The Art of Duke Hunting

by Sophia Nash

  She would love to see Norwich’s reaction. It would give her a measure of his true character. She wondered if he would still perform the requisite proposal of marriage, which she would be honor bound to refuse.

  Esme wrapped a paisley summer shawl about her shoulders and descended to the Horse & Hound’s elegant dining hall. A half dozen tables filled with diners graced the room. Her entrance caused only a handful of guests to take notice.

  It took her but a moment to see why. Every female in the room was surreptitiously focused on the Duke of Norwich. And every gentleman, too. Then again, it wasn’t all that surprising. Mystery and ill-fate had surrounded that family for the last two hundred years.

  And her ancestor was to blame. She wondered if and when she should tell him. Oh, but she knew. She sincerely hoped he would not take leave of his senses when she informed him.

  As she walked toward the table, for the first time in her life, Esme experienced the thrill of having the most sought after gentleman in the chamber stand up, nod a greeting, and smile at her. It was too bad it would likely be one of the last times.

  Esme weaved past the other tables and eased into the chair the duke held out for her.

  He leaned down as he arranged the chair closer to the table. “The trick is to look an inch above everyone’s head. And to ignore them all if you can.”

  She bit her lip to keep from laughing. “But I like that they’re watching. It’s such a novelty.”

  “Ah,” he said, “then by all means, enjoy it and stare right back at them,” he replied with a warm smile as he regained his seat. “For my part, I shall forgo the pleasure.”

  The captain, dressed in impeccable officer’s garb, glanced between the two of them and chuckled. He appeared far more interested in the fragrant trays of food the inn’s servants carried to the surrounding tables.

  “Good evening, sir.” She nodded graciously at the officer.

  “An honor, Lady Derby. And a delightful surprise. I daresay most of the other ladies are still abed, recovering from the shock of last eve’s events. You are to be commended for your fortitude.”

  “Indeed,” commented Norwich, with the hint of a smile.

  Esme prayed a blush would not overtake her. “Not at all, Captain. I am only sorry about your beautiful ship. But you see, a storm would never dampen my spirits. I have waited a long time to see the world.”

  The duke cleared his throat. “And just what part of the world were we about to visit?” he asked gruffly.

  “Well, if The Drake had held steady,” the captain replied, while helping himself to a platter of roast pigeon and artichokes, “and we’d been fortunate enough to evade Frog warships, we would have docked on the northern Italian coast.”

  “How delightful,” the duke said, looking very relieved that the trip had been aborted.

  Esme pursed her lips together to keep from smiling. She accepted the spoon in the serving dish of potatoes a servant offered. She had to admit that now she wished the ladies at the surrounding table would stop staring. It made her feel as if she might drop the silverware and make a spectacle of herself. There was something to be said about the anonymity of being a wallflower.

  The captain continued, “You were to tour northward to Vienna, were you not, Countess?”

  “Yes, exactly. After we set anchor, I was for Prague and Vienna.”

  “Did you have any particular reason to see those two cities?” Norwich focused his eyes on her, and she felt the full force of his charm. She could not truly believe what had happened between them last night.

  “Why, to drink in the beauty and magnificence of each. And to visit the museums, of course.”

  “Of course?” The duke looked at her quizzically.

  “Lady Derby is an accomplished artist, Your Grace.” The captain eyed the duke with surprise. “Did you not know?”

  Esme immediately pushed off the subject. “Captain, you are to be commended again for seeing us through such danger.”

  “ ’Twas nothing, madam, compared to the gales off the West Indies. Why, last night was but a mere gust of wind.” The captain droned on and on about other storms in distant lands he and his crew had endured.

  For the next half an hour Esme listened to the captain’s stories of far-off lands and enjoyed the delectable fare placed in front of her, far more at ease as an observer than as the observed. Just as she relaxed and took a last large bite of berry fool, Norwich took advantage of the captain’s obvious delight in the dessert and trained his attention on her.

