Duke and His Duchess

by Grace Burrowes

  ***

  “I fear for the bovine population in the Home Counties,” Esther muttered as her husband seated her for an evening meal that once again featured beef.

  His smooth gallantry faltered, something only a wife of several year’s duration would notice. Percival leaned closer to Esther’s ear. “I care not what is served when the company at table is my lovely wife, whom I once again have all to myself.”

  Esther smiled, but Percival’s flattery rang hollow. Everything had rung hollow since Esther had found Kathleen St. Just shivering at the gate.

  Percival took his seat at Esther’s elbow and poured them each a glass of wine. “What did my dear wife find to occupy herself today?”

  Esther sampled her wine, needing the time to fashion a fabrication. “I saw Gladys and Tony off, settled a dispute between warring tribes of Hottentots in the nursery, penned a disgustingly cheery epistle to Arabella, reviewed the household accounts with Mrs. Slade, discussed with her several candidates for the upstairs maid’s position, and then made a half-dozen morning calls. Devonshire sends his regards and despairs of your politics.”

  His Grace had sent a few looks Esther’s way, too, the rascal.

  Percival seized on the one aspect of Esther’s day with financial consequences. “We’re hiring another maid?”

  Esther watched while he served her a portion of soup that savored strongly of—but, of course—beef broth.

  “I’m replacing the one who found herself in an interesting condition. Surely you noticed?”

  Percival’s expression was hard to read, suggesting he truly hadn’t noticed the girl’s expanding belly. “Do we know who’s responsible?”

  “I have not inquired. I suspect one of the footmen.”

  The unreadable expression became one of distaste. “Shall I have a talk with the man?”

  Esther had not considered this option, so she spoke slowly. “He’s young, Percival, and probably fears if we know he’s been taking liberties, he’ll lose his position. Then he won’t have even his wages to offer as support for the child.”

  An image of Kathleen St. Just came to mind, her dark-haired, watchful son at her side. Esther’s fingers traced around her wrist. When she’d dressed this morning, she’d fastened on a pearl bracelet her grandmother had given her upon leaving the schoolroom. The jewelry wasn’t fancy enough to raise eyebrows on Ludgate Hill, but it would feed the child for quite some time. She hoped it would feed the child.

  “Let young Romeo keep his wages,” Percival said, “provided he takes a wife. Are you enjoying your soup?”

  Esther glanced at her nearly empty bowl. “It appears I am. You’d allow a footman to marry?”

  “I will not allow a child to go hungry merely because her parents were young and foolish. The mother will have to find lodging elsewhere, lest Moreland take offense at my interference. Is she a village girl?”

  “From Dorset, though she speaks well enough and is clever with a needle. I could send her some mending if she finds lodging nearby.”

  “Excellent notion.” Percival moved the soup dishes to the side and began carving Esther a serving of roasted beef that would have fed Tony for several days of forced march. “How are my little Hottentots, and what could they possibly be waging war over?”

  The topic of tribal warfare in the nursery was much safer, though why the exchange regarding a straying chambermaid and her swain should be upsetting, Esther did not know.

  Not exactly upsetting, but Percival’s reaction to it gave Esther pause.

  He deserved to know about the boy, Devlin St. Just. Esther admitted this to herself as she and her husband wandered up to the jungle on the third floor, and tucked sleepy, well-fed, happy little warriors into their cozy beds.

  As Esther settled Valentine into his crib, and Percival waited patiently in a rocking chair by the fire, Esther realized the decision was not truly about Percival’s deserts, or about Mrs. St. Just’s, or even about Esther’s.

  A boy needed to know who his father was and to have the protection that man could afford him in this precarious and difficult life. One pearl bracelet was no substitute for a father’s protection, much less a father’s love.

  Coming to this conclusion and broaching the matter with her spouse were two separate acts of courage.

  In a silence that should have been companionable, Esther accepted her husband’s assistance undressing. His hands lingered in seductive locations, on her nape when he unfastened a necklace, at the base of her spine when he unhooked her dress. His lips strayed to the spot beneath her ear that sent shivers over her skin.

  Of all nights, why was he seducing her now?

  When she was wearing only a chemise, Esther turned, intending to unknot Percival’s neckcloth. She was willing to be seduced, willing to accept some marital comfort and to forget for a few moments what—whom—the day had brought to her back gate.

  Had Percival not built up the fire while Esther had removed her remaining jewelry, Esther might have missed the little glint of red on his sleeve. She drew his neckcloth from him slowly and turned to toss it over the open door of the wardrobe, when a hint of coppery fire caught her eye.

  Two red hairs lay on his coat at the shoulder, two brilliant, gracefully curving commas of evidence that Percival had been close to somebody other than his wife. Mrs. St. Just had hair that shade, but she would hardly have come calling at the home of a man who was paying her for her favors, would she?

  Gladys also had red hair, but not nearly this long.

  “Esther?” Percival leaned down and brushed his lips across hers. “I would join my wife in our bed, if she’d allow it.”

  He was asking to bed her, to exercise his marital privileges, while his very clothing bore traces of congress with somebody else.

