The Art of Duke Hunting (12 page)

When Esme echoed the promises the man of the cloth put forth, she had to hold back the tears that were threatening to spill down her cheeks. She wasn’t sure why her sensibilities were so involved. She wasn’t even sure what she was feeling. This was not how it had gone when she had first wed. Then, she had been suffused with a quiet happiness. It had been a lovely little country wedding complete with a lovely little wedding breakfast after.

She looked at the man promising to love her, to cherish her, to care for her in sickness and in health and realized she had not a notion if his family members lived with him. She wondered if she would live with his mother and also his sister, a beautiful lady named Lily Montagu who was surrounded by peers at every entertainment Esme had ever attended. And she would now be sisters with the pretty creature. It was unfathomable.

Her thoughts were interrupted by the bishop. “Your signature is required here, Your Grace.” He extended a large official-looking book toward her.

It took a moment before she realized the man was referring to her.
Her Grace
. For the rest of her life she would be addressed as such. Esme only wished her mother was here to hear it. She would laugh so hard she would cry . . . with good-natured amusement. The wallflower of the era marrying a dyed-in-the-wool duke and an overly handsome one at that.

The bishop nodded toward the ledger pointedly. She took his cue and signed the necessary document, Roman following the same course a moment later.

Candover came forward silently and embraced her tenderly again. She had always felt he considered her as much a sister as his five actual sisters. He had actually been far kinder toward her than the others.

Abshire was clapping Roman on the back and saying something that caused her husband—
her husband!
—to grin.

Prinny steepled his beringed fingers together. “Delighted for you both. Norwich, I would arrange a celebration for you but we must delay. You must first go on an extended secret honeymoon. I insist.”

“
Honeymoon
,” they both said simultaneously.

Unnerved, Esme eyed her cousin. He shook his head and rolled his eyes.

“Yes. Far north, I think. Would you like to visit the Queen’s castle in Littleshire? I shall order fires in every grate. Then again, you shall have each other to keep warm. Yes, that is a far more preferable plan. There shall be no fires, then.”

Abshire chuckled discreetly.

The prince’s lewd wit was far too well known to cause shock. His jowls flapped again when he laughed with the dark duke.

“But I must go to Cornwall, Your Majesty,” Roman said. “I shall first see Kress and return his fortune. I did not earn it and the matter must be resolved.”

“Oh no, no, no, no no,” Prinny said with a wag of his finger. “We cannot have that. It’s as I told you. You are ordered to leave the matter to me. I shall inform Kress of the good news of your return when I choose. There is not a moment to waste. And Candover and Abshire? You are not to breathe a word of any of tonight’s goings-on until I allow it. Understood?”

The two dukes agreed.

“But I don’t understand, Your Majesty,” Esme inserted. “Whyever can we not remain in London?”

“Because that is not what newly married peers of the realm do,” he said, his lips twitching. “Now I will hear no argument on this. It will also serve to silence Mr. King once and forever when I inform him but swear him to secrecy. We must be very careful with our timing, you see.”

Esme had heard the Prince Regent could be very odd at times. The gossipmongers had the right of it. But who would ever dare question their sovereign? She had the notion this had something to do with Kress.

“Yes,” the future king continued, delighted beyond measure. “No one will listen to that ridiculous man’s silly gossip after they eventually hear you are marvelously married and happy. You shall leave straightaway. Your affairs will follow but a few hours behind you. And have no fear, I shall inform all those family members or friends you have seen today, and swear them to secrecy.”

“But . . . but—” She tried to gain time.

“But, what?” Roman asked, exasperated.

His tone brought her back to the scene. Lord. She had married him. He was her husband. “I want to meet your family.”

“My family?” Roman looked at her with surprise.

“No, that will not do,” the prince inserted. “That joy will have to wait until after you return. Besides, no one takes their in-laws on their honeymoon. Not even the most unhappy of couples, such as myself. By God, if I endured a honeymoon, you two can too.”

“Well, could we at least stay at Derby Manor in Derbyshire, Your Majesty,” Esme requested, editing out pertinent information concerning the dwelling’s current residents.

