The Art of Duke Hunting

by Sophia Nash

  “I said, Lord Derby should have shown more restraint and taken better care. You would not be alone in the world if—”

  She interrupted and stood straighter. “My husband always spoke very highly of you, sir. And my family and Lord Derby’s rarely leave me alone.” She smiled at the humor that was lost on the gentleman in front of her. “Indeed, I have never understood why solitude is so frowned upon.”

  “I’m not speaking ill of him,” Mr. King harrumphed. “Merely stating the truth and coming to your aid, madam. I’m certain he would want me to help you in your hour of need.”

  Esme had hoped to escape the endless years of defending her husband Lionel. It never satisfied, for no one ever believed the love she had held for him. “You are too good, Mr. King, but I’ve already plans for accommodations.” The lies were mounting now.

  His bushy gray eyebrows rose a notch. “Really? And how did you accomplish that when we’re at a port that was not our destination?”

  “Why, Mr. King, are you doubting my word?” She prayed she was not blushing.

  Mr. King cleared his throat. “I say, in my day, ladies did not just go traipsing off alone on a ship.”

  She gaped at him in mock surprise. “Mr. King, whatever are you suggesting? Have I ever given anyone cause to question my character?” Until the last four and twenty hours.

  He studied her and tutted. “Of course not, my dear. Your character is without blemish. You are a model of propriety. It is a shame the same cannot be said of everyone.” His eyes gleamed with delight. “Did you not see that the Duke of Norwich is mysteriously among us this morn? I assure you he did not board this vessel in the usual manner. I was given a list of passengers prior to sailing, and well . . . What can one expect from one of the royal entourage? I feel it necessary to warn you off this duke, madam. He brings ill luck and worse to our respectable group. I for one shall—”

  She nodded to the gangplank. “Good day to you, Mr. King.”

  “Ah, we’re ready to . . .”

  Esme twirled her parasol and strolled away from the blowhard in mid-sentence. It was the best she could do for if she had stayed another minute he risked a whack on his head by her parasol which had been known to have a mind of its own. She felt a smile forming and then paused.

  It had been a long time since she had felt relaxed and playful. It had been a long time since she had felt a plume of anything but duty or the passion of her art unfurl in her breast. She stood beside her two trunks at the end of the queue of weary passengers anxious to debark.

  What on earth had come over her? What had she done? If someone had told her she would do something so outrageous, she would have denied it to the end of her days. Yet, she did not regret it. When first widowed, she had wondered if she would ever lie in a bed with a man again. She had very much doubted it. She was old at four and thirty, and worse, she was plain. And too tall. A wretched combination for a lady. At least she had independence, a rare enough thing for any female, widowed or not.

  Norwich had left the cabin after her, insisting she leave first despite his poorly hidden desire to flee. They had not shared one word since. She had only heard him tell the captain that the ladies on the voyage must be given the two rowboats if the ship sank, which at one point had appeared a distinct possibility. But the crew had chopped off the downed mast and morass of rigging that had been dragging down the ship. She had kept an eye on him throughout, but he had seemed able to marshal his fears, with only one hand gripping the aft mast.

  They were blown far south of their course. That, combined with the felled mainmast, had forced them to put in unexpectedly at the Isle of Wight. Who knew how long they would be stuck?

  It didn’t matter, really. Any place but London or Derbyshire or actually, any place without a shire or a ville attached to an English hamlet was fine with her. She just needed to cast her eyes on new vistas and inspiring venues.

  Lost in reverie, watching the last of the canvas secured high on the spars by sailors, who appeared like a flock of industrious birds in the leafless branches of trees, she failed to take note of the duke’s approach.

  “Penny?” he said.

  She whirled about. “Sorry?”

  “For your thoughts.” His eyes appeared so different from before. Now they sparkled with good humor, and he looked unbearably masculine. Why was it that a man could take a dunking, have salt encrusting the tips of his hair and even his skin not to mention his ruined Bond Street clothing, and look like a rugged, aristocratic prince among men? It was entirely unfair. She didn’t need a looking glass to know she looked like a wretch.