  “So you are an artist, Lady Derby? What medium do you favor?” His eyes studied her in the same fashion as last eve.

  Esme swallowed too quickly, the effort causing tears to spring to her eyes. What on earth was the matter with her? Oh, she knew. Those astonishing eyes of his were her undoing just as they had been all those years ago on the edge of a ballroom.

  He handed her a glass of wine with concern. “Are you all right?”

  “Perfect,” she rasped behind her napkin.

  Wait staff at table began the final remove.

  “Have you never seen the West Indies, Your Grace?” The captain cocked his head at the duke.

  “I do believe you already know the answer, sir, as someone who witnessed my, ahem, delight at unexpectedly finding myself at sea.” Norwich’s easy smile belied his determination. “But Lady Derby has not answered my question.”

  The captain’s eyebrows, as dense and unruly as a hedgerow, rose. “And I wager she will not.”

  “My dear sir,” Esme said, finally regaining her voice. “Why would you say such a thing?”

  “Note how easily she turns the conversation,” the captain inserted with a laugh. “I should know. I’ve been known to sketch a bit and tried to engage her in her methods before we set sail yesterday. All of it was to no avail.”

  Norwich looked at her thoughtfully.

  “How provoking,” she replied. “I’ve no notion of what you say, Captain. And I should like above all else the great honor of seeing your drawings.”

  “Then again, I should have known,” the captain continued. “Even when her work was shown at the Royal Gallery, an event no artist worth his weight in pigment would ever miss, Lady Derby declined to attend.”

  It was too much. She hated to talk about her painting. She didn’t know how to explain what she did or why she loved to create, and she became entirely tongue-tied whenever asked to speak on it.

  Both the captain and Norwich’s full attention was on her.

  “All,” she finally blurted. “I like all mediums of art.” How ridiculous. Could she not wax a bit more poetic when called on?

  Those mesmerizing eyes of his did not move from her. There was no possible way she could expand on the topic.

  She cleared her throat. “Captain, have you captured images from the storms you encountered?”

  The captain opened his mouth to surely expound on his favorite subject when Norwich abruptly stood up, the heels of his chair scraping loudly against the floor. He bowed. “Come, Lady Derby. The captain, I am certain, will indulge me if I ask for a reprieve. I, for one, have endured enough talk of seawater for one meal.”

  The captain eyed the two of them shrewdly and then slowly rose. Esme had no choice but to follow suit and accept Norwich’s arm. At least she had successfully evaded more questions.

  She suddenly noticed that all the other occupants in the room were still seated. Not one person had dared to leave and miss the spectacle of a member of the royal entourage.

  As they departed, she surreptitiously watched the way the duke surveyed the room just as he had advised her to do—in a polite but chilly manner to evade engagement. Just as she had witnessed all those years ago when she had first seen his noble profile and his gaze had swept past her without taking note.

  “Perfect evening for a walkabout,” the captain commented to no one in particular as he strolled toward the inn’s main entrance. Esme and Norwich followed him. “I shall leave the two
of you to your own devices, however.” The former naval officer took advantage of a rustic bench on the expansive lawn of the inn. He retrieved a cheroot from his pocket and struck a match from his small flint box. Smoke swirled in the growing darkness.

  She darted a glance in Norwich’s direction and removed her hand from his arm. “I, for one, am for bed, I think.”

  “Shall we not take a bit of the night air, madam? I have something of importance to discuss, but I promise not to breathe a syllable concerning canvases or paint.”

  The captain slyly examined the both of them and had the extraordinary audacity to wink at her.

  Esme was hard-pressed to think of a single witty retort. It appeared the time had come for the requisite proposal of marriage to be endured.

  “If you insist, Your Grace,” she reluctantly agreed.

  He offered his arm to her once again and she accepted it. The evening air was cool and calm; a breeze jostled the tree leaves in full summer splendor.

