The Art of Duke Hunting

by Sophia Nash

  “I’ve never been more certain of anything in my life. You will accomplish it. I know you will, Montagu. And I assure you that I am thinking only of you when I suggested the monies be donated to your work. In any case, it will be but a mere drop—I’m sorry for the metaphor—of what will be needed, I’m certain.” She was gazing steadily at him in that forthright manner of hers. “Was there something else you wanted to say?”

  He was no good at communicating with finesse. And so he said what had to be said. “Do not trust William Topher to guide your talent any longer, March.”

  Her jaw dropped. A few moments later she collected herself and stood up very straight. “You have never liked him.”

  “You are correct.”

  “You got off on the wrong foot. I realize his way with people can be off-putting, but his character and his heart are in the right place.”

  “Our opinions are at odds, March.” He paused, desperate to find the words to convince her. “There is sometimes a moment—a very awkward moment—when a student’s ability surpasses a teacher’s. A poor mentor is blind to it. A great teacher recognizes it and knows when to step away.”

  She stared at him, all color leaving her face.

  “Do not take him with you to Vienna.”

  “I see. And so I am to go without the person who arranged for my first commission? But I may take your mother?”

  “Of course you should take my—”

  She interrupted. “But essentially, I am to meet the Duc d’Orleans alone, negotiate the commission, paint his portrait without any direction from a man who has devoted a good portion of his life guiding me?”

  This was the moment he had dreaded when he opened this discussion. It was when he would either do what a man should do when he loves a woman—something a husband would do for a most beloved wife—or he would not. He should offer to go with her. He should be there to reassure her and to advise her. His project was finished. He knew Prinny would embrace his plan with tears of joy—and orchestrate the entire financial undertaking. If anything would win over the hearts and minds of an unhappy populace, it was the promise of something so basic and necessary to every person’s life here in the city—clean water. And he would be back in time for the construction.

  Roman knew he should just get on that blasted yacht with her and go. Instead, he met her gaze and blinked. “Topher cannot even recognize that your forte is portraits, not landscapes. He might even be jealous of your talent.”

  “Jealous? You believe William is jealous? Of me? How ridiculous. Perhaps you do not like the idea of a gentleman traveling with me. Is that it?”

  “Of course not,” he lied. “Look, even the Duc d’Orleans deduced after seeing your work that you are a superb portraitist.”

  She did not accept his argument. He could see it in her eyes. “March, I realize I do not have the right to tell you what to do, considering . . . But, I hope you know I will always have your best interests at heart.”

  She did not form a reply as the man Roman least wanted to see walked toward them.

  “Esme,” Topher said on his approach. “I do apologize for interrupting. But the hour grows late and I must pop down to that marvelous shop near Bond Street to replenish my own art supplies to prepare for our trip. Shall we not go together? I should like to advise you on a few things such as the exact shade of Orlean’s flesh. What say you?”

  Roman held his breath.

  She looked between the two men.

  “If you don’t mind, William, I would like to finish the portrait of Her Grace today before the light changes. Perhaps we can go tomorrow if you are willing to wait. Otherwise, really, I will not be put out at all if you decide to go alone.”

  “Absolutely not,” Topher blustered. “Of course, we will go tomorrow. Just now I took the liberty of studying your likeness of Her Grace, and it is lovely, my dear. Perhaps the mouth and nose need a bit more work, but other than that? The gloss on the hair is extraordinary as always.” He paused. “It really is too bad that the Duc d’Orleans does not want you to do the landscape for him. His portrait is sure to be a difficult commission.”

  Esme glanced at Roman. “William?”

  “Yes, my dear?”

  “I’ve not thanked you for arranging this first commission. I am, as always, very grateful to you.”

  William bloody Topher smiled like the victor that he was.

  Chapter 18

  In which, dear reader, we skip Chapter Seventeen as Roman Montagu would prefer it and he should have a say in his own story, should he not?

  Vauxhall at night was always something to behold, Esme thought as she entered the small boat that was to carry the Norwich party to the famed gardens. She was seated in front of the oarsman, all alone while the others were seated behind. This was by far the most beautiful way to see the approach. Everyone from the Norwich townhouse in Wyndam Square had taken the boat, except, of course, Roman Montagu. He had taken a carriage, and his mother had thanked him by suggesting that it might very well rain and they would all crowd in the carriage with him for the journey back.

  Esme had not hesitated to go by boat. Oh, she knew she would have to have a private word or three with her husband. They had been interrupted. But now was not the moment. And she needed time to think and reflect on what he had said. She trusted him. Blindly, for some ridiculous reason. There was not a single doubt in her mind that when it came to her passion in life, he would be her greatest champion.

  But aside from her father, William Topher was the man who had taught her everything she knew. If she had talent, it was William who had nurtured it. It was William who had pushed her to new heights. And she liked to think that she had a backbone, and knew how to form her own opinion. There had been times when she had disagreed with William’s advice, and she had created pieces the way she had wanted.

  Since her private words with Roman in the rear garden, she had been trying to remember all the many canvases in her possession. Which were her favorites and what had been William’s suggestions during their creation.

