The Art of Duke Hunting

by Sophia Nash

  Esme smiled to herself under the covers, which did not make the new day go away. She threw back the bed linen, and carefully tested her sore ankle with a bit of weight.

  Hmmm.

  It was still a bit sore, but she ignored it and hobbled to the bell cord.

  Less than an hour later, she was washed, dressed, and atop the old gelding Dobby, with her artist’s gear well packed. And no one was the wiser, except her mysterious maid with the odd accent, Jacqueline Cooper, who had been instructed to inform everyone at the manor that she was starting a new painting in the direction she gave.

  She settled under the shade of a tree overlooking Abshire’s grand estate. He had done her a great favor by way of his advice and so she would repay him with the gift of a painting.

  First she broke her fast with the lovely foodstuff Cook had packed for her. And then she laid out her affairs in the rote manner she had adopted each day before she began to create.

  As the day waned in the western sky many hours later, Esme put aside her brush and gazed at her creation. It was taking shape nicely. She liked the image of the shepherd in a pasture near the manor house. It gave light to the dark, somber stones of the manor.

  It would take a few more days to complete, but it would be very much worth the effort.

  After she had finished packing away her things, she could not bring herself to retrieve Dobby, who had spent the afternoon munching in the pasture.

  She placed a blank piece of sketching paper before her and took up her brown-pigmented pencil. Her mind took over her hand and she roughly drew a face she now knew by heart. His brushed-back salt-and-pepper hair, his square face, and strong jaw with just the hint of a cleft. His magnificent sad eyes, and his long sideburns that were so soft to the touch.

  She was not a great artist, she knew, because she did not have a strong talent in any one arena. She loved to draw and paint landscapes almost as much as she loved to sketch portraits. William was forever telling her that her landscapes were perfection. But she had always secretly preferred portraiture.

  As she worked, she tried to conjure up excitement about the prospect of leaving for Vienna. Perhaps she would indeed invite William to join her this time. She would not make the mistake again of departing without a maid, or more likely now two. And a footman. It would be expected of a duchess, of course.

  She tried to imagine saying goodbye to Roman Montagu. She allowed all the words to flow through her brain as she worked.

  She must keep it very simple, and very light. He would prefer it that way. And she would see him once or twice a year as he had suggested.

  And then her pencil stopped. The sketch was complete.

  She mouthed the words she would use to wish him well when she departed. It was difficult to say with any sincerity.

  She tried again. And again.

  And then she realized she would never be any good at it. But she would only have to do it once, act as if she had every intention of seeing him again, and then she would take her leave of him, and ensure that she never saw him again by way of travel, her art and as many commitments as she could manage. It was as Abshire had said. She had to guard what was left of her heart.

  She was not the lady for him. And he certainly didn’t want to be the man for her. He had not ever wanted to marry and he did not want children. He had little interest in art and less than little interest in traveling with her.

  She looked at the portrait one last time and carefully placed it at the bottom of all her sketches. She did not have the heart to tear it to pieces, but she wanted no reminder of the man who would always haunt the corners of her mind.

  Roman examined the letters he had written to the owner of a shipyard and to several influential acquaintances in Vienna and in Prague. Every door she could possibly require would be open to her and she could explore, learn, and paint to her heart’s content. He wanted nothing more than for her to be happy.

  She had missed the early supper. A servant had informed that she was painting in some field of the estate. To his surprise, Roman could not stop his thoughts from worrying about her as he retreated to the study to prepare his eventual removal from this, ahem, bucolic retreat.

  Roman sanded the words on the pages again but did not seal the letters yet. He moved back the chair from the desk in the study of Derby Manor, and for the first time realized how much he missed being in his own townhouse in Mayfair. Prinny had not allowed him to send word to his mother or his sister, and he hoped they would not worry overmuch of his whereabouts. At least he could take comfort that the Prince Regent had given his word that he would personally inform them of his well-being, but swear them to secrecy until the riots in London cooled.

  He was not thick in the attics. He knew Prinny wanted his whereabouts kept secret if only to force Kress to do his bidding. At least Roman had enough sense to know that perhaps the future king had the right of it. The entire royal entourage had gone too far, and they were all of them responsible. But when Kress married, as the prince had demanded, Roman and his closest friend could continue on as before—just with much more discretion. It would all be quite simple.

  Abshire’s sodding words floated through his mind—“Of course, you will have to attempt to look the other way when she takes a lover.”

  He stood up, restless all of a sudden. God. It was not going to be as simple as he wished. The thought of Esme leaving England and starting a new phase of her life without him was . . . well, it was difficult to fathom. And the idea of her taking a lover was unbearable.

  Hell. He was being ridiculous and he knew it.

  Roman crossed to the French doors and stood by the long, fine white lawn under-curtains, fluttering in the breeze of the open door to the terrace. He surveyed the beauty of Derbyshire. It had been an age since he had gone to his own seat—Chardon Cross—on the eastern coast of England. There were too many memories there of Vincent.

