The Art of Duke Hunting

by Sophia Nash

  1. How he was going to consummate the marriage.

  2. When he would consummate the marriage.

  3. And who in hell would be residing at Derby Manor while they consummated the marriage. She had made it sound quite ominous.

  After two days of solid work and reflection, which followed the week he had discovered absinthe—the hellish drink of the devil, become shipwrecked, and been forced to marry, he was absolutely, positively certain in his godforsaken life that he was no longer cursed.

  He was damned.

  And he was damned for seventeen reasons.

  Reasons one through seventeen were variations on a theme. The Esme-March-now-Montagu theme.

  She might very well place one of his lifelong goals in jeopardy. He had decided long ago that he would put an end to the damned curse by being the very last Norwich in Christendom.

  He would have no cursed heir—damn it all. He would not. And he was in a position to see it through. There were no more male cousins removed or otherwise. He was the last bloody one. And when he died the duchy would devolve back to the monarchy.

  His mother and sister would have not a single worry with which to contend. There were more unentailed gold guineas to his name than to half the dukes in the royal entourage.

  And so he would take every precaution to ensure his goal was met. It would be a simple matter.

  He would not hurt Esme March for the world. While he could have done without her unfounded fear concerning consumption of spirits and the resulting looks sent his way, she had only ever been kind to him. But he was going to have to ensure there was no heir. And he would do it by wishing her bon voyage at the end of the six weeks. He would see her to a ship bound for all the art museums she could possibly want and then he would find his way to Cornwall to put Alex Barclay out of his misery no matter what Prinny had warned.

  Most important, he would go on living his life. Avoiding ducks, rubbing shoulders with the others in the entourage, and plugging away at his designs. Of course, every now and again he would see his wife to ensure that no tongues wagged behind her back to embarrass her. He had the strongest urge to protect her, to guard her sensibilities from unkind gossip. And so he would make an effort to see her between her travels and her painting. He wanted her to be happy. He did.

  What he did not expect, was to be happy himself.

  Of course, it would take a long while, a very long while before he could accept that fact.

  The royal forward rider did his duty and informed the inhabitants of Derby Manor of their impending arrival and then returned to report the fact to Roman. That there was another person who could have been considered an occupant, due to the amount of time he spent at the estate, was another matter.

  Roman was not sure if he should be pleased or uneasy to learn that Esme’s mother resided at the manor. On the one hand, the Countess of Gilchrist would be the perfect confidante for Esme. If his new bride was like most ladies he knew, she could not survive without a confidante. He paused in thought. For some reason, he wasn’t certain Esme was like other ladies he knew. Perhaps she didn’t need a confidante. But nonetheless, she obviously liked her mother or else she would not have suggested they retreat to this place. On the other hand, Roman knew a thing or seventeen about mothers. His own was a very reserved female with only three things on her mind: how soon she could marry him off (oh, she would consider her life’s work almost complete if she knew he was married—although sad for not being witness to it), how soon she could locate the perfect husband for his sister Lily (who had so far refused more than a dozen offers of marriage over the last six seasons), and how soon she could retire to a villa she had summered in many years ago. Then, she would be happy, in quiet raptures over the knowledge that she had done her duty. Of course, there was a fourth thing she also spoke of, thank the Lord, only rarely. Something Roman endured with great fortitude. It concerned an heir. He forced his mind away from the thought as he always had quite successfully.

  As he traveled alone up the allée toward the large, pleasantly situated white stone manor house, Roman gazed out the window. Sheep dotted the green, green pastureland, and a pheasant darted across the path. He prayed pheasants were not related to ducks.

  The crunch of footfalls on pea gravel alerted him to the approach of footmen.

  The coachman opened the door and let down the stair. Roman ignored him and leaped from the barouche, happy to stretch his aching legs.