  “Of course, Percival.” Esther finished undressing her husband, wondering how it was that she could love a man whose casual behavior also had the power to devastate her.

  When she was naked on her back, Percival braced above her and, joining their bodies with excruciating deliberateness, Esther tried to push the ugly, desolate thoughts aside:

  Was it guilt—or something more arrogant and possessive—that drove him to make love to his wife while he was also keeping a mistress?

  Should she wait out his renewed interest in the behaviors of an unmarried man, or accept that their marriage had served its purpose and separate lives awaited them?

  Percival set up a languorous rhythm, tucking himself close and running his nose around her ear. “Where are you, Wife? Do you grow bored with your husband’s attentions?”

  He punctuated the question with a kiss, a hot joining of mouths that tormented as it aroused: Did he kiss his mistress this way?

  As Esther’s body undulated in counterpoint to her husband’s, her imagination flashed on Cecily O’Donnell’s bright red hair and full mouth. Even through the pain of that recollection, Esther felt her husband’s passion shift from teasing to focused arousal. She responded—some part of her hated that she did; another part of her wept from the relief of it.

  Percival levered up on his arms, regarding her by firelight as their bodies strained together. “I love you, Esther Windham. Only you, always you.”

  She traced her fingers over his jaw. He meant those words. Here, now, their bodies joined, he meant those words with his whole heart.

  “Percival, I love you too.”

  This was a truth as well, one that might yield to what lay before them. As Esther gave herself over to her husband’s pleasuring and felt the first quickening flutters deep in her body, she said a prayer that their love would somehow endure the coming storm.

  ***

  Lovemaking was different when a man was trying to get his wife pregnant, though Esther might kick him to Cumbria if she suspected that was his aim. Instead, she sighed and trembled and ran her hands over his
backside and over his shoulders, in the light, warm caresses he’d learned to crave.

  “Percival, I love you too.”

  The words were wrenched from her, as if against her will. As he plunged into Esther’s body, Percival had the sense that her orgasm was also wrenched from her, a surrender she regretted even as the pleasure grew most fierce.

  When he was sure her passion had been sated, Percival let himself fly free too.

  A child, please, one more child so I might have reason to call on my wife when all other excuses have been exhausted.

  The release was exquisitely intense, in part a function of long denial, but also, Percival suspected, a function of desperation. When he’d regained the ability to move, he pitched off his wife and drew her against his side.

  “Percival?” Esther’s fingers winnowed through his hair. “Did you intend that?”

  That. Did he intend to risk conception, when for the past months they’d been avoiding it? The question was free of judgment on her part and reasonable, so he told a reasonable lie in response.

  “I did not. My self-restraint grows weak from overuse, perhaps, or the pleasures we share overwhelm it.” He kissed her cheek, drawing in the scent of roses and despair—he had sunk to lying to his wife in their very bed.

  Something in Esther’s silence told him his prevarications lacked conviction, so he troweled a layer of truth onto his falsehood. “You’ve seemed less tired lately, Esther, or am I mistaken?”

  A few beats of quiet went by while Percival traced the curve of her jaw. The depths to which he would miss this woman were unfathomable. How did a man march off to war, leaving his wife and family behind?

  How did a man not march off to war, when his wife and family were threatened?

  “You are not mistaken. I am feeling somewhat better.”

  She sounded surprised, as if she were just realizing it. Percival sent up a prayer of thanks and reminded himself to renew his orders to the kitchen. Not a cow would be left standing in the realm if feeding his wife beef was restoring her health.

  Except soon he would not be in a position to dictate her menus. Percival closed his eyes and gathered his wife closer.

  “Are you up to a trip back to Morelands, Esther?”

  Another silence. She rolled out of his embrace to lie on her back. When she didn’t reach for his hand, Percival reached for hers.

  “You just sent Tony and Gladys to Morelands, and the children have only in the past few days settled in here, Percival.”

  She did not want to go. He took solace from that. Better she not want to go than that she leave him all too willingly.

  “I’ll follow soon, my love. The holidays will be upon us, Parliament will recess, and His Majesty will understand that my place is with my family.” God willing, Cecily O’Donnell would understand too.

  He waited, listening to the soft roar of the fire while Esther’s fingers went lax in his. “Esther?”

  She had either fallen asleep or was feigning sleep. In either case, she hadn’t refused his request for a swift departure to the country—nor had she given her consent.

  ***

  “How much do you want?” When he longed to wring Cecily O’Donnell’s neck, Percival instead affected bored tones.

  Cecily rested her fingers on the décolletage of a gown that barely contained her breasts, a gesture intended to call attention to the pink flesh peeking through pale lace just above her nipples.

  “This isn’t entirely about money, Percy. This is about what’s due the daughter of a man well placed in Society. I’ve heard you might stand for a seat in the Commons, and with your ambition and social stature, there’s no telling how high you might rise in the government.”

  She threatened and flattered with equal guile, though as far as Percival was concerned, her words meant nothing compared to the documents she’d produced. Irrefutable evidence that the girl, Magdalene, could indeed be his daughter.

  “Magdalene is a by-blow at best, madam. One you chose to keep from my notice until the moment suited you. Society will remark that and draw conclusions that will not devolve to the girl’s benefit.”

