“I wish Peter and His Grace had lived to see this baby, Percival. They doted so on Sophie.”
Percival went quiet for a moment, mesmerized by the sight of yet another healthy, beautiful child to bless their marriage. A man might love his wife to distraction—and Percival did—but love was too paltry a word for what he felt for the mother of his children.
“In some ways, their last year was their best, Esther. That tincture gave Peter quite a reprieve, and His Grace perked up considerably when you presented him with a granddaughter.”
His nursemaid had perked him up, though the young lady had been Esther’s companion in the late duke’s mind, and nobody had disabused him of this idea.
“Percival, it’s Thursday.”
“It’s Louisa Windham’s birthday,” he replied, kissing Esther’s cheek. “Two months from now, if I’m a good boy, I may have some pudding.”
Esther turned to kiss his cheek. She was wearing one of his dressing gowns—the daft woman claimed the scent of him comforted her through her travail, and because she came through each lying-in with fine style, Percival didn’t argue with her wisdom.
“Today is Thursday, Percival, and your committees meet on Thursday. You never miss those meetings. The government will fall if you neglect your politics. George himself has said nobody else has your talent for brokering compromises.”
That the king admired such talent mattered little compared to Esther’s regard for it. Percival traded babies with his wife, then gently rubbed noses with Sophie, which made the infant giggle. “Am I or am not the Duke of Moreland, madam?”
Esther loved it when he used those imperious tones on her, and he loved it equally when she turned up duchess on him.
“You are Moreland, and it shall ever be my privilege to be your duchess.” His duchess had labored from two hours past midnight until dawn, and could not hide the yawn that stole up on her. Even a duchess was entitled to yawn occasionally.
“And my blessing to call you so. But, Esther, as that fellow standing approximately sixty-seventh in line for the throne, I’d like somebody to explain to me why it is, when all I need are three more votes to carry the bill on children in the foundries, I am incapable of seeing such a thing done.”
He should not be bringing his frustrations up to her now, but in the past few years, Esther had become his greatest confidante, and for the first time in months, he did not want to attend his meetings.
“When do you expect the vote to come up?”
Right to the heart of the matter, that was his duchess. “Too soon. I’m sure if I could turn Anselm to my way of thinking, then Dodd would come along, and then several others would see the light, but they won’t break ranks.”
Esther stroked her fingers over Louisa’s dark mop of hair. “Lady Dodd was recently delivered of a son.”
Percival had learned by now that Esther did not speak in non sequiturs, not even when tired. She was the soul of logic; it remained only for Percival to divine her reasoning.
“I know. Dodd was drunk for most of a week, boasting of having secured the succession within a year of marriage. The man hasn’t a spare, outside of a third cousin, and he thinks his succession ensured.”
Children died in foundries, died and were burned horribly. How could Dodd not know his own offspring were just as fragile?
“How old is Anselm’s heir?” Esther asked.
Percival raised and lowered his tiny daughter and cradled her against his chest, because Esther’s question was pertinent. He wasn’t sure how, but it was very pertinent.
“He has a daughter, and a boy in leading strings. His lady believes in spacing her confinements, which imposition he reports to all and sundry before his third bottle of a night.”
“Not every couple is as blessed as we are, Your Grace. Who else would you consider to be susceptible to a change in vote?”
The Duke of Moreland left off flirting with his infant daughter and offered his duchess a slow, wicked smile. “My love, you are scheming. I adore it when you scheme.”
He suspected Esther rather enjoyed it too, though she no doubt fretted that somewhere there was a silly rule about duchesses eschewing scheming. What duchess could fail to aid her duke, though, when it made him so happy to have her assistance—and was such fun?
“A lying-in party, I think,” Esther said, smoothing a hand over Louisa’s hair. “I will have their ladies to tea, ask after the children, and mention your little bill.”
“You won’t mention it. You’ll gently bludgeon them with it. They’ll leave here weeping into their handkerchiefs.” And God help their husbands when the ladies arrived home.
“We’ll follow up with dinner,” Esther said, her tone suggesting she was already at work on the seating arrangements. “We’ll invite Anselm one night, and Dodd the next, and you can drag them up to the nursery to admire the children before we sit down.”
“We have very handsome children.” Percival ran a finger down Louisa’s tiny nose. “And I have a brilliant wife. It could work, Esther.”
“Divide and conquer. Pull Dodd aside one night, tell him your wife is haranguing you about this bill, and she’s recently delivered of another child. He’ll sympathize with you as a husband and papa like he’d never bow down to you as a duke.”
When a man should not be capable of holding any more happiness, Percival felt yet another increment of delight in his duchess. “Because Dodd’s naught but a viscount, and they are a troublesome lot. I’ll do the same thing with Anselm the next night and imply Dodd would capitulate, except he feared losing face with his fellows. My love, you are a marvel.” He turned to kiss her then drew back. “A tired marvel. I see a flaw in your plan, though.”