  They walked in silence and she glanced from time to time out of the corners of her eyes to see his even profile, bowed forward in reflection.

  It was painfully obvious he was finding it much more difficult than he had originally thought. He exhaled. At least he did not start pulling on his neckcloth.

  “Go on then,” she prompted, attempting an equal measure of good humor and dignity. “Have no fear, sir. We both know your question and my answer.”

  “I am trying to find the precise words that will leave you hanging on the fence, Lady Derby,” he said with an honesty that surprised her. He finally looked at her fully and smiled.

  “This should be interesting.”

  “Well, on the one hand, marrying me would be a good bargain for you. I will surely leave you a widow again at some point in the near future, with a fortune twice over.”

  Her lips parted slightly in surprise. “But I do not—”

  “No. Allow me to continue.” He raised his free hand. “But you see, the thing is, there is no guarantee precisely how long it will take. You might be stuck with me for longer than you’d like. But I could at least offer you a loftier station than you already occupy even if it does come with occasional mocking due to the unfortunate family history.”

  She was silent for a long while as they continued the march about the green, a full moon illuminating the lovely parish. He steered her toward the lane leading away from the village. The arc of a small stone bridge loomed not far away.

  She stopped at the height of the arch and released his arm to look down at the running stream. “I suppose I should thank you for your offer but I cannot.”

  He started.

  “You might reconsider your offer if you were better informed of my family, Your Grace.”

  “Please address me less formally.”

  “No.”

  “But we have shared—”

  “No, we did not share. I freely gave myself. It is not something that can be repaid—even with marriage. You discredit me by thinking thusly.”

  “But I am asking for the honor of your hand in marriage.” He continued with lowered voice. “Protocol demands it.”

  “Consider yourself off the hook,” she said, forcing a smile to her lips. “I have no need of the honor you do me nor do I place much value in protocol. I have more than I need in life, and I’ve never sought a loftier station. I am the daughter of an earl, and the wife of a deceased earl, and I shall go to my grave as such.”

  He waited for her to continue. She did not. “Have I insulted you, Esme?” he asked.

  “I did not give you leave to address me so intimately.”

  “Well, how should I address you in private? And I think it odd to address you in any other fashion given last night.” He scratched his head. “I had thought you would have received my addresses with—”

  “March.”

  “Pardon me?”

  “You may address me as March.”

  “And who is March?”

  “You would know if you had not drunk yourself to near oblivion.”

  He rolled his eyes. “Are you always this confounding?”

  “I don’t find it confusing at all. Gentlemen address each other by their family names or titles all the time. There. I have given you a hint as to why you may address me as March.”

  There was no recognition on his face. Not that she had thought there would be. March was her husband’s family name, not her father’s name, and certainly not her mother’s maiden name—the one that would surely draw horror on the duke’s face.

  At that precise moment, the mournful if not oddly discordant sound of a duck’s call echoed from above. Esme glanced skyward, but could not see the fowl in the darkness.

  But it was a sign.

  And Esme always paid attention to signs.

  Her intention of telling him who she really was evaporated into the night air as quickly as all her ridiculously romantic dreams of old.

  He shook his head. He’d never met a lady who wanted to be treated like a man. She stroked the rail of the tiny bridge and the hairs prickled at the base of his neck. He knew precisely why. He could not help but remember what those same fingers had done to his back the evening before.

  “You will be happy to know you’ve achieved your goal,” she said.

  He could not make out her expression. “I don’t understand.” He sighed. “Again.”

  “I know you don’t,” she replied.

  “What goal?” he insisted.

  “That of leaving me on the fence. I cannot decide if I like you for your honesty and less-than-gentlemanly offer or if I dislike you for the same reason.”

  “I vote for liking me.”

  She turned fully to him and he had the unholy desire to take her hand in his. He resisted.

  “So there is nothing I can offer you?” He paused. “March?”

