His Grace’s expression changed, wry humor twisting his lips. “A hit, Esther. A very palpable hit. I’m no better at managing funds than Prinny is. You are appealing to my better nature, and I hate it when you do that.”
“Eat your sandwiches, Your Grace. I need some fellows to make up the numbers at this week’s dinner, possibly next week’s, as well.”
The ducal maw made quick inroads on the first of three sandwiches. “Two dinners? How many fellows?”
“I’m thinking at least a half-dozen fellows, all unmarried. I want them to have some political conversation, lest anybody think—”
He put a grape to her lips. She met his gaze and slowly, deliberately, let him feed her a succulent bite of fruit. “You want me to host this week’s political dinner, my love—yet another political dinner—while we flaunt some prospects before our daughters. Not a bad gambit, Esther.”
His Grace would see it as flaunting prospects before the girls, not the other way around. Esther loved him for it and fed him a grape.
“I can think of any number of promising young MPs who can be here on short notice, Esther, but our girls deserve to aim higher.”
“MPs often advance through merit and patronage.” Their girls deserved love, loyalty, affection, intelligent company, and babies. “Your patronage is sufficient to ensure a young man is looked on favorably by the rest of the polite world.”
“More flattery.” His Grace reached for a tea cake then hesitated and sat back. Esther put two on a plate and passed it to her husband.
“Honest flattery.” While she doled out cakes, he went on to name a dozen young men with acceptable political inclinations from good families.
This was a compromise on their parts. Esther knew it, His Grace knew it, but they did not speak of it. Younger sons rather than heirs with courtesy titles, good families rather than the very best families, political dinners rather than a fancy ball with all the trimmings. People would notice that Moreland was widening the search for husbands for his remaining daughters.
They would notice, but they would not talk. They dared not.
His Grace reached for the last chocolate cake. “If we’re going to all this trouble, Esther, add Joseph Carrington’s name to your guest list.”
“Sir Joseph?” Esther went to pour herself another half cup of chocolate only to find the pot was empty. This happened when she shared her repast with her husband. “Is he in Town?”
“He’s making the expected rounds. A well-heeled Knight Commander of the Bath can’t comport himself as if he’s merely gentry.”
“He’s hardly political, though, so why are we inviting him? I have the sense Sir Joseph would rather lead a retiring life than be subjected to the social whirl.”
“Invite him for two reasons. First, I can talk hounds and horses with him, which accomplishment likely eludes all the tulips and MPs we’ll be parading past the girls.”
Sound reasoning, though it also pointed out that the young men invited lacked an appreciation for the countryside, which did not bode well for their compatibility with the Windham daughters. “What’s the second reason?”
His Grace picked up the last cluster of grapes, tore one off, and offered it to his wife. “Carrington has donated generously to Prinny’s little projects from time to time. The more the moneyed class takes on the burden of His Royal Highness’s wild starts, the less the government will be expected to do so. Carrington’s generosity should be rewarded in the usual way, and if I show Sir Joseph my favor, Prinny is more likely to take notice of the man.”
He fed her another grape. Given that Esther had accomplished her goal—enlisting His Grace’s support for these social overtures on behalf of their daughters—she refrained from pointing out that quiet, unassuming Joseph Carrington was probably the last man who’d want or appreciate the burden of a title.
She ate the grapes her husband fed her and contemplated the seating arrangements for her dinners.
***
“You have to write back to her.” Emmie St. Just—she was the Countess of Rosecroft only when the appellation was unavoidable—plucked the letter from her husband’s hands, unhooked the glasses from his ears, and leaned down to kiss him where he reclined against the bed’s headboard. When she let him up for air, St. Just expected he looked a little dazed.
“Why can’t you write to darling Lou?” He used the end of Emmie’s blond braid to dab at her nose as she straddled his lap. “You ladies and your correspondence would put Wellington’s intelligence network to shame.” Wellington himself had expressed the same sentiment.
