The Art of Duke Hunting

by Sophia Nash

  “Where have you been?” he asked in a groggy whisper—not unkindly, only curious.

  “Sorry. I lost track of time. Sleep, please. So sorry to have disturbed.”

  He did not reply. Instead his hands became restless and turned her to face him, and she was suddenly transported back in time to the evening on board the ship. He was touching her the same way. It would be so easy to believe he truly wanted her for herself.

  But he did not love her and he was not seeking comfort. He only needed her body to sink into, this one time and then they could truthfully admit to consummating the marriage. She concentrated on regulating her breathing. She was proud of herself for remaining calm.

  “Esme?” he whispered behind one ear.

  “Yes?”

  “Shall we?”

  She did not pretend not to understand. “Whatever you like.”

  “I think we should,” he said gently.

  “All right.”

  He began to gently touch her breasts through her thin night rail, and she was embarrassed to feel herself respond. She did not want to react. She just wanted to dispassionately consummate their forced marriage, be civil to one another for the next few weeks, and then go back to her way of life when he returned to London, and she attempted to depart on her trip again. She could not let her heart become engaged.

  When she returned from her travels, she would live here, apart from him in London. It would all be very convenient—as if they were not married at all.

  He was tugging at her gown, and he wanted her to lift up her bottom so he could remove it. She just could not do this.

  But she had to. And so she allowed him to lift the night rail to her waist, but not over her head.

  And suddenly, he pushed the bed covers off the bed, and she was lying there, by the light of the nearly full moon flooding through the open window.

  “You are lovely, March,” he whispered.

  She wasn’t sure what she felt, but she did not feel beautiful.

  She stared at the shadows on his face as he removed his nightshirt and eased over her. He was aroused, she could see. And then she felt the hot length of him on her thigh.

  For a few moments, he rested his forehead against hers as if he was unsure how to go on. She heard him exhale, and then gently reach between her legs. She was slightly moist; she could feel it from the friction of his fingertips.

  He removed his hand, placed his arousal against her opening, and slowly pushed himself inside of her.

  He rose onto his forearms and worked just the merest edges of her for many minutes before deepening the penetration. It was the only part of his body that touched her.

  She turned her face to the side and saw the moon out the window. This was as unlike their first union as it could possibly be, except for the fact that he was very aroused, and she was not fully ready to receive him. She was becoming sore.

  And then he was finally completely seated within her depths and as hard as could be. It felt like an invasion. An invasion that would officially bind him to her.

  He suddenly stopped. “Esme?”

  “Yes?”

  “Are you all right?” Strain and concern laced his words.

  “Oh, yes. I am perfectly fine.”

  “Are you certain?”

  “Certain.”

  “Will you tell me what I can do to help you find your completion?”

  Completion? She just wanted this entire episode finished. And then she would be able to cry in peace. “I don’t want to find completion,” she said, truthfully.

  He stilled. “Please, Esme.”

  He so rarely used her true name. It nearly undid her. But she had to guard her heart. It would just be too painful otherwise. She could not reply for the life of her.

  He rested his forehead against hers and closed his eyes. “I am sorry, my dear. I am so sorry.”

  “I am too,” she ground out. She wasn’t even sure what she was sorry for, but it seemed the best thing to say.

  He finally raised his head, and took her face between his hands. He had a look of such innocence in that moment. And of wanting to give her anything she wanted.

  But she knew he would never be able to give her what she truly wanted: his love.

  He brushed his lips against her cheek, and finally thrust into her several times. And just as she guessed he was reaching his peak, he pulled outside of her as he had done on the ship. He emptied himself on the sheets.

  She was chilled to the bone.

  She had never felt so unwanted in her life. He did not even want to finish inside of her? They were married. And this was a chance, very likely the only one, for conceiving a child. She was so confused she could not form one syllable. She refused to remember that they had agreed to remain childless.

  “I am sorry if I hurt you, March. I shall leave you in peace so you may sleep,” he said gently. “I asked a footman to remove my affairs to another chamber as I am a restless sleeper and do not want to disturb you.”

  Never once in her life had she ever felt so alone, as she did right now. She remained silent as she heard the rustling sounds of him gathering his clothes in the darkness.

  A moment later he was gone, leaving only his faint, unforgettable scent on the pillow.

  Esme moved to the other side of the bed and wrapped her arms around the bolster. A few moments later she sat up and violently threw the pillow he had used across the chamber. She fell back onto the bed and allowed tears to course down her cheeks and pool in her ears. Oh, how ridiculous she was being. How childish. She was a fully grown woman. She was not an innocent. She knew she was not pretty and had never been sought after by gentlemen, but she was well educated, had goals in life, was adept at conversation, and tried very hard to be the best she could be. She was very good at friendships, and she was a female of worth.

  But for the first time in her life, she doubted herself. No matter how kind he was to her, he clearly found her unworthy of being his wife.