  He smiled, which made her lose track of the conversation.

  “Ermmm. What did you say?”

  “It’s the age problem, right?”

  “I beg your pardon?”

  He laughed, and it made her insides turn to half-cooked preserves.

  “Your hearing. You’re hard of hearing. I am so sorry.”

  She loftily flitted one hand in the air. “How ridiculous. I hear perfectly well. You’re the one who didn’t hear the mast splinter.”

  “Thank you,” he replied.

  “For what?”

  “For not rubbing my nose in it. You’re to be commended. Most would not have been able to resist making sport of my abominable behavior last night.”

  “I make it a habit never to tease a man with whom I will soon share a name,” she declared with mock seriousness. “By the way, when shall you send the announcement to the Morning Post?”

  His smile slipped and he hemmed and hawed for a moment before he stopped. “Oh, you’re, um, well. You are just . . . funning.” When she did not immediately reply he halted, horror-struck.

  She regarded him with her best version of innocence. It was hard . . . considering.

  “Lady Derby, may I have the honor of calling on you . . . later this day?” He raked back his hair in a habitual way. “When we debark, that is to say.” He paused. “Are you teasing me or not?”

  She really should take pity on him. His head must feel like a burned cauldron. She hoped it felt worse. She relaxed her face into a smile. “I suppose I should say I’m sorry, but I find it nearly impossible to resist the opportunity when it presents itself so perfectly.”

  “Thank you,” he replied, a small smile finally appearing at the corners of his lips. “Forewarned and forearmed. By the by, I’ve arranged to repay you for a small portion of your, um, kindness.”

  The roots of her hair felt on fire and she was sure she would go up in cinders from embarrassment. “I beg your pardon. I will not accept anything from you, sir.”

  He could have carried it off had it not been for the twinkle in his eye. “Pardon me. I merely asked the captain about accommodations on the isle. He will secure a chamber for you at the better of the two lodgings before the others fight tooth and nail over the limited quarters there.” He paused. “I like to tease too.”

  “Fair enough.” Her heated emotion retreated, only to be replaced by a sensibility unknown to her. She stared at him. She was very used to arranging and securing everything she needed for herself. She preferred it that way. She did not want or need to depend on anyone. She swallowed. “Then I guess it is I who must thank you.”

  He smiled again and it annoyed her for some ridiculous reason. He must know the effect he had on ladies with that look. Indeed, the Duke of Norwich was renowned for his magnetism. But the matchmaking mothers in Town had long since despaired of ever bringing him to heel. He was a rare catch, for he was not known to be in general circulation even if he did spend most of the year in Town. From her seated perch next to the potted palms on the sidelines of the battlefields, or rather ballrooms, in town, Esme had observed him and his ducal cohorts as they refused to allow anyone to pierce the tight, high-flying circle known as the royal entourage.

  Her perverse nature took hold when he offered his arm to her and she accepted it. They walked toward the gangplank now that the rest of the passengers had debarked.


  “I’m embarrassed to ask,” he continued, “but had we been introduced before last night?”

  She smiled. “I shall give you an awkward moment. Yes. We were introduced years ago at Lord Bartholomew’s ball.”

  He exhaled. “Yes, I thought I recognized you.”

  “And then we met again at Miss Chapman’s soiree a twelvemonth ago when you escorted your sister.”

  “Of course,” he said with a hint of uncertainty. “I remember the event very well.”

  “And then again, there was the Hastings’ house party three months ago. During the fortnight, we were occasionally seated near each other at table.”

  “It was a very large party as I remember,” he defended, the space between his brows bunching in two worry lines.

  “Yes, eight is a very large party.” She assumed the owlish expression on her face that her family had always deplored.

  His eyes widened. “I say, there were at least three doz— . . . You’re doing it again,” he said, a smile breaking through finally.