  A lady daintily descended the five marble steps fronting the manor and curtsied in front of him. She was no doubt Esme’s mother, but her features were different. Different but the same. She was a little smaller, and her limbs were more delicate and petite than Esme’s. Her lovely gray eyes were similar, yet her mouth was not as wide and her nose was not as long as her daughter’s. The mother’s unlined face was heart-shaped instead of Esme’s oval visage. And where Esme’s expression radiated intelligence and kindness, her elegant mother had something else entirely. He feared there was more than a soupcon of wit or shrewdness hiding behind that serene mask of hers. Most likely both.

  Quite properly, the lady waited for him to introduce himself. “Delighted to make your acquaintance, ma’am,” he said as he bowed. “Norwich. I am your servant.”

  She eyed him carefully and smiled the same smile he had seen on Esme. “Lady Gilchrist,” she said with a proper curtsy. “Where is my daughter? What have you done with her?” She glanced about him and looked at the open door of the barouche.

  “I’m right here, Mother.” She descended from the second carriage. Her new maid followed discreetly behind and faded toward the servants’ entrance to the rear.

  “There you are, darling. Oh, you are wearing that divine Parisian hat William Topher arranged for your birthday.”

  “Yes,” Esme said with a grin. “Although, why we mimic the French when we are trying to kill them at the same time has never made any sense to me at all if I do say so.”

  “Well, I for one am willing to admit they have something over us when it comes to fashion, and food, and elegance. What say you, Norwich?”

  “Who is William Topher?”

  Mother and daughter were now in each other’s arms, and he gazed at two pairs of matching eyes.

  “William?” Her mother glanced at Esme before continuing. “Why, have you not told your husband yet about Mr. Topher? He is my daughter’s teacher and mentor, sir.”

  He looked at his wife.

  She finally picked up the thread. “He is more than a teacher, Montagu. He is a very good friend of the family. He’s resided with us for many, many years. You shall like him very much. Everyone does.” She smiled her widest grin, the one that was hard to resist returning.

  “Dearest,” the countess said, taking her daughter’s chin between her fingers, “I see marriage agrees with you. I like the way your hair is dressed, and there is a certain sparkle in your eye. Did Norwich put it there?”

  “Mother—” She shook her head. “You must give the duke a chance to get used to the goings-on here before you tease . . .”

  The countess sighed. “Oh pish. There are no goings-on here. The neighborhood is positively empty of anything entertaining. Everyone has gone to Brighton or Bath. Now come along then inside, I must see to a tea tray. I’m certain you are both parched. That will give enough time for the maids and footmen to arrange your baths after such a long, dirty journey. Tell me, Esme, did you chance to see any of Verity’s sisters? She’s quite anxious for news.”

  He suddenly had a very bad feeling in his gut. Verity . . . “Verity, who?” he asked most inelegantly.

  “Why Lady Verity Fitzroy, one of the Duke of Candover’s sisters. You must know them very well, no? You are an intimate of Candover, are you not?”

  “Yes,” he replied, a proper expression glued to his face.

  “I’m sure Verity will come tomorrow when we send her news of your arrival.”

  In some very tiny path, not well traveled in his mind, he had known Candover�
��s ridiculously large country seat was in Derbyshire. He had just been too concerned with his own travails and had not made the connection. “And just how many of Candover’s sisters are at home at the moment?”

  “Only one of the five. Come, let’s go inside. It’s too hot to stand about.”

  In his mind he retorted no. He would rather climb in that carriage and retreat all the way back to his study in London where more important plans occupied his mind. Instead, he replied, “Of course.”

  His mother-in-law smiled radiantly and Esme followed suit. Tea was served within the confines of a picturesque and carefully designed room filled with Frenchified decorations. There was one addition to their small party.

  Esme’s teacher, the one who had apparently taught her everything there was to know about anything concerning art, as he arrogantly suggested, was lounging by the mantel, one booted foot crossed over the other, his little finger extended in a dainty manner as he held the delicate rose-patterned porcelain teacup. A Mr. William Topher. A gentleman whose years in his dish were hard to decipher. He was most likely a mere five years Esme’s senior. What was not hard to decipher was his effect on females. The gentleman was far too handsome and far too sure of his excellent opinion of himself.

