The Duke and His Duchess (windham)

by Grace Burrowes

  As they would attest now, now that Percival had met with each one and held pointed discussions with them.

  Cecily slammed the last drawer closed hard enough to make the inkwell on the blotter jump. “You lying, conniving, sly—”

  “Such flattery will surely turn my head, Mrs. O’Donnell.” He pushed away from the mantel, because if she came flying at him, he’d want to be able to step aside without letting her touch him. “You have an alternative, you know. My wife was insistent that you’d see reason eventually.”

  “Your wife isn’t fit to—”

  Before she could complete her insult, Percival harpooned her with a look that let her see every particle of savagery in him. To protect his wife and children, to protect even his lady’s good name, he would cheerfully murder this woman on the spot. Esther had been very clear he was not to indulge in such an impulse, though Esther was also demonstrating a marvelous ability to deal with the occasional marital disappointment.

  Cecily took a seat at her escritoire. “What is this alternative?”

  Percival tossed documents before her, like he’d throw slops before a hog. “Sign those papers giving me authority over the child, and that bank draft is yours to do with whatever you please.”

  No sow had ever regarded her dinner with such a gleam of avarice in her eye. Cecily traced her fingers over the figures on the draft. “All I have to do is sign the papers?”

  “Immediately.”

  She didn’t like that. From the scowl on her face, Percival surmised she’d planned on absconding with the money, and at some future date, perhaps absconding with the child.

  “Fine then. Take the brat, and I wish you the joy of her.” She reached for the inkwell, and Percival went to the door.

  “What are you—?”

  “Witnesses, Mrs. O’Donnell. A proper legal document, to be binding, requires proper witnesses, doesn’t it?”

  She made no effort to hide her rage as John, Duke of Quimbey, strode into the room, very much on his dignity. Anthony came after that, followed by a marquis and an earl whom Percival had known since his years at Eton.

  Quimbey took the time to make sure Cecily was signing freely and voluntarily and that she understood what she was signing—a nice touch that, but then Quimbey had acquired his title before he’d gone to university, and was a genuinely good friend.

  The deed was quickly fait accompli, and with thanks all around in the mews, Percival mounted his charger and prepared to report to his commanding officer that the enemy had been thoroughly, absolutely, and permanently routed.

  * * *

  “Maggie will help me civilize them,” Esther said as they closed the nursery door. “She’s had to think for herself from a young age, and lot of cosseted boys will not slow her down one bit.”

  Beside her, Percival studied the closed door. “You consider Devlin to have been cosseted?” He hoped it was so. Distracted by his siblings, Devlin seemed to be fitting in easily, but Percival saw worry in the boy’s eyes.

  Time to go shopping for some ponies.

  Esther slipped her arm through his and walked with him toward the stairs, probably to prevent him from suggesting they read the children just one more story.

  “You must not fret, Husband. In some ways, Devlin has been cosseted the most. His mother could not provide lavishly for him, but he had her love all to himself, no siblings to compete with, no father to distract Mama from her darling son. He’ll be fine, Percival. We’ll all be fine.”

  Because Esther believed that, Percival could believe it too. Kathleen St. Just had taken ship for Ireland, where a second cousin was willing to marry her. Cecily O’Donnell was reported to be taking a repairing lease at Bath. In some ways, the Yule season that approached would be the happiest of their marriage so far.

  Esther leaned a little closer. “What did Tony have to say?”

  Tony had said surprisingly little, and all of it encouraging. “Anthony could barely spare me the time of day, so anxious was he to return to his bride.” Percival opened the door of their private sitting room. “He did say Peter seems to be doing much better for trying the foxglove tincture.”

  “Arabella writes to the same effect. Are we returning to Morelands for the holidays?”

  For all the upheaval in the past few days, and for all the honesty and closeness it had brought between Percival and his lady, he still could not tell if she was asking to go home or asking not to.

  He closed the door behind them and drew his wife into his arms the better to communicate with her. “His Grace’s spirits are also reported to be much improved.”

  They were all in better spirits, and who would have thought such a contretemps might yield that result? Against his shoulder, Esther yawned.

  “Surely, that your father’s situation might admit of any improvement qualifies as a miracle.”

