oh come now, Percy! Can’t you greet an old friend? And, Tony, you never used to be unfriendly.”

  Percival had the odd thought that even Cecily O’Donnell would not have approached him had he been with his lady wife. Would to God that he were.

  “Madam, good day.” He did not so much as touch his hat brim.

  “Tony, you’ll run along now. Dear Percy and I have things to discuss in private.”

  She’d drenched herself in some musky, sweet scent redolent of patchouli, and she used singsong tones another, much younger and sillier man might have taken for flirtation.

  Tony, bless him, stayed right where he was and uttered not a word of greeting.

  Percival let Comet toss his head restively. “I have nothing to discuss with you, madam. Unless you want to provoke my stallion to an unseemly display, you’ll move aside.”

  Though in truth, it was the mare who might deliver a stout kick to the stallion if she were crowded.


  “You are in error, dear man, and I am partly responsible. My apologies.” The devil himself could not have offered less sincere regrets to St. Peter.

  Percival shot a look at his brother. Tony would ride around and haul the woman’s horse off the path by the bridle at the first indication from Percival, but then, the damned female would only pop out from behind another bush at some more public moment.

  “Anthony, if you would oblige the… woman.” For she wasn’t a lady.

  Without acknowledging Mrs. O’Donnell in any way, Tony steered his gelding back a few yards on the path. A little privacy, no more, which was exactly what Percival intended.

  “What can you possibly have to discuss with me, ma’am? When you threw me over for some admiral five years ago, I withdrew from the field without protest. I am happily married”—he delighted in telling her that—“and your circumstances now are of no interest to me whatsoever.”

  And yet… the morning sun was not kind to a woman who’d been plying a strumpet’s trade practically since girlhood. Kathleen St. Just had looked tired, sad, and worried, while Cecily O’Donnell appeared as brittle and cold as the ice on the nearby water. Her hair, once her crowning glory, looked as if it had been dulled by regular applications of henna, and her skin, once toasted as flawless, looked sallow.

  Pity was a damned nuisance when coupled with a man’s regrets.

  Percival waited until Cecily had turned her horse then allowed Comet to walk forward. “What do you want?”

  “I’m a reasonable woman, Percy. What I want is reasonable too.”

  Part of what she wanted was dramatics. This aspect of her personality was one reason ending their casual association had been such a relief.

  “You’d best spit it out. Both my father and brother are ailing. I may well be leaving for Morelands this afternoon.” Forgive me, Papa and Peter.

  “I know.”

  She let the echo of that broadside fade. She’d been spying on him, or at least keeping up with gossip. Neither was encouraging.

  “Anybody who’s been to the theater would know. Get to the point.”

  “I’ve missed you, Percy.”

  Oh, for the love of God. “I cannot find that notion flattering—or sincere. If that’s all you had to say, I’ll just be going.” Comet, ever a sensitive lad, began to pull on the reins. Percival smoothed a hand down the stallion’s crest.

  “Damn you,” she hissed. “I might have been amicable, but you’re determined on your arrogance. You are the Moreland spare, and if you don’t want scandal the like of which will disgrace your family and destroy your welcome in polite circles, you’ll attend me at my home tomorrow promptly at ten of the clock.”

  Having made her threat, she whacked the mare stoutly with her whip and cantered off in high dudgeon, while Percival reined in and waited for Tony to catch up.

  “So?” Tony asked.

  “I am to attend her tomorrow morning at ten of the clock.” Late enough that any guest from the previous evening would be gone, early enough that decent folk would not yet be calling on one another.

  “I can’t like it, Perce. She’s a trollop in a way that has nothing to do with trading her favors for coin.”

  “I loathe it, but I’ll go. She’s plotting something, probably some form of blackmail. The woman has not aged well.”

  “Will I go with you?”

  “You’ll go back to Morelands.” Leaving Percival’s flank unprotected but guarding the home front.

  “Did you breed Comet overmuch this autumn?”

  Percival stared at his brother. “I did not. Why?”

  “He hardly noticed there was a female present, not in the sense a swain notices a damsel.”

  “Neither did I.” Which, thank a merciful deity, was nothing less than the complete truth.

  ***

  “Did you enjoy your meal, Esther?”

  Esther paused in setting up the white pieces on the chessboard—Percival insisted she have the opening advantage—and regarded her husband. “We’re having rather a lot of beef lately. Cook must have misplaced the menus I gave her.”

  Percival regarded one of her exquisitely carved ivory knights then passed it across to her. “Perhaps Cook is trying to turn the butcher’s boy up sweet. The shires can do with one or two fewer cows.”

  Several fewer cows. Percival had taken to passing her at least half his beefsteak at breakfast with a muttered, “Finish it for me? Mustn’t let good food go to waste.”