  And that was the exact moment hope died. She folded all her most cherished dreams of finding love one day, and of children, and of growing a family, and she tucked it away in the most secure chamber of her heart.

  She refused to feel sorry for herself. She had found love once—a flawed love, of course—but a love nonetheless. There were many who did not ever find love. But she could not be lucky twice. And so she would live her life alone, with her mother, William, and all her friends in the neighborhood. And she would travel and paint. She had an excellent life. She just did not have a husband who could be counted on for anything other than financial support—something she would never need considering the adequate fortune she already possessed.

  In truth, she didn’t need anything from anyone. She brushed away her tears, lit a candle, and retrieved her spectacles. She opened her drawing book to a blank page and began to sketch her father’s face, something that always brought her great comfort.

  A half hour later, she set aside the half-drawn face in despair. The image looked far more like Roman Montagu than her beloved father.

  And she wondered how long it would take before she would be able to begin to forget him.

  Chapter 9

  Well, Roman thought, that had gone spectacularly poorly. He had no idea what had happened.

  He had showered her with assurances that he would not try to change her life or her dreams. He had given her, essentially, permission to live her life however she chose. He would gladly pay for anything she needed or wanted, just as he did for his mother and sister. Was that not an action of affection? He was and always would be her protector and provider until one of them stopped breathing.

  And yet, gone was the extraordinary caring and kindness he had felt when they had lain together on that damn ship. He didn’t require care or kindness, but he had thought he would at least receive a measure of warmth from her. Yes, he had caused this mess, and he had apologized and taken the ultimate responsibility by marrying her to preserve her reputation.


  And now? Well, now he was tied to a woman who might not even like him. Indeed, the only thing she seemed to care about was her bloody painting—something in which he had no interest whatsoever. In fact, he loathed art. He would never tell her that, but it was a trial to be surrounded by drying canvases, and the smell of pigments and oils in half the manor. It had not always been that way. He had spent hours sketching and painting in his youth until his father had put a stop to it.

  Had not his father ever and always insisted that artists were an untrustworthy breed of gypsy not to be borne? His father might have been an unpleasant, stern taskmaster, but he had always taken on responsibilities no matter what the consequences. Well, no matter, Roman would be gone within a few weeks. He wasn’t sure he could wait out a full six weeks.

  He decided right then and there in the privacy of his small chamber three doors down from hers, that he would leave within the month.

  He would leave for Cornwall to see Kress—His Majesty be damned. Period.

  His decision taken, he closed his eyes, and with the maddening ability of a man who was able to regulate his mind and sensibilities at will, fell into a deep, deep sleep.

  The next morning, Roman awoke once again to hear birds chirping.

  While he would have liked nothing better than to call the carriage and depart for Cornwall, he pulled the chamber cord, requested breakfast delivered to the chamber, and dressed himself, without waiting for the servant assigned to him.

  Within a half hour, he was riding one of the manor’s horses about the property. It was a lovely estate, and he had to give Esme’s deceased husband credit where it was due for maintaining the land so well. The tenant cottages were solidly constructed, the farming land in use, the animals in excellent condition, and every single last tenant and groundskeeper appeared contented and well fed. He even spied a group of children carrying lunch pails heading toward a school in the village when he arrived there. The former Lord Derby might have been a drunk, but he also had been an excellent caretaker of the parish.

  After surveying the village, he turned the gray gelding in the direction of the manor.

  Lost in thought about his project, he came upon a mill on the edge of the property. He stopped to watch the water wheel turning in a majestic arc.

  And just like that, the first glimmer of the answer he thought would forever evade him shone brightly in a corner of his mind. He had been trying so hard to find a solution in one direction, when all along there had been a grander scheme with a far simpler device to see it through.

  A thousand possibilities flowed through his mind. He needed something on which to draw.

  A fluttering object caught the corner of his eye and he spotted Esme’s easel propped against a birch tree, but she was nowhere in sight.

  He urged the horse into a canter but slowed soon after to jump off near the tree. He grabbed a piece of sketching paper and some charcoal from her small box. Lost in thought, he began to draw geometric diagrams so quickly that he soon had five pieces of paper before him, every inch covered with figures and arcs, and numeric equations. He reached for another piece of paper and realized he had used it all.

  “Do you need more? I would be happy to fetch some for you.”

  He looked up only to see Esme resting against the side of the millhouse, nearly invisible in the deep shade of the tree nearby. He had been so lost in thought, and she so quiet, he had not seen her. “How long have you been sitting there?”

  “Not long.”

  “And you said not a word.”

  “Why would I? You were obviously doing something very important to you.”

  He shook his head in disbelief. The females he knew would have interrupted him within a half minute of seeing him.

  She repeated her offer. “Shall I fetch more paper for you?”

  “You would do that?”

  “Of course.”

  He let the silence hang in the air, along with the rustling of the leaves in the hedge and trees nearby. She did not ask the obvious. Why did she not barrage him with a thousand questions about what he was doing? “That would be more than kind of you.”