“You write to your brothers, you write to some of your fellow officers and your men, you write—” Her breathing hitched while he drew her down against his chest, the better to have this little argument with her. A married man soon learned the knack of a good argument with his spouse. “You write to your parents. Why not write to your sister?”
He kissed her temple, catching a hint of her lavender scent. “I write to my sisters.”
Was there anything more gratifying to a man than the telltale little pause before the wife in his arms could muster her list of reasons and persuasions?
“You dash off notes, barely legi—legible. St. Just, I cannot think when you rub my back, and Louisa’s situation is important.”
“Making my wife comfortable is important too. Why do you think Louisa’s situation is serious?” St. Just agreed with his wife, though he couldn’t quite say why.
Emmie cuddled closer. “She sounds desperate, St. Just. Battle weary, lonely. I can’t imagine it’s easy for her to ask for sanctuary with you.”
Sanctuary not with him—he was a dubious source of safety for anybody—but with him and his wife and children. That proposition was rock solid. He patted the rounded abundance of his wife’s fundament.
“Sanctuary with us, though Louisa is the last woman to admit a need for assistance. I’ve never met a woman so self-sufficient and unsentimental when it comes to matters of the heart.”
Though in other matters, Louisa had emphatically enlisted her brothers’ assistance. That thought gave St. Just pause.
Emmie heaved a sigh that did nice things for where their bodies were tucked so closely together, though it suggested St. Just’s wishes would not prevail on the topic at hand.
“You mistake an abundance of logic for a lack of sentiment, St. Just. Louisa has a very tender heart, and I am worried for her. She hasn’t asked to visit us before, and certainly not during the spring Season.”
The timing of the request was indeed suspicious. “I’m pleased, in a sense, that she’d turn to us, though that’s selfish of me.”
Emmie raised her head to regard St. Just with an expression any husband would know meant serious study. “You haven’t a selfish bone in your handsome body, St. Just. If you want Louisa to spend the spring with us, if you want her to live with us, then we’ll make her welcome.”
No argument there. St. Just kissed his wife, because those protective instincts she’d lavished on him to such good effect were so easily extended to his loved ones. “I don’t think it’s time for Lou to blow full retreat. She just hasn’t met the right fellow.”
“So you’re delaying an answer to her.” Emmie folded back down to his chest and drew her nose up along his throat. “I should have realized you have a strategy. I’m going to write to her anyway and extend an invitation for an after the holiday visit.”
Spring was months away. An invitation might give Lou something to look forward to, and it might never result in a visit.
“And what about an invitation to me, Emmaline St. Just?” He kissed her cheek then her brow. “I could use a little welcome too, you know. You abandon me for the livelong day, go racketing about with our daughters, leaving a man to doubt you even recall—” He paused in his pouting while Emmie settled a little more snugly onto his body. “That is a charming invitation, Wife. I will consider accepting it.”
While she laughed at him softly, St. Just made a menta
l note to dispatch some orders to Carrington—Sir Joseph, nowadays—to do a little reconnaissance where Louisa was concerned. If anybody could reconnoiter a situation without being detected, it was Carrington, and the man needed the occasional assignment lest he lapse into a fit of brooding.
Emmie sighed against his neck, a breathy gust of pleasure that made him close his eyes and give thanks for the many blessings of peace. “Em, is there any reason in particular you want some adult female company this spring?” Theirs was a retiring life, focused on their children, their horses, and each other. “Are you lonely?”
He cradled the back of her head against his palm and went still while he waited for an answer.
“I’m not expecting again that I know of, St. Just, if that’s what you’re asking. Though if you’re done with all this chattering, perhaps you’ll soon put the lie to my words.”
“You’d like that?” He closed his eyes, seeing her once again gravid with their child, rosy, pleased with him and life and all it held. The thought made his throat ache and the breath in his chest seize.
“I would adore another baby, Devlin. Almost as much as I adore you.” She spoke softly and ran her hand over his hair in the most gentle of caresses.