  He immediately forced his mind away from his brother. There would never be any reason to go there again. He managed the estate, and the other eight properties in the entail very easily from London, in the townhouse he had purchased the month after he had assumed the title. There were no memories there. And his mother and sister preferred Town to any other place in the portfolio of Norwich estates. They only visited their friends and acquaintances during the worst of the summer, while he usually stayed in London to focus on his scientific interests. The three of them would reconvene in Town at the beginning of the Season, when the House of Lords recommenced their debates and procedures.

  It was the life he had made, and the one that fit him best. He only wished he had been able to find a suitable husband for his beautiful sister. Despite the fact that so many Seasons had come and gone, and that a constant stream of suitors of every age tried to curry her favor, she would not have any of them. This saddened his mother to distraction, although she never said a word. Instead, the three of them said all the correct things to each other, attended every important event together, and shied away from every possible memory of the time when they had been a true family at the ducal seat on the coast.

  Roman had the innate sense that Esme would fit in very easily with them during the brief occasions they would attend celebrations to appear the proper family.

  Roman cursed. Usually, he was much more adept at ordering his thoughts to productive ends. He should know better. He crossed back to the desk to give another go at the new pump design, and then paused.

  Esme was at the threshold, looking at him, her hand raised at the edge of the door, poised to make her presence known.

  “Hello, you,” he said simply, and crossed the space that divided them.

  “Hello,” she replied shyly. “I’m so sorry I missed supper.”

  He smiled. “No, you aren’t.” He took in her paint-stained apron, which she hadn’t even bothered to remove, and the blowsy nature of her simple coiffure, after a long day out of doors. She was quite beautiful in truth. “But don’t worry. No one missed you.
You have them all trained very well. One day you will have to tell me how you manage it, as my own mother and sister plague me to death at times.” He took one of her hands in his and kissed the back of it. “Mmmmm . . . fuchsia is quite delicious.”

  She smiled, the worry at his possible displeasure from her absence fully gone. “It’s easy,” she murmured. “You just tell them that if they ever question your whereabouts you will begin to lie to them and send them in the opposite direction to where you are. And here is the important part.” She paused with significance. “You say that you will stay away twice as long if they ever berate you. Although that one doesn’t work well with mothers.”

  “Is that how you got along with your husband?” He kept his words gentle.

  “My husband was a very tolerant man,” she replied. “I don’t know anyone else who would have put up with me. Well, no one else ever asked, to be honest with you.”

  “I rather think it’s the other way around, March,” he replied gently. “You were very tolerant of him. You were very good to put up with him.”

  Her face flooded with color. “You have it all wrong. He was the best of husbands. Better than anyone I know.”

  Something odd in his gut clenched, and for the first time he forgot to filter the words flowing in his mind. “Really? The best drinks like a fish every night? That is very odd given your reaction each time I have a glass or two of spirits. If you didn’t care about it, why do you make such a fuss?” He put a hand up to stop her intention to interrupt him. He couldn’t halt the outrageous words leaving him. “Perhaps you liked that he drank so that it allowed you to spend all day away from your family without a care or any guilt.”

  She was fast. So fast he didn’t see it coming. But there was no power behind her palm as it met his cheek.

  “You know nothing about my family,” she said with a rush. “I probably know more about your family than you do. You are a fine one to insult. Abusing spirits might have saddened me, but he was a fine husband, who took very good care of me and everyone who depended on him at Derby Manor. He left it in a better state than his predecessor. Now, you owe me an apology, sir.”

  He examined her face. All the anger had left him. Her husband had been a better man than he would ever be capable of being to her. But she was living in denial. “I would have been furious if I had depended on someone and they let me down by drinking themselves to death.”

  Her hands were shaking by her sides. He couldn’t figure out for the life of him why he was doing and saying these things to such an amazing woman. But he wanted her to fight for herself. To understand that she deserved better. Better than that miserable drunk of a husband and better than he could ever be to her.

  “All right,” she seethed. “You want me to tell you I was angry when he chose whiskey, and brandy, and wine over a life with me? You are bloody right I was angry. But what good is that? It never changed him and it won’t change what happened. We can only live in the present, can we not? Oh, we can prepare for the future somewhat, but to be truly happy and productive we must throw away the past and live for today. Are you doing that, Montagu? Are you living in the present? Or are you living in the past—allowing it to rule your every waking moment? I don’t know what precisely happened to you when tragedy struck your family, but I think I recognize a man who has decided that sharing any portion of his life with another human being—and I’m not speaking about me for I know we are united for convenience only—is too complicated, and not worth the effort. You have obviously already decided that love and happiness do not endure and the end will hurt too much, so why even attempt it?”

  The shock of her words left him colder than death. He could not utter a syllable.

  She looked at him with great sadness in her eyes. “I am sorry for saying it. And perhaps, I am very wrong. Love might, indeed, be too difficult to attempt or to sustain. I should not have said a word. I know better. Words do not mean very much, do they? People end up doing and feeling what they choose and nothing you can say will alter them. Nor should one try. You would like to know how I felt about the past? It is very simple. You are right. He let me down and gave up. He did not care enough in the end to fight harder for a life with me.”