  Her large gray eyes stared at him. He could swear he saw a moment of sadness before one brow arched. “Well, now that you mention it, there is one thing.”

  “Anything,” he breathed with relief now that marriage was off of his dish.

  “You can promise on your honor never to drink a drop of spirits again.”

  “I beg your pardon?”

  A gurgle of laughter rolled through the night air. “This is not going in your favor, you know. You’re making it too obvious that the idea of marriage to me is more offensive to you than the trial of living your life without wine and whiskey. Or absinthe.”

  He scratched the back of head. It always itched at the hairline when he was hot. “That is absolutely not true.” But he was afraid it absolutely was true.

  “How about if you just make the promise and then all will be forgiven and forgotten.”

  “But why on earth would you ask this of me? It’s absurd.”

  “You asked for a way to thank me. This is how.”

  “You sound like a governess, March.”

  “Good,” she replied. “Perhaps you need governing.”

  “That’s just the sort of thing to say to a man who you want to scare off.” He shook his head and chuckled.

  “Perhaps I want to scare you off, Your Grace,” she said so quietly he had to lean in to hear the tail end.

  “If I must address you as March, then you must address me as Montagu,” he said. “Actually, it will be a refreshing change from my cursed title.”

  “All right,” she said. “Montagu.”

  He took up one of her hands and kissed the back of it impulsively, before leaning in toward her startled, wide eyes. In that instant, she distinctively had the look of a lady who wanted desperately to be kissed. He knew that look very well. And he was happy to oblige since—

  A rustle of footsteps and low conversation interrupted them. Roman turned his head slightly only to see a small group of people strolling toward them from the village green. He stepped away from Lady Derby.

  “Hey ho,” a deep voice boomed.

  Good God, it was that boorish gossip, King. Roman
raised a hand in greeting.

  “What luck,” Mr. King said, drawing near with a lady on each arm. Two gentlemen and another lady drew abreast. “Your Grace, I have been meaning to find you. And good evening to you too, Lady Derby. Oh dear, I hope I have not interrupted anything.” He wore a smile that pretended to know everything when he actually knew not a whit.

  “Your servant, Mr. King,” Roman replied, annoyed. He refused to offer up an excuse. It would sound damning to the idiot in front of him.

  The stout, tall man stopped and turned to look first at Lady Derby for a long moment and then to Roman. “Hmmm. Well, you still have not told us how you came to be aboard The Drake.”

  “Why do you ask, sir?”

  “Out of concern, of course.”

  “Of course,” Roman echoed smoothly.

  Mr. King eyed him like a hungry boa constrictor regretting the impossibility of a sleeping tiger.

  “So?”

  “So?” Roman replied.

  “The reason you were not on the manifest, Your Grace?”

  “The reason?” Roman dissembled.

  “Yes.”

  “I see,” he evaded. “Lady Shelby, how lovely you are tonight, my dear. And how is Lord Shelby?”

  The lady on Mr. King’s arm smiled. “Shelby is very fine. Shooting all the ducks he can find at the Abbey, in fact. He never stops until the frost drives him from his blinds. He—”

  One of the gentlemen cleared his throat and she stumbled to a stop. “I apologize, Your Grace, I did not mean to . . .”

  “Of course, you did not, madam.”

  “And what finds you here with His Grace, Lady Derby?” Mr. King’s smile showed all of his teeth. “I see you managed to find accommodations very well, just as you said you would. One wonders how you accomplished it.”

  “Mr. King, I find myself here the same way as you—with my own two feet. And I thank you for your compliment. It is good to see you recovered from your fright.” She was cagey dodging the “Grand Inquisitor,” as Mr. King was known in the privacy of most aristocrats’ salons.

  King’s eyes darkened in the night shade of the silver birch nearby. Clearly, he did not like to be cast in the role of a coward. “I see neither you, my dear, nor His Grace is willing to be candid among friends. This typically speaks of curious goings-on, if anyone were to ask me.”