  “Peter conceived the notion to provide Papa with a young, buxom nurse. Arabella found some village girl with a kindly disposition toward ‘the old dear,’ and His Grace is reported to be pinching the maids and threatening to appoint himself Lord of Misrule.” Percival rested his chin against Esther’s temple. “Will you do the same for me, Esther, when I’m old and crotchety?”

  The idea that they’d grow old and crotchety together loomed like the greatest gift a man might aspire to—though Esther hadn’t a crotchety bone in her lovely body.

  “Of course, Percival. You shall have all the buxom nurses and giggling maids you desire, because I know you’ll not begrudge me my handsome footmen and flirting porters, hmm? And my doctors will be the most attentive and doting, too.”

  She patted his chest, while love for her expanded to every corner of his heart. A month ago, she would not have teased him thus. A month ago, she would given him a look he could not read, and gone about taking her hair down as they exchanged careful small talk.

  “I love you, Esther Windham. I will always love you.”

  “I love you too, Husband.” She yawned again but made no move to leave his embrace; nor was he about to let her go.

  A thought popped into Percival’s tired, happy mind. A thought that might have terrified him only a few short weeks ago. “You took a nap yesterday, Esther, and again today.”

  “All by myself, which was a sorry waste of a large bed.”

  “We shall put that bed to mutual use presently, but tell me: Are you carrying?” She sighed softly, and that was not a no. “Esther?”

  “You adore your daughter, Percival. You study her as if she were some treasure unearthed from exotic antiquity, and you delight in the way she manages the boys.”

  Percival inhaled through his nose, the better to catch Esther’s rosy scent, and it hit him: an undernote of nutmeg graced her fragrance. “I love all my children, and I love my wife, and if my wife is carrying yet another child, I will love that child too. And you’re right, I am fascinated by little Maggie and her way with her brothers. I am fascinated with all of them, but mostly, I am in love with my wife.”

  He waited for her tell him she was carrying. Instead, she kissed him, and because he was her husband and he did love her to distraction, that was answer enough.

  Epilogue

  The door to Esther’s bedroom cracked open as the baby stirred in her arms.

  “Quiet now, you lot,” came a whispered admonition. “If the baby’s sleeping, we mustn’t disturb her, or your mama will be wroth with us.”

  Percival Windham, His Grace the Duke of Moreland, had rounded up his lieutenants to make a raid on Esther’s peace.

  “Mama’s always wroth with us,” Gayle observed.

  “She’s not wroth with me,” Bart countered.

  Percival pushed the door open another few inches and peeked around it. “Hush. The next man who speaks will be court-martialed for conduct unbecoming.”

  “No pudding,” little Victor piped. “No pudding.”

  Victor was very particular about his pudding, much like his father and his late grandfather.

  �
��Come in,” Esther said, pushing up against her pillows and cuddling her newest daughter close. “I’ve been telling Louisa to expect some callers.”

  Percival held Louisa’s older sister Sophie in his arms, and Devlin walked at his side, while Bart charged ahead, Victor clutched a fold of his father’s coat, and Gayle kept Valentine by the hand. Maggie, as always, hung back, though she was smiling, as was her father.

  Another healthy girl child safely delivered was an excellent reason to smile.

  “Can I see the baby?” Victor asked.

  As small as he was, he could not see his mother in her great bed, much less the new baby. Percival tucked Sophie in against Esther’s side and hoisted the children onto the bed one by one. They arranged themselves across the foot of the bed, never quite holding still, but demonstrating as much decorum as they were capable of.

  “There, you shall all have a look,” Percival said when he’d positioned his troops. “But no shouting or bouncing around lest you rouse your baby sister Louisa.”

  “She’ll mess her nappies,” Gayle observed. “You named her for Uncle Peter, because his real name was Peter Louis Hannibal Windham.”

  “We did,” Esther said, though she shared a smile with Percival over the scatological preoccupations of the young male mind.

  Not to be outdone, Bart gave his next-youngest brother a push. “You named Sophie for Grandpapa, and that’s why she’s Sophie George Windham.”

  “Sophie Georgina,” Gayle said, shoving back.

  Percival scooped up wee Sophie and settled with her, his back to the bedpost. “The next fellow who shoves, pushes, or interrupts his brother will be sent back to the nursery.”