  Of one thing she was certain. If they had ever had a difference of opinion, William had never had any malice or jealousy. He was not that way. No matter what her husband thought. The only question was whether William’s guidance was indeed of great benefit to her now. Or was she just depending on him because she didn’t have the courage to trust her own instincts at times?

  She studied the way the light of the many lanterns in the night-darkened trees of Vauxhall bounced off the water’s wavelets as they approached the dock. Perhaps her husband was correct. Perhaps she did not require a teacher any longer.

  She made ready to exit after her mother stepped onto the dock with William’s aid.

  “My dear,” her mentor insisted, stretching out his hand to her. “Do let me help you. Is your ankle bothering you at all?”

  “Not in the least.”

  “Good. Then I shall claim the first dance, if I may?” William smiled in the darkness. “But first there must be strawberries, no? I long for the famed strawberries of Vauxhall almost as much as I miss the watered-down lemonade and rataffia. It has been an age since we were here. When was it?”

  She thought back in time. “It must be nearly three years now.”

  “How could I have forgotten?” he replied. “Although I remember why we did not return to Town sooner. I did not find the artists we met or the lectures we attended particularly inspiring. We do better when it is just the two of us in Derbyshire, don’t you think, my dear?” His large, beautiful brown eyes stared directly into hers. He then turned abruptly toward her mother.

  “Dear Lady Gilchrist, do take my other arm. I am quite overwhelmed,” William continued. “For the first time in my life I find I wish for four arms, to escort you all!”

  Lily giggled.

  Her Grace smiled. “I do hope Norwich is here already. He was kind to make all the arrangements for a box.”

  They made their way past the small docks where others ar
rived as they had done. They crossed the wide lawn, and exclaimed over the beauty of the evening. A breeze rustled the leaves of the trees near the dancing area, and the wilderness of large oaks, and elms, and pines in the paths beyond.

  Roman met them at the entrance to the boxes. He looked more handsome than Esme had ever seen him. He had carefully combed back his graying hair from his beautiful forehead. All of the Norwich family had the same jet black hair, which became gray far earlier than was typical, his mother had once mentioned. Only Lily had managed to evade the trait.

  Roman stood in front of a tree lit with lanterns. His silhouette showed his great, wide shoulders and his slim hips to advantage. He stepped forward and she could see the piercing pale blue of his eyes.

  She had fallen in love with him. No. It was worse than that. She loved him as she would love no other. It didn’t matter what he felt for her, it didn’t matter that he was unable to love her as she loved him. He was the man for her. And no matter where life would take her, even if it was far, far away from him, she would love him.

  She removed her arm from William’s as they drew near. Her husband caught up her hand and kissed the back of it. “You are very beautiful, tonight, March,” he said for her ears only.

  “Thank you,” she replied simply.

  “I hope you still feel kindly enough toward me to allow me the honor of the first dance?” His eyes were twinkling.

  “Oh dear,” William interrupted with a hint of a smile. “You are too late, Your Grace. She has promised it to me. And I don’t know if you are aware, but Esme never, ever goes back on a promise. Do you my dear?”

  Roman’s eyes changed.

  She kept her eyes on her husband. “William is correct. I did promise him the first dance. But I would be very grateful if we may dance the second?”

  He smiled. “I have always admired a person who keeps their promises. As well as ladies who are not afraid to ask a gentleman to dance.”

  “Perfect,” Lily said with a laugh. “Then, brother dear, will you dance the first with me? It has been an age.”

  They settled on the pale cushioned benches in the box her husband had reserved for them. The night was only a little cool, and Esme was grateful when he placed a shawl on her shoulders. “Thank you. I had thought I’d forgotten it.”

  “You did,” he said, “but I saw it on my way out and brought it for you.”

  The strawberries were as small, and sweet, and delicious as Esme remembered. The libations were another story.

  Couples strolled the long allées throughout the evening. One could get lost along the paths whether one chose to or not. There was a reason parents took great care in the chaperones they chose for their daughters on the nights they visited Vauxhall. There were far too many stories of forced marriages that were all due to the romantic atmosphere of the gardens.

  Esme’s mother and father had never worried for her. At least there was one benefit to being plain. And her father’s limited means had not tempted any blackguard. The Gilchrist fortune had not been as grand in her early years as it had become in later ones.

  The orchestra struck up the notes to a minuet, and William claimed her hand the same time her husband claimed his sister’s. They were so handsome together, and it was very obvious how much Lily adored her brother. She watched them out of the corner of her eye while they were deep in conversation as much as the dance would allow.

  William performed the steps to the intricate dance to perfection. He was in his element. And not for the first time, Esme wondered why her mentor had never married, or shown any interest in courting a lady.

  He had a stipend, and after ten years at the estate, he had been deeded the small, unentailed house originally built for Esme’s mother, who in the end had preferred the dower house on the property of her late husband, Esme’s father.

  The dance ended and they began the walk back to the box.

  “William?”

  “Yes, my sweet?”