  Her eyes would forever haunt him. They were wise and ageless.

  “But other than his one flaw, and everyone has flaws, he was an excellent husband. And he at least knew the value of love, and of bringing others happiness. And at least he tried because he knew what was important in life even if he did not have the resolve to see it through.”

  Her message was very clear. She thought he was living in the past, and wallowing in self pity, and refusing to allow anyone in his life. The problem was he didn’t know how to be happy. She was suggesting he did not want to work for what was important in life. But she was wrong.

  He knew what was important in life—bettering the lives of those less fortunate. And he had the brain to do it.

  What he absolutely refused to see—in the darkest corner of his mind—was that one’s own happiness was worth fighting for. And even if change was inevitable—and happiness or love was not permanent—he should fight for it. But he could not.

  He crossed to the desk and gathered up the letters he had prepared. He handed them to her. “I am hoping these will bring you a measure of joy, Esme. I am leaving at first light. I can see how unhappy I am making you. I will follow Prinny’s wishes and secrete myself at Abshire’s or somewhere else for the next few weeks until I may return to London or descend to Cornwall. I’ve purchased a private yacht, which will always be at your disposal. My steward in London will hand select the captain and crew for you.” He stopped, and then removed his gold fob and pocket watch, which he forced into her hand. “I want you to have this.”

  “I cannot accept it,” she started. “I cannot do—”

  “Please,” he murmured.

  She stared at the watch, indecision lighting her face. Suddenly, she pulled out of her gown’s pocket a small granite-backed compass and placed it in his hand. “All right. But you shall have to take this. I used to get lost quite a bit when first I came to Derby Manor. But I don’t need it anymore.”

  He had to lean forward to hear the next bit.

  “My heart is my compass now.”

  He inhaled deeply and accepted the token. “By the by, your mother will never tell you, but I will. She sent out a footman to spend the day in the shadows near you. Don’t for a moment think people do not worry about you. They care about you because you always try to bring everyone around you all the joy and happiness you possess innately in your heart, March. I shall be forever grateful to you for giving so much of yourself to me during that storm. I know not one other person on this earth who would have given me what you did. And I thank you for this compass. I shall always carry it with me.”

  “I am sorry, too. I am sorry for everything, especially striking you. I’ve prided myself in never harming a living thing. I can never take pride in that again.” She stared at him for a long time, and then said very quietly, “It could have worked, you know, perhaps not love, but at least a deep affection. We, both of us, are very independent creatures who treasure our freedom. The freedom to do what we want, spend time apart, and to follow our individual dreams. There are not many like us. Most people look at each other like possessions, forever ordering each other about, hurting each other, trampling on each other’s dreams and desires. We would not have done that. But I understand. You do not want anything other than your wild solitude. Then fly away. I truly do wish you only the best life has to offer.” She stuck out her hand as if she wanted him to shake it. Like one man facing another man.

  He grasped her slim hand tenderly and shook it. He was dazed by her words. What was worse was that there was some part of him that recognized that she might be right. And if there was anyone he could envision sharing a life with, it would be the woman in front of him. Why couldn’t he just throw caution to the wind, grab her with both hands, and try?


  He should know the answer. He really should. But he did not. He was, at heart, a wild beast who did not want to be tamed. And yet . . . she did not want to tame him. Of that he was certain. So why was he choosing solitude over companionship? Why was—

  “Goodbye, Montagu,” she whispered. A few moments later he was staring at the darkness in the room, where she had been.

  And then life unfolded just as he had suggested to her. He took his leave of Derby Manor at dawn the next day, without another word to anyone. It was better that way. He did not go to Abshire’s, as he knew he could not bear the mention of her name again, and Abshire would meddle in his affairs.

  He couldn’t go to London or Cornwall, and so he did the next best thing. It was an excellent idea, actually. He had places to go, and mills, and waterfalls, and dams, and reservoirs to observe. He would lead a goddamned purposeful life, even if it killed him. And he would do it alone, damn it. He could not be depended upon. He would fail other people every time. His brother Vincent was proof enough of that.

  Roman urged his horse down the lane away from Derby Manor, and headed east. He didn’t need to glance at the compass she had given him to verify the direction, but he did it nonetheless because it was the only reminder he had of her.

  Chapter 15

  After the first day, it had not been as hard as Esme had imagined it would be.

  But the day he left had been unbearable. And to make it even more difficult, Verity had come to call.

  “But, I don’t understand,” Verity said far too many times during her visit.

  Esme had prayed for her cousin to finish her third cup of tea for if there was one protocol Verity always followed, it was that one had overstayed if one accepted a fourth dish of scandalbroth.

  “There is nothing to understand,” Esme said with a sigh. “He is gone. He has many things that occupy his time.”

  “But Abshire told me that the Prince Regent had ordered him not to return to London.”