  “I beg your pardon?”

  “Mocking me. I distinctly remember there were nearly more people than chambers, and I escaped two days after delivering my mother and sister.”

  “Yes,” she continued. “Very easy to get lost in that sort of a crowd.”

  He would not continue the banter—or defend himself. He was staring at her as if she had a spot on her nose.

  “Ummmm, why are you staring at me?”

  “I’ve just realized that the only way to win at your game is to stop playing.” He broke into another wide smile.

  “Stop doing that,” she retorted.

  “I beg your—”

  “No you don’t. You don’t beg anything of anyone.”

  “I’m begging you now.” He scratched his jaw. “Everyone else has debarked, and I think you know how I feel about being on this floating wreck.” He offered his arm again.

  There was something entirely unnerving about this man. His magnetic appeal made her feel like a thousand eyes were peering at her. She refused to be drawn in. Like last night. It was far too dangerous a game for someone like her.

  Esme March, the Countess of Derby, turned on her heel and marched toward the gangway. She heard his voice float toward her back.

  “No worries. I shall have your trunks taken to the inn.”

  Roman Montagu glanced at his pocket watch, which he had set on the simple bureau in the best room of the Horse & Hound Inn. He glanced out the window. There was not a single horse or hound to be seen. And for the first time ever, he could not rein in the thoughts in his usually ordered mind.

  That overly tall countess really was a most unusual female. Her face was undeniably feminine and aristocratic but not at all in the fashion of the fresh-faced milk-and-water misses decorating the ballrooms of London. Her brow showed intellect, and he thought he had made out tiny indentations near the bridge of her nose, which indicated reading spectacles. Her nose was aquiline and a bit long. Her teeth were even but her smile was uneven and charming when she chose to show it. But there were two things she possessed that trumped all. And he would wager his last farthing that he was one of only two people to have had a glimpse.

  Her long, long legs . . . her calves . . . her thighs . . . and most likely even her feet were beautiful. Dear God, just the thought of the combination made his heart stutter.

  And then there was the matter of her touch. Her fingers had felt like the finest velvet as they had traced his skin. He’d never experienced anything like it.

  Roman shook his head in disbelief. Now was not the time to think about the amazing happenings last night. Indeed, he found it difficult to even believe such intimacy had occurred, or even existed on this temporal plane.

  Well, then.

  He forced his mind onto a new path. The captain had made good on his promise and had secured rooms at the inn on the west side of the small village. The captain, Roman, and Lady Derby were the lucky occupants, along with a plethora of visitors on the island. The rest of the ship’s passengers had had to make do at the large, ill-kept rooming house on the opposite side of the village green, decorated with streamers for an upcoming summer fête.

  He wondered what the countess was doing on the other side of the corridor separating their chambers. He was one part curious, two parts horrified that he’d taken advantage of a respectable lady, three parts dreading the proposal of marriage he was honor bound to offer her, and four parts (man that he was) fantasizing about the surreal night he had spent with her. He refused to consider the living hell the two of them would be forced to endure if she accepted his offer. But she would not. He was certain.

  Well, he was almost certain.

  As convinced as the fact that they were stuck on the Isle of Wight for as long as it took for another ship to sail into port and get them off of this damned isle. Then again, Roman wondered how he was going to screw up his courage to set foot on another ship.

  A knock sounded at his door. Perhaps it was she. He looked down at his borrowed clothes and winced. The captain was a heavyset man. Roman tucked in the billowing cloud of shirt linen. At least he had left the last of the salt water in the copper tub in the corner.

  “Come,” he barked.

  The captain appeared, his ruddy complexion speaking decades of raw weather.

  “Your Grace? I would have a private word.” The man of the sea glanced at the length of his form and his lips twitched.

  “Thank you for the use of your linen, Captain. And what may I do for you?”

  “Well, it is more what I must do for you, Your Grace.”

  “Whatever do you mean, sir?”