  “We’ve always spoken very frankly with one another, haven’t we?”

  “Of course. That is the way between mentor and student.”

  “I would ask a favor of you.”

  “Anything, my dearest girl.”

  “I’m undecided about the trip to Vienna.”

  He halted, forcing her to stop short. “Whatever do you mean? You must go. Don’t tell me that dried-up stick of a husband-in-name-only has a medieval streak!”

  “No, not at all. He would like me to go.”

  “Then what is it?”

  “I might choose to go alone.”

  William appeared a tad stunned. But gradually, oh so slowly, he smiled like a cat who found the cream. “Lord. Finally. I was wondering how long it was going to take.”

  “What ever do you mean?”

  “I’ve been waiting and waiting, dearest. And it was beginning to appear as if I might never earn my retirement.”

  “Sorry?”

  “Esme, my dear, you are the love of my life—not in the way you might think. Every teacher dreams of a student such as you. Someone who is so brilliant, so naturally gifted, with such a great desire to absorb everything. You had only one flaw.”

  “I did?”

  “Yes. But only a very little of the flaw. You had moments, fleeting moments of doubt about your abilities. Yet a great artist must have a certain level of arrogance to succeed. You could not accept that you had such a raw and perfect talent. I want you to fly away. Fly to Vienna and paint that damned portrait without any interference from me. I shall write to the Duc d’Orleans and tell him. And as for me? I am going to enjoy the Season with your mother and the very lovely Lily Montagu, who has begged me to stay in Town, and then I am going to sit in front of a huge fire all winter long in Derbyshire and relish the sentiments of a job well done. And then . . . Well, perhaps I shall choose a wife.” He waggled his eyebrows.

  “Oh, William!” She wrapped her arms about her handsome teacher and kissed him on the cheek.

  He kissed her right back. “Now do you understand why I consider you the love of my life?”

  A growl erupted. “Take your bloody hands off my wife, you scoundrel!”

  Esme quickly removed herself from William’s embrace. The next minute, her dearest teacher in the world was flat on his back, gasping like a freshly landed trout.

  A small crowd of people gathered. Esme’s mother pushed her way past the shocked onlookers.

  “Esme? Are you all right? What on earth happened? Why is William on the ground?”

  “Because I punched him,” Roman Montagu, the Duke of Norwich, replied, more agitated than Esme had ever seen him.

  “And why would you ever do that, my son?” her mother asked.

  A few shocked sounds began as soon as my son left her mother’s lips.

  “Because he was pawing and making love to my wife,” he ground out.

  “Montagu,” Esme said with great calm, “apologize to William immediately. You have misunderstood. It was a very innocent action, not what you think. You have it all wrong.”

  “Your Grace?” A middle-aged man with a very poorly made wig stepped forward. He was familiar to Esme. Very familiar.

  “Yes?” her husband answered.

  “I do beg your pardon, but I feel it my duty to warn you that the bushes along the edges of the waterline are prime breeding areas for ducks.”

  Esme studied the bewigged man and suddenly remembered. He was reputedly the infamous columnist from the Morning Post. The one who had started the mayhem after the debauched evening of the royal entourage.

  Hushed whispers erupted all around. By the sound of it, there was not a chance of any measure of doubt now. By next morning, the whole of London would know three things:

  1. The Duke of Norwich was married to her.

  2. He had punched another man who had just danced with her.

  3. He was obviously still cursed. And there would never be a good time to reveal her ancestry to him.

  Montagu stepp
ed toward her and William, who was still gasping and clenching his stomach. The crowd took a step backward and made not another sound. Goings-on like this were too important to miss a thing.

  He stretched out his hand and offered it to William.

  William looked at it with blatant fear, then chanced a look at her. She nodded mutely, and William accepted his aid. Her former teacher stood up, incapable of speaking, and brushed the dirt off his evening clothes.

  “Mr. Topher,” her husband said gruffly, “do accept my apologies.”

  “Accepted, Your Grace,” William rasped.

  “All right, everyone,” Esme’s mother said with laughter threading her musical voice, “the fireworks are over. Now it is time to see the other fireworks. Come along, William, I would have a word, if I may?”

  The rest of the evening at Vauxhall passed without incident. Except for the fact that Esme could feel, oh, about two hundred pairs of eyes in her direction, she had a lovely time.

  The only person who did not look at her was her husband.

  His turn would come.

  The return to Norwich Hall in Wyndam Square was done silently. The six occupants in the barouche might have had enough social backbone to enact joie de vivre in front of the curious eyes of a goodly number of their peers at Vauxhall that evening, but they did not even try to keep it up in the close confines of the carriage.

  Roman, Lily, and his mother were seated on one bench, and March, Lady Gilchrist, and William Topher, who was quieter than a rabbit, were on the other.

  A few kisses, and a great number of “good nights” were performed for the benefit of the servants in the front hall, and then each of the six retreated to their corners, er, apartments.

  Roman performed his evening ablutions with his usual orderly precision, aided by his valet, who was not only meticulous, but also something far more important—silent.