  Instantly, Roman took a dislike of him. And no matter how much he tried to converse politely with this Mr. Topher, there was something that was not quite up to snuff about the character.

  “Your Grace,” Topher said, “while I live and breathe, I would have never guessed I would have the great honor of meeting you in the flesh, here at Derby Manor. Is it not the grandest place? I am very fortunate to have earned the patronage of Lord Derby while he was still with us, poor, dear man that he was. Did you know him?” The man looked at him expectantly.

  Roman had never heard anyone string together so many words so quickly. “No.” His economy of words would make up for the other’s cornucopia of verbiage.

  Mr. Topher laughed. “There you see. Once again my fault rises to the fore. I must warn you, Your Grace, that I have the unfortunate habit of speaking too much when I am overly awed by someone. Then again, I am easily overawed, so you are forewarned. Does it strike you as odd that I am revealing so much to you so quickly, sir? Yes, by your look it does. I do apologize, Your Grace. And I would stop if I could.”

  Esme burst out laughing. “Oh, William, I see you have not lost any of your wit. I have missed you.”

  The ridiculously handsome man’s sorrowful brown eyes filled with emotion. “And I have missed you too, my dear. But how shocking. You went away to paint and acquire a painting or two and you come back far less than a fortnight later with a husband? The Fitzroy ladies will be very jealous, don’t you know? I say, may I be permitted to take my leave to pay a visit to Lady Verity Fitzroy?”

  He was the strangest, most annoying man Roman had ever met. And while Roman was solidly built, Topher was a tall wisp of a man. His limbs were thin, yet he wore his dark, elegant clothes with great flare. A Beau Dandy of the first order, Mr. William Topher was. It remained to be seen if he had as much talent teaching art as he had making ladies lust after him. Not less than three serving maids took pains to offer him foodstuffs from the tea tray.

  Esme brought a biscuit to her lips and took a bite. “You may not gossip to our friends, William. But, I’ll allow you to announce the news to Verity when we see her next. Will that suffice? By the by, I am going to paint a landscape tomorrow even if it means I will miss my cousin’s call.”

  Roman desired to enter the conversation. “Where?”

  “Oh,” her mouth made a little O. “Would you like to join me, Montagu? I know you don’t fully enjoy art or the process, but you are very welcome.”

  “I haven’t the faintest idea what you are talking about, March. I esteem artists. I married one, did I not?” He smiled his widest smile in the hopes of disarming them all as he stretched the truth far past any recognition.

  “I shall join you and we shall work together as always. I am so glad you are taking my advice and concentrating on landscapes versus portraits, Esme,” Mr. Topher inserted. “And there’s absolutely no need to bother your husband with our endeavors, my dearest girl.”

  “You shall address my wife as ‘Your Grace’ from this day forward, sir.”

  Mr. Topher’s face fell. “Of course, Your Grace.”

  Lady Gilchrist smoothed over the awkwardness of the moment. “May I ask why you address each other as March and Montagu? It’s quite novel.”

  “Are you certain I may not address you as March too, Your Grace?” Topher was addressing Esme, but he then quickly turned to him. “Oh, I do beg your pardon, Your Grace. I was addressing Her Grace, not Your Grace. I just wanted to clarify as it is a bit confusing when you are both to be addressed as ‘Your Grace.’ ”

  Topher was asking for it.

  For some absurd reason, Roman wanted nothing more than to punch this sodding fellow’s handsome lights out.

  Instead, Roman addressed his mother-in-law. “It’s a habit.”

  “William,” Esme replied to Mr. Topher, “Don’t be ridiculous. I will always be Esme to you. Why, you’ve known me for over a decade.”

  “I most certainly will address you as Your Grace if you prefer,” Topher said with a fake glint of humility in his eye.

  “Oh, botheration,” she replied. “William, do stop.”