“Your former husband’s estate?” Roman asked, annoyed.

“No, the current earl’s estate,” she replied peevishly. She couldn’t believe she was peevish on her wedding day. Then again she still couldn’t fathom that it was again her wedding day.

“Perfect,” the prince said. “It’s even further from London. And the last place anyone would look for Norwich.”

And with that, the entire absurd matter was put out of its misery. And she didn’t even care that she was mixing clichés in her thoughts.

This entire business was irregular. It followed that the departure would be irregular too. At sixes and sevens they were hurried into one of two plain black barouches, the curtains fully unfurled.

They sat there in silence for nearly a half hour, leaving each to their own thoughts. She was decided she would not say a word to the man who had thrown a proverbial dash of cold water over all her long-held, well-laid plans. He would have to—

“Well, he can’t command us to have intercourse,” Roman muttered under his breath.

Chapter 7

R
oman repeated it as if he hadn’t realized he’d already said it once aloud. “No, he can’t command us to have intercourse.” He paused. “At least after the marriage is consummated.”

Something fluttered in her stomach. Good Lord. She would not let his comment affect her. He hadn’t meant it the way she heard it. Oh, but her sensibilities were ruffled. She had at least thought he had enjoyed sexual congress with her, even if he had been terrified of the storm. Now she was too hurt to say a word. And the idea of consummating the marriage now held little appeal. It was absurd. Oh, perhaps she was being overly sensitive, but she couldn’t help herself. Her self-doubt concerning her plain appearance ran too deep for her to second-guess.

Well, she would have two days to consider her options. Surely he would not suggest that they consummate the marriage straightaway. Why, it would take them at least two days to reach Derbyshire—and that was only if they traveled with no delay, stopping only at posting houses to change horses.

She watched him remove a flask from his waistcoat. And perhaps for the first time in her life, Esme understood the desire for oblivion.

He paused, the flask half lifted toward his lips. He glanced sideways at her. Without a word, he offered it to her.

She looked away.

“Suit yourself,” he replied and then drank long and deep.

“I suppose now would be the time to tell you that we will not be alone at Derby Manor,” she said coolly.

“Since I understood Lord Derby is in Town, I suppose you are referring to the new earl’s servants,” he replied.

“Not precisely.”

Perversely, he irritated her further by dropping the subject. He apparently did not have any curiosity whatsoever about the people who would witness their honeymoon gone to hell.

Well, all the better to surprise him.

R
oman wasn’t sure what irked him more—his aching head, or the suddenly mysterious woman beside him.

His wife.

He had never thought he would live to say those two words together. They sounded every bit as ridiculous as he would have imagined.

But if he had to take a duchess, there was some small shriveled part of him that was rather pleased it was she.

It was not that she was
suddenly
and
mysteriously
possessed of a certain type of aristocratic mien, nor was it her odd mood, one he was willing to overlook considering the extraordinary circumstances. But there was something more to it. If he had bothered to brush away the myriad complicated mathematical notations clogging his brainbox, he might have seen what it was about her that he valued.

It was her heart.

She was a giver. In a world of takers, she was the opposite.

But what he was unwilling to part with was his own heart.

The rest of the long journey was accomplished in peace after that first discomforting hour. It was done quite easily for the new duchess made a slight adjustment in the travel arrangements. At the first posting house, she descended to attend to her needs, taking forever and a day. She then never ascended back into the carriage wherein Roman sat in deep contemplation.

No. Instead, he was told by the coachman that Her Grace, the Duchess of Norwich had chosen to sit in the second carriage, where her new maid, sent along by His Majesty, resided. It annoyed him to think that his sire had not thought to send at the very least a valet for his use. He refused to consider that what really irritated him was that March had decided to sit with a stranger instead of him.

And so Roman brooded alone. He brooded alone for one day and then for a second day. After the first hour of that second day, he pulled out his plans for the city’s waterworks and gained much ground in solving several problems. But in the back of his mind, he really contemplated only three things:

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.

T
he 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.