  “I mean that I must carry out what your friend insisted at the point of his pistol.”

  Roman stared at the older man. “I beg your pardon?”

  The captain chuckled. “When His Grace, the Duke of Kress, dragged you on board my ship, he paid me very handsomely to guard his vowels to give you if you survived the voyage.”

  Vague flickering of his closest friend, Alexander Barclay, the new Duke of Kress, racing hell for leather toward the docks, wandered just out of reach of Roman’s mind. “Did he, now?”

  “He did,” the older gentleman replied, his merry eyes not matching his grave expression. “Had him escorted off The Drake when he began singing the French national anthem. It left a very foul taste in my mouth if I do say.”

  “I’m sure it did, bloody Frenchy that he is.”

  “Yes, well, there’s more to it.”

  “Go on then. I am not too proud to admit that I was three sheets to the wind obviously.”

  “More like one hundred and three sheets in a gale force, Your Grace.”

  Roman sighed. “Go on.”

  “After he left, you promised me a thousand pounds if I tied you to the railing. You refused to take a cabin, but you were of sound enough mind to know you’d likely topple over the side given your state of, ahem, ill balance.” He cleared his throat. “You couldn’t form a sentence let alone a secure knot. I’m sorry to say that during the storm I was too preoccupied to come to your aid. But, I also knew my knot would hold.”

  “Of course, it would,” Roman acknowledged. “And, of course, I shall honor my debt to you, sir.”

  “This will help, certainly.” One corner of the captain’s lips curled with humor. Roman was surprised the man was in such a good spirits given that his ship was nearly destroyed. Then again, the unexpected windfall from two dukes was most likely the reason.

  The captain reached into his pocket and extracted a sheet of paper. In extraordinarily large and ill-written letters, Alexander Barclay, the half-French Duke of Kress, promised him his entire newly gained fortune if Roman completed a voyage of at least three days’ duration. The amount was half the size of Roman’s own family legacy. It was signed by both parties and noted the official wager had been written in White’s famous betting book for good measure.

  For Christsakes. He had to return to London as so
on as he regained his nerve to rectify this abomination. Kress was one of only three gentlemen he trusted. He knew why his friend had done it. He could only imagine what had happened. But it had taken a new level of insanity for Kress to actually voice and wager his fortune against something that had haunted Roman for half his life. It was a subject that was not open for discussion. Unless, the drink of the devil was involved, apparently.

  Unfortunately overindulgence was something that happened on a more frequent basis of late. Two, three, four nights a week, most members of the royal entourage gathered and bolstered themselves with spirits before making the mind-numbing rounds of soirees, and dinners, and balls, and fêtes champêtres, and coming outs, and going outs, and other such nonsense reserved for the rich and privileged set.

  It was the way of it.

  His current circumstances and whereabouts were not.

  He stared at the captain, without really seeing him. How the hell was he going to get off this island? And when?

  “Captain?”

  “Yes, Your Grace?”

  “Exactly how far are we off the coast?”

  Chapter 3

  Esme peered at herself one last time in the looking glass in the room she had been given at the charming inn. Fragrant bouquets of cottage roses rested on each end of the dressing table. She pinched her cheeks and tucked an errant wisp into the heavy coil pinned high on the back of her head before she let out an exaggerated sigh and abandoned her efforts. All of it was a waste of time.

  Her maker had clearly had a sense of the absurd when he had imbued her with a talent to exalt and capture beauty in everything that surrounded her, yet had given her very little of the same if the image staring at her from the looking glass was any indication. Oh, she should be well used to it by now. It was just that tonight she had spent twice as long as usual to prepare for supper with Norwich and the captain, and the results were unoriginal.

  She stuck out her tongue at her reflection and then laughed at herself. If she had just a bit less pride, she would have donned her plainest frock, rumpled her hair, and stuck one of her long, thin brushes in it as she was often inclined to do when she was alone and doing what she adored more than anything.