“If it’s your wish to be expecting again, Em, then perhaps by morning, you shall be.”
Five
“Switch seats with me.” Louisa smiled at Jenny, a brilliant, false smile that nearly outshone the crowded formal drawing room’s chandeliers.
Jenny smiled back and bent her head as if to whisper some juicy gossip in return. “You want me to sit between Lord Lionel and Mr. Samuels?”
That was part of what Louisa wanted, to see her pretty, blond sister flirting and joking the evening away six seats down the table, lest Louisa have to endure more of Lionel’s slumberous gazes. “Please.”
Jenny nodded and moved off. Across the room, between sunny smiles at a trio of dazzled young MPs in holiday finery, Eve arched an eyebrow. What were you two just whispering about, and when will you tell me?
There would be time for explanations later. Louisa spotted her quarry in a corner, the same corner he’d been in ten minutes ago, and his gaze was still intent upon his drink.
“Sir Joseph.” Louisa dimmed her smile when he blinked at her. “A pleasure to see you again.”
He did not look pleased. He looked startled and uncomfortable. “Lady Louisa, a pleasure, of course.”
She’d heard that voice in her dreams, murmuring poetry while the winter breeze waltzed with dead leaves and the sun sparkled on the Serpentine. “Your Grace, will you excuse Sir Joseph? He’s to lead me in to supper.”
The duke winked at his guest. “Lucky man. We must speak further, Carrington, regarding that other matter. Louisa.” The duke bowed to his daughter and withdrew, not before Louisa caught a slight admonitory glare from her father.
“What other matter, Sir Joseph?”
Her escort’s lips quirked as they linked arms. Louisa found herself watching his mouth, waiting for his genuine article smile.
“Swine, livestock, if you want a marginally less vulgar word. Gloucestershire orchard hogs, to be specific, and their commercial viability. Not a fit topic to entertain a lady at dinner.”
He ran his free hand through his hair. This same gesture was characteristic of Louisa’s brother, the Earl of Westhaven, when that worthy was feeling at a loss and exasperated. Louisa leaned a little closer to her escort.
“I considered you were in need of rescuing. Papa does not understand that most of us, those of us who aren’t dukes or duchesses, must comport ourselves according to certain rules. He’ll accost you regarding your livestock. He’ll ask Summerdale if he’s gotten his daughters launched yet. He’ll shout halfway down the table about how it’s too bad Mr. Trottenham’s filly lost in the second race at Newmarket.”
Some of the tension eased from Sir Joseph’s face. “I might make a passable duke, then. I have no notion which topics are acceptable, which are beyond the pale, which are tolerable among men but not women… nobody writes these things down so a fellow can comprehend them when he needs to.”
Louisa saw the butler in the corner of the room trying to catch the duchess’s eye. “I rather like that you don’t know, Sir Joseph.”
“You like that I’m ignorant. Are you courting a career as an eccentric, Lady Louisa? I would sooner ride unarmed across all of central Spain with Old Hookey’s own orders in my shirt than have to navigate one more ballroom, one more musicale.”
“I know.” The words slipped out, making Louisa wish she had a drink in her hand. A good stout nip of Sir Joseph’s flask would serve nicely. “I mean, I know how you feel. Like the hands of the clock will not move, like your spirit has taken leave of your body and is perched up among the cupids on the ceiling, just waiting, waiting, waiting for the evening to be over. And the next night, it’s the same thing, as if Christmas is not a holiday so much as the start of a brief reprieve.”
“Is all of London in secret dread of the very social gatherings we’re told are not to be missed?” He stood close enough to her that they need not have kept their voices down—close enough that she could catch a whiff of his cedary scent—and she did not move away.
“I have wondered the same thing myself. Shall we line up?”
He put his hand over hers where it rested on his sleeve, a small proprietary gesture that made Louisa think of her parents. She’d been right to extract Sir Joseph from His Grace’s clutches. Right to subject Jenny to an evening of Lord Lionel’s glittering company.