  Cecily’s rouged lips compressed, suggesting this line of reasoning had escaped her consideration. “Society will keep its opinions to itself if we’re seen in company often enough.”

  “No.”

  The word slipped out with too much conviction, such that even Cecily couldn’t hide her reaction.

  “You are not in a position to dictate terms to me, Percival Windham. I spread my legs at your request, and you will honor the resulting obligations.”

  “I will never rise in government, will never even take a seat in the Commons if you’re seen hanging on my arm. His Majesty takes a dim of view of licentiousness, as does his queen.”

  Cecily rose from her sofa on a rustle of skirts and marched up to Percival, her heeled slippers making her almost of a height with him. “Then you won’t take that seat. I’ve provided for this child every day of her life, seen her clothed, fed, educated, and disciplined. You will not turn you back on her without losing what reputation you have. I’ll bruit about details of our liaison your own brother will blush to hear.”

  The scent of rice powder and bitterness wafted from her person. This close, Percival could see the fine lines radiating from her eyes, the grooves starting around her smile. He turned away and fixed his gaze on the clock that graced her mantel.

  Esther was tired, her stamina and energy stolen by successive births. Cecily O’Donnell had given up her youth and her coin to nights at the theater, high fashion, and a succession of lucrative liaisons. Percival watched the hand of the clock move forward by a single minute and realized he could not leave the child in Cecily O’Donnell’s keeping. If a woman was to end up exhausted, worn out, and much in need of cosseting, then it should be because she’d sacrificed much to her children, and not to her own vanity.

  And as for a seat in the Commons? Esther had not been enthusiastic about such a prospect. Percival tossed that ambition aside between one tick of the clock and the next.

  He shifted his gaze to Cecily’s face. “I shall visit with my daughter now.”

  Triumph flared in Cecily’s calculating eyes. He’d admitted paternity, though it meant nothing without witnesses. On instinct, Percival whipped open the parlor door to find a footman crouched by the keyhole.

  Bloody damn, he’d been stupid. “You, sir, will take me to the nursery, now.”

  Cecily sputtered several dire curses then fell into silence, though Percival knew she was merely planning her next series of broadsides.

  Leaving the woman to sip her tea and plot his downfall, Percival went on reconnaissance through the upper reaches of the house. What he found disappointed more than it surprised. At the head of the stairs, Cecily’s bedroom was still a temple to elegant indulgence. The bed hangings, curtains, and pillows were all done in matching shades of soft green brocade, and a single white rose graced the night table. Beyond the bedroom, the house grew increasingly chilly, and on the third floor, there was not a carpet to be found.

  The footman knocked on the nursery door, which was opened by the child herself.

  “Hullo.”

  Percival glowered at the footman. “Leave us.”

  The man withdrew, looking unabashedly relieved.

  “May I come in?”

  She drew the door back, revealing a room made sunny—also downright cold—by the lack of curtains across the windows. In the middle of the bare floor sat a worn mess of fabric, yarn, and stuffing that might once have been a doll, along with five wooden soldiers, one of whom was missing part of a leg.

  The grate held no fire.

  “I was taking tea with the regimental officers. Would you like to join us?”

  He’d freeze if he spent much time in this room. Maggie did not seem aware of the cold.
Her braids were ratty, her short dress stained at the hem, and her pinafore fastened with a knot rather than bow at the back.

  “Tea would be lovely.” He loathed the stuff.

  Maggie took him by the hand—her little fingers were like ice—and drew him into the room. “I will make the introductions. You may sit there.” She settled onto the floor with a fluffing of her pinafore and dress that bore a disquieting resemblance to her mother’s pretentious manners. Percival lowered himself across from her, haunted by the memory of visits with his boys in their cozy, carpeted nursery—a room full of books, toys, and comforts.

  While Percival felt despair clutching ever more tightly at his heart, little Maggie spun a fantasy of a polite tea with elegant service, crumpets, servants, and a cozy fire in the grate, which the imaginary footman tended about every two minutes.

  When he could tolerate her play no more, Percival interrupted his daughter’s diatribe on whose wig was the most ridiculous at last night’s soiree.

  “Maggie, where is your nurse?”

  Her gaze narrowed on him, showing displeasure at having to give up her fictional tea party. “I haven’t a nurse. Mrs. Anglethorpe is the housekeeper. Burton is our maid of all work, and if Mama wants me, Burton fetches me.”

  “Then who dresses you, child?”

  Downy little brows twitched down. “I dress myself. I’m not a baby.”

  She was not. He knew exactly how old she was, and she was not an infant. She was a handful of months older than Bartholomew.

  “Who cares for you, Maggie?”

  She studied him with an expression of consternation. “Burton says Mama loves me, but I can take care of myself.”

  The despair weighting Percival’s heart threatened to choke him. He could not abandon this child to the care of her mother. He simply could not—his honor would not allow it, and in some way, even his standing as Esther’s husband would not allow it. For a moment, he considered confiding in his wife, but even if Esther were inclined to be understanding, there was nothing she could do to still Cecily O’Donnell’s vile tongue.