  A kiss to her cheek, and he’d be off for his morning hack or to a levee or one of his “never-ending, blighted, bedamned committee meetings.”

  In moments, they had the pieces arranged on the chessboard between them. Percival sat back and passed her his brandy. “A toast to a well-fought match.”

  He was up to something—still, yet, again. Esther took a sip and passed the drink back. “To a well-fought match.”

  She regarded the board with a relish she hadn’t felt since… “Percival, when was the last time we played chess?”

  His frown probably matched her own. “Not since… you were carrying Victor? Or was it Gayle?”

  They measured their lives in pregnancies and births, which had an intimacy to it. “Gayle. We played a lot of chess when I carried Gayle. You said the child would be professorial as a result, and he is.”

  “Then perhaps we should get into the habit of laughing, in the event you’re carrying again. A merry little girl would liven up Morelands considerably.”

  How was a woman to concentrate on chess when her husband came out with such observations? Did he want to try for a daughter, or was he saying Morelands lacked cheerful females?

  “My love, I am atremble in anticipation of your opening salvo.”

  Teasing, then. She was inclined to give as good as she got. “You should be atremble to contemplate your sons as grown men. If the mother’s behavior in gestation influences the child’s disposition, we’re likely to see a number of grandchildren at an early age.”

  Percival’s smile was sweet and naughty. “I suppose we are at that.”

  Esther opened with a feint toward the King’s Gambit, but whatever was distracting her husband of late, he was not completely oblivious to the pieces in play. She settled into a thoughtful game, sensing after about two dozen moves that Percival’s lack of focus would cost him the game.

  “Percival, you are not putting up enough of a fight.” And the chessboard was practically the only place Esther could challenge him and enjoy it.

  “I do apologize. More brandy?” He held up his drink, which he’d replenished at some point.

  “A sip. Maybe you are trying to addle my wits.”

  “Spirits fortify the blood. It’s my wits that are wanting. Shall I concede?”

  Three years ago, he would have fought to the last move, teasing and taunting her, vowing retribution behind closed doors for wives presuming to trounce their husbands on the field of battle.

  Three years ago, she had fought hard to provoke such nonsense.

  “You’re going to lose in about eight moves. I won’t be offended if you’d rather we retire.”

  He knocked over the black king with one finger. “I married a woman who can be gracious in victory. It shall be my privilege to escort that woman upstairs.”

  In fact, he escorted her to the nursery, taking the second rocking chair when she sent Valentine off to sleep with his final snack of the day. The way her husband watched this bedtime ritual—his expression wistful to the point of tenderness—sent unease curling up from Esther’s middle.

  When Percival had tucked “his favorite little tyrant” in for night and Esther herself was abed beside her husband, she reached for his hand. “Percival, I would not want to intrude into spheres beyond what is proper, but is something troubling you?”

  His sigh in the darkness was a
nswer enough, and when he rolled over and spooned himself around her, Esther’s unease spiked higher. “I received another communication from Peter today.”

  She’d been expecting him to put her off, or worse, explain to her that it was time their marriage took a more dignified turn. The little girl in the park came to mind, the one with the pretty features and the horrid mother.

  Though at one time, Percival had apparently thought the mother the very opposite of horrid.

  “This letter troubles you?”

  “Exceedingly.” Percival’s hand traced along Esther’s arm, a caress that let her know, for all his quiet, her husband was mentally galloping about at a great rate. She did not allow her mind to wander into thickets such as: Did my dear husband touch Mrs. Donnelly like this? Did he lie beside her and tell her his worries when the candles were doused? Does he long to again?

  Esther felt a brush of warm lips against her shoulder, and then Percival went on speaking, his mouth against her skin. “I have been telling myself that surely, Peter and Arabella will be blessed with a son. Their affection for each other is beyond doubt.”

  “Far beyond doubt. One has only to see how Peter watches Arabella from across the room.”

  “Or how she watches him.” Another silence, another kiss, then, “Peter sent a substantial bank draft.”

  Esther’s first reaction was that they were badly in need of a substantial bank draft. Then another reality sank in: “This saddens you.” She could hear it in his voice. Hear the grief and the dread.

  “He’s getting his affairs in order. He said as much in the letter, as if Peter’s affairs could ever be anything else. He’s preparing documents for the duke that will do likewise, and His Grace will sign those documents if Peter is the one asking him to.”

  The post came in the morning, and all day, the entire day, Percival had been carrying this burden alone. Esther rolled over and wrapped her arms around her husband. “Peter may yet rally. His Grace still has good days.”

  Percival submitted to Esther’s embrace like the inherently affectionate man he was, also like a man who had too few safe havens. “Peter assured me there was no possibility Arabella could conceive.”