Two couples ahead, Jenny was simpering and beaming on her escort’s arm, her blond beauty suiting his own good looks admirably.
The sight should have left Louisa envious—much more envious than she was. Instead she was hopeful. Jenny liked beautiful objects, and Lionel was certainly that. Perhaps Jenny and Lord Lace might find common ground, and then, who knew what might grow from it?
“Tell me about your horse, Sir Joseph. Did you train him yourself?”
He blew out a breath, no doubt mentally rolling up his sleeves for the ordeal that was dinner conversation. “Sonnet is like a small child with too much cleverness. He must be kept entertained, or he gets up to mischief. The tricks, the haute école, the frequent outings are more in the nature of self-defense for the rider than anything else.”
The horse sounded like a debutante with an unfortunately lively turn of mind, and Louisa said as much. She managed to keep the topic going through the soup course, but then the going became more difficult. Their neighbors had apparently decided that Louisa had earned the exclusive pleasure of conversing with Sir Joseph—and he with her—though he showed no inclination to pull his share of the load. Perhaps his dislike for the parliamentary dinner exceeded her own, which hardly seemed possible.
By the third remove, Louisa was growing desperate.
“Have you seen the Regent’s Pavilion in Brighton, Sir Joseph?”
The question was potentially awkward—the Regent was a gracious host, but his table sat only thirty, and a lowly knight was not likely to be among the royal guests.
“I have, a year or so ago. It’s…” He frowned at his wineglass. A discussion with Sir Joseph was punctuated with these pauses, which meant Louisa had consumed more than her share of wine far too early in the evening. “It’s magnificent. Unlike any other architectural experience I could describe, each detail planned to delight and amaze the mortal eye.”
“You think an eruption of giant onions on the Brighton beach magnificent?”
In part thanks to a random lull in conversation all around them, and in part due to the incredulity Louisa had allowed into her tone, the comment stood out from the general hubbub at the table.
The lull turned into a sag, then into an outright silence.
“More wine, Lady Louisa?” Sir Joseph gestured with the carafe, and she nodded. He poured for them both, while down the table, Jenny asked Lord Lionel whether topaz or Polish amber was a better complement
to her coloring, and at the far end, Her Grace remarked on how pleasant it was to have a few mild days when winter had seemed so determined to advance quickly this year.
Louisa did not drink her wine, nor could she manage another bite of her côte de boeuf aux oignons glacés.
“I gather,” Sir Joseph said softly, “you do not favor Eastern themes in your architecture, Lady Louisa?”
He spoke casually, as if Louisa hadn’t just done it again.
“England has lovely architectural styles of her own,” she managed. “What need is there for the exotic and at such expense?”
He turned his wine goblet by the stem, the glass looking fragile in his scarred hand. “The exotic, the different, the unusual, can have a beauty all its own.”
At the head of the table, His Grace cleared his throat. “So what will you be doing with that filly of yours, Trottenham? If she isn’t winning and won’t be broken to the bridle, it hardly makes sense to breed her, eh?”
Another laden comment, one that had Louisa’s face suffusing with color. Trottenham made some reply, Eve piped up with a quip about the colts trying harder to win when a pretty filly was in the field, and the company obliged her sally with polite laughter.
Louisa considered pleading a headache, but withdrawing from the table would only fuel gossip, and perhaps reflect poorly on Sir Joseph, who did not deserve such censure. She could retreat into silence, though, and so she did.
Something warm covered the hands she’d linked in her lap. Looking down, she saw Sir Joseph’s scarred fingers stroking slowly over her knuckles, once, twice. He was unobtrusive about it. The person sitting opposite him and even on his other side would not know he’d made such an overture.
Louisa turned her hand palm up, and for an instant, Sir Joseph linked his fingers with hers and squeezed gently. “Fortran et haec olim meminisse…”
“Juvabit.” Louisa finished the half-whispered quote. Aeneas, trying to instill fortitude in his men, suggesting that some day it might cause a smile to recall even moments such as this.
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