  It was very hot in the salon and Roman had had enough of the stupidities. It was why he preferred to avoid wasting his time with social calls of absolutely no importance. He returned his teacup to the side table and stood up to cross to one of the windows to examine the view when Topher continued to fawn over Esme.

  “Shall we not get started on a new work straightaway?” Topher was gleeful. “I should like to show you a new technique for painting tree leaves rustling in the wind that I’ve developed recently.”

  Roman stilled to hear her answer.

  “If you do not mind, William, shall we not begin tomorrow? Mother?” She said with some degree of seriousness as she turned to Lady Gilchrist. “I should like to take a little lie-down if I may. The trip was a bit tiring.”

  “Of course, my darling. I asked Mrs. Jenkins to make up the nursery for you and His Grace as I thought it would not be in good taste to return you to the small chambers you chose when the new earl’s affairs were placed in the master chambers.”

  Nursery? Why on earth would they be put in a bloody—

  “Mother, let us have no lies. I know you’ve taken up residence in my chambers as I suggested before I departed. And you are correct. Those rooms will not do. The apartments of the nursery are far and away the largest and most beautiful rooms in any case.” She paused.

  Roman knew she said these things to reassure him. He said not a word and continued looking at the view.

  “So it is agreed. I shall stay in the nursery proper. But we shall all stop referring to those apartments thusly. It is ridiculous. They are no longer fitted out as such. Mother, where shall His Grace’s affairs be placed?”

  “Why in the nanny’s room, of course, my darling.” Her not-so-darling mother replied without a hint of sport in her voice.

  He turned to look at the two ladies still seated with their teacups perched on their knees. Mr. Topher had a smirk on his face.

  “With any luck there will be an actual infant sleeping in those apartments one day soon.” Her mother had the audacity to wink.

  “Mother,” Esme said quietly but firmly.

  A chill ran down Roman’s spine and then raced down his legs, singeing him to the spot. Good God. They were actually talking of babies? He had entered a madhouse. Yes, that was it. Was there so little respect left in England for a goddamned duke? The nanny’s room?

  Then again, his own mother and sister acted remarkably like this pair. He was damned twice over to be forever surrounded by a horde of females. And now the added insanity of a hangdog of a teacher, who was clearly bent on following her around every chance he had. Roman wante
d nothing more than to retreat to a study, order a tea tray of whiskey with a side order of drafting paper and pencils, and then lock the door and throw away the key.

  Instead, he crossed the room toward the door. “I shall take my leave of all of you.”

  “Oh,” Esme said, “allow me to show you to our apartments.”

  “No, thank you,” he replied, walking to the threshold.

  “But where are you going, my son?” Her mother’s voice was less gleeful.

  My son? “To take the air.”

  “Shall I go with you?” Esme asked.

  “I should like to go alone.” He really didn’t give a fig if he was impolite.

  The silence in the room was as deafening as morning prayers in a monastery.

  He departed the manor house without noticing what direction he took. He walked past the rear gardens, passed the well-maintained kitchen garden, barely took note of the handsome stables, and ignored the smell of the cows, sheep, and pigs in his wake. He plowed up the hill and walked quickly past the dale. He kept going so far and so fast that he knew not if he would be able to find his way back easily.

  Babies?

  At the sight of an enormous lake, he stopped, breathing hard. He leaned over, squeezed his eyes shut, and let the dizzy sensations subside. He swallowed the bile that had risen to the back of his throat and clenched his hands on his knees.

  He finally straightened after a few long moments and made his way southward to a stand of birch. He would have liked nothing more than to continue walking all the way back to London.

  There would be no goddamned baby.

  Instead he laid his head on a mossy spot at the base of one of the trees and rather than remember the rest of the vile conversation in the salon with the people who would surround him for the next several weeks, he promptly fell fast asleep.

  It would be the rest he would need to see him through that night.

  Chapter 8

  “Mother,” Esme began, “you have scared him off. And you, too, William.”