  She stood up, laid down her own sketch on a nearby stump, and placed a book on top of it to keep it in place. “I shall take Dobby and be back in a trace.”

  He said not another word. As he waited, a ball of sadness rose to his throat. She truly was an extraordinary female. Generous, kindhearted, and possessed with great talent. She gave of herself. And what had he done? He had done nothing but take from her.

  He stared at the mill again, and the relationship between the wheel and the water. One could say the water was the energy, the giver, and the mill was the taker, making a product.

  He crossed to the stump where she had left a stack of her own drawings. Moving the stone weight, he examined her efforts.

  He was transfixed by the images. She was a master. Image after image it was proven to him. He could not figure out why he had not fully recognized it when he had seen her painting on the Isle of Wight.

  He studied more closely the drawings. He finally understood. While her landscapes were lovely, it was her ability to capture people that set her apart.

  He shook his head. Had not William Topher told her the opposite? He should refrain from saying anything. Roman was by no means an expert, nor did he want to complicate or question her vocation.

  He stared at her drawings until he saw her in the distance.

  He quickly rearranged her sketches, placed the weight on them once again and thanked her for the new supply of sketching paper. March returned to her place in the shade.

  For another two solid hours they worked together but apart. It was an amazing sensation. He had always worked alone. Every five to ten minutes, he would look up from his computations to see if she was still there.

  He finally saw her rise from her perch, gather her artist supplies and turn to face him. “I’m for home,” she said. “By the way, Lady Verity Fitzroy is coming to dine with us tonight. Will you join us?”

  He jumped up to do the right and proper. “Of course I will join you. But you should take the horse. May I escort you?”

  “Oh no. I like to walk after sitting so long.” She was near him now. “I had the impression that you disliked art.”

  “This is not art.”

  She angled herself for a better view.

  He was certain she would not understand. It was better that way. No one understood his work or the mathematical machinations of his mind.

  “Hmmm. I always loved geometry,” she said. “But the computations are . . . complicated. This has something to do with water?”

  “How did you guess?”

  “Well, it is not the equations. It’s just that you were staring very hard at the mill wheel for so long. What is this for?”

  “I shall tell you, but you must not relay it to anyone else.” He did not stop to think if it was wise to trust her. “I do not want to rush this. I’ve been secretly working on a water delivery method so that clean water could be pumped through all the boroughs in London every hour of the day.”

  “You mean no one would have to rely on private well water? Or wait for the two-hour allotment?” Her eyebrows rose. “So many are sick from the water in Town.”

  “Exactly.”

  Her eyes lit up. “When will it be ready?”

  “I do not know. The problem lies with the pumps. They require too much space and are very complicated.”

  “Who knows you’re working on this?”

  “No one.”

  “Why on earth not?”

  “As I said. I do not want to be rushed. It’s complex.”

  She looked at him. “You’re absolutely right. I hate to be hurried.”

  “Did I rush you last night, March?” he asked, looking deep into her gray eyes.

  She looked away, embarrassed. “No.”

  “Are you sure?”

  “Yes . . . I mean, no, you did not rush me.”

  “I
did,” he insisted. “I should have prepared you. Taken my time. I am very sorry, March.”

  She shuffled the sheets of sketching paper in front of her.

  “Do you . . .” He paused, unsure of what he had been about to suggest. “Pardon me, March. But will you allow me to try again?” He wanted desperately to do right by her. She was everything kind and good and he had been the opposite.

  She appeared very embarrassed by his words, and her face was still averted. Then all at once, those piercing gray eyes met his.

  “No, thank you.”

  Chapter 10

  She could not believe she had had the audacity to turn down her new husband’s gentle request to “try again.” Oh, she knew why she had refused him. First, she was angry at him for deeming her unworthy of being a wife and mother by spilling his seed on the sheets. Second, she couldn’t lie with him again. She just could not. The first time with him had been an act of reassurance and comfort. The last time had been an abomination and had left her feeling empty and worse.

  Perhaps he respected her well enough, but that was all. He did not love her and never would.

  He stood in front of her with his coiled virility taunting her spinsterish demeanor. He had expected her to demur to his suggestion, but she could not.

  The idea of once again having intimate relations with someone who did not love her, and would never love her, left her feeling cold.

  “And is this all the answer I am to receive?” he asked slowly.

  “Yes.”

  “Have I hurt you in any way, March?”

  She examined his face. “I am perfectly fine physically.”

  “And your sensibilities?”

  A flush wound its way up her body and settled on her face. “Why did you spill your seed on the sheets?”

  He paused. “Because I do not want to get you with child.”

  Well, at least he was honest.

  “March, I know you want to travel, and paint. You will not be able to do that if you become with child.”

  “That was the only reason?” she asked, hope stirring in her breast.

  “All except one,” he replied slowly.