She cradled his cheek against her palm, looking tired—also pleased with her husband. “One anticipates most plans will benefit from your thoughts, Your Grace.”
He kissed her—a businesslike kiss that nonetheless nurtured his soul. “You will be lying-in. No political dinners for you for at least a month.”
She’d eschewed the old tradition of a forty-day lying-in several babies ago. Inactivity was not in the Duchess of Moreland’s nature.
“Two weeks ought to be sufficient, Percival. This was not a difficult birthing, and as that lady married to the fellow approximately sixty-seventh in line for the throne, I’ve decided I need practice making royal decrees.”
What she needed was a nap. Percival didn’t dare suggest that.
“Planning is one of your strengths, Esther. Though I do worry about your health. With each child, the worry does not abate, it grows worse. What proclamation are you contemplating?”
She kissed his wrist. “You need not fret, Husband. Every duchess has a carnivorous streak if she knows what’s good for her. I’ll soon be on the mend, or you’ll be slaying hapless bovines to make it so. Now attend me.”
“I am helpless to do otherwise, as well you should know.”
“The government will topple without you, I know that, your king knows it, and I suspect all of Parliament—when sober—understands your value, but I saw you first.”
She was tired, she was pleased with the night’s work—very pleased, and well she should be—but Percival also saw that his wife was working up to something, something important to her that must therefore also be important to him, even on Thursdays.
“Esther, I love you, and I will always love you. You need not issue a proclamation. You need only ask.”
“Then I am asking for my Thursdays back.”
“I wasn’t aware Thursdays had been taken from you, Your Grace.” And yet they had—they’d been taken from him, too, and given to the ungrateful wretches in the Lords.
“Percival, I recall that trip we took up to Town only a few years ago, when Devlin and Maggie came to join our household. I was so worried then, for us and for our children, and one of the ways I knew my
worry was not silly was that you’d forgotten our Thursdays. I’m not worried now, but I think we need our Thursdays back.”
Something warm turned over in Percival’s heart. He loved his wife, but it was wonderful to know he was still in love with her too—more than ever.
“Parliament can go hang,” Percival said, stroking a hand over his duchess’s golden hair. “We shall have our Thursdays back, and no one and nothing shall take them from us, or from our children.”
The duchess’s proclamation stood throughout shifts in government, the arrival of more babies, the maturation of those babies into ladies and gentlemen, and even through the arrival of grandbabies and great-grandbabies—though given the nature of large, busy, families, Thursday occasionally fell on Tuesday or sometimes came twice a week.
Whether Thursday fell on some other day or in its traditional position, Esther knew she would always have her husband’s Thursdays, and his heart—and he would forever have hers.
If you enjoyed this tale of The Duke and His Duchess, then be sure to read more about Esther and Percival in:
The Courtship, a novella
And about the next generation of Windhams in:
The Heir
The Soldier
The Virtuoso
Lady Sophie’s Christmas Wish
Lady Maggie’s Secret Scandal
Lady Louisa’s Christmas Knight
Lady Eve’s Indiscretion
Lady Jenny’s Christmas Portrait (October 2013)
Look for more Regency romance from Grace Burrowes, with her new Lonely Lords series:
Darius (April 2013)
Nicholas (May 2013)
Ethan (June 2013)
Beckman (July 2013)
And enjoy Grace’s Victorian romances set in the Scottish Highlands:
The Bridegroom Wore Plaid
Once Upon a Tartan (August 2013)
Acknowledgments
My editor, Deb Werksman, is responsible for inspiring this novella. She read The Courtship and liked it, but told me I’d left half of Their Graces’ early story untold—the more interesting half.
The fact that I had not one clue what that more interesting story might be was of no moment to Madam Editor. She has faith in my abilities, you see. Such high regard provides a powerful boost to the imagination, and the result is the story you’ve just read.
So please add Deb as an honorary member of the Windham family, for I certainly do, and I’m sure Their Graces do too.
About the Author
New York Times and USA Today bestselling author Grace Burrowes hit the bestseller lists with both her debut, The Heir, and her second book in The Duke’s Obsession trilogy, The Soldier. Both books received extensive praise and starred reviews from Publishers Weekly and Booklist. The Heir was also named a Publishers Weekly Best Book of 2010, and The Soldier was named a Publishers Weekly Best Spring Romance of 2011. Her first story in the Windham’s sisters’ series—Lady Sophie’s Christmas Wish—received the RT Book Reviews Reviewers’ Choice award for historical romance, was nominated for a RITA in the Regency category and also made the New York Times list. She is hard at work on a stunning new series beginning with Darius, more stories for the Windham sisters, and has started a trilogy of Scottish Victorian romances, the first of which, The Bridegroom Wore Plaid, was a Publishers Weekly Best Book of 2012.
Grace lives in rural Maryland and is a practicing attorney. She loves to hear from her readers and can be reached through her website at graceburrowes.com.
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