  “No pudding,” Victor said again, grinning at his older brothers.

  Percival tousled Victor’s dark hair. “Heed the young philosopher, boys, and follow Maggie’s example of juvenile dignity.” He winked at Maggie, which always made the girl turn up bashful. “Esther, how do you fare?”

  This had become a family ritual, this bringing the older siblings to see the new arrival, and what a darling new arrival she was. Louisa had Victor’s swooping brows, which on a newborn made for a startlingly dramatic little countenance.

  “I am well, Percival. Childbearing is not easy, but it does improve with practice. Would you like to hold your daughter?”

  They exchanged babies with the ease and precision of a parental drill team, and Esther beheld the Duke of Moreland give his heart, yet again, to a lady too small to understand the magnitude of such a gift.

  Gayle also watched his father gently cradle the newborn in his arms. “If you have another baby, Mama, will you name her Cyclops?”

  “Cyclops is stupid name,” Bart started in. Percival silenced his firstborn son and heir—Bart was arguably Pembroke now, though no parent in their right mind would tell the boy such a thing yet—with a glower, while Esther waited for Victor to pronounce sentence on the pudding again.

  “Cyclops is not a stupid name,” Gayle replied with the gravity peculiar to him. “Sophie was named for Grandpa, and he died. Louisa is named for Uncle Peter, and he died right after Grandpa. Nobody has seen Cyclops for days, so she must be dead too, and that means we can name a baby after her.”

  Percival left off nuzzling the baby long enough to smile at Gayle’s reasoning. “I think if you climbed up to the straw mow on a sunny morning and were quiet and still long enough, you’d find that Cyclops has finished her own lying-in and has better things to do than let little boys chase after her and threaten to take her prisoner.”

  “Girls don’t like to be taken prisoner,” Maggie said. “May I hold the baby?”

  The idea made Esther nervous, though Maggie would never intentionally harm her siblings.

  “Come here,” Percival said, patting the bed. Maggie crawled across the mattress to sit beside her father. He placed the baby in Maggie’s lap and kept an arm around his oldest daughter. “I think she looks a little like you, Maggie, around the mouth. She’s very pretty.”

  Characteristically, Maggie blushed but did not acknowledge the compliment. “Sophie was bald. Louisa has hair.”

  Little Valentine squirmed closer and traced small fingers over the baby’s cheek. “She’s soft.”

  “She’ll mess her nappies,” Gayle warned.

  Bart apparently knew not to argue with that eternal verity. “Can we go now?” He looked conflicted, as if he might want to hold his baby sister and didn’t know how to ask without losing face before his brothers.

  In Esther’s arms, little Sophie squirmed but did not make a sound. “Take Thomas with you if you’re going to the mews, and mind you big boys look after Victor.”

  Four boys who’d needed help to get up onto the bed went sliding off it, thundering toward the door, while Valentine remained fascinated with the infant.

  He stroked his sister’s dark mop of hair. “Soft baby.”

  “She is soft,” Percival said. “And you, my lad, are smarter than your brothers for choosing the company of the genteel ladies over some nasty, old, shiftless cat.”

  “She’s heavy,” Maggie said, passing the baby back to Percival. “I’m going to watch the boys.”

  “Take Valentine.” Percival used one hand to balance the baby and the other to help Maggie and Valentine off the bed. “He’ll make enough noise that Madam Cyclops will be able to hide before her peace is utterly destroyed.”

  “Come along, Valentine. We’ve a kitty to rescue.” Maggie left at a pace that accommodated Valentine churning along beside her, leaving Esther with her husband and her two baby daughters.

  * * *

  Percival shifted to recline against the pillows with his wife, one arm around Esther and Sophie, the other around Louisa. He leaned near enough to catch a whiff of roses, and to whisper, “Do you hear that, Your Grace?”

  “I hear silence, Your Grace.”

  They addressed each other by their titles as a sort of marital joke, one that helped take the newness and loss off a station they’d gained only months before.

  “That is the sound of children growing up enough to leave us in privacy from time to time. Good thing we’ve more babies to fill our nursery.”

  He kissed Esther’s temple, and Sophie sighed mightily, as if her father’s proximity addressed all that might ail her—would that it might always be so.

  “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.