The Art of Duke Hunting (15 page)

Roman refused to listen to what Topher had to say on the matter. He was quickly becoming the most boring man in all of Creation to Roman’s way of thinking.

He did not linger at table. Indeed, as soon as the dessert was removed, he stood up, the back legs of his chair squealing. “I shall take my brandy, say good night to you both if you will excuse me. It has been an exhausting day—week.”

The countess nodded. “I shall send my dear Esme up to you when she returns. Fear not, she always returns at some point. And I shall have a chat to remind her that husbands do not like to be kept waiting.”

“I would ask that you do nothing of the sort, madam. Your daughter and I have already discussed how we will go about our marriage.”

Topher was looking at him with extreme curiosity. At least he had the good sense not to say another single word.

Roman mounted the stairs, but paused on the floor of the nursery. He really wasn’t at all sure where he would go. It was odd to go into a chamber to wait for her, but in the end that is what he did. And then he took a new decision and went in search of a servant to remove his affairs into another apartment farther down the hall.

He then pressed into service the footman as valet. After dragging out his evening ablutions for as long as possible, Roman returned to the blasted nursery, began a book he had selected from Derby’s library, and waited for his wife. When the shadows grew too long in the chamber, he finally closed the book, eased back the covers of the large bed, and lay in the growing darkness.

For a long time.

E
sme mounted the stairs to the nursery on tiptoe. She knew she was being extraordinarily juvenile about this. It was just that he had made her feel like she was just one more thing on his list of Things That Must Be Done, or People I Must Attend to with as Little Effort as Possible.

Oh, he was a loner. Of that there was no question. He wanted his freedom. He wanted his independence. He had made it very clear. And she knew that feeling.

She just could not understand why he continued to harp on the subject. It was not as if she was clinging to him in any fashion whatsoever. Had she not just provided him with enough freedom as possible the last two days by traveling with the maid?

She undressed in a guest chamber she had occasionally used, and donned her night rail. As Esme stood before the nursery room door, she hoped he would not be inside.

Tonight, she just didn’t have the spirit necessary to consummate the marriage. It was going to require a supreme force to pretend that everything was all right.

She hated that this would be done without love. Aside from the one evening on
The
Drake
, when she had purely given of herself in his terror, now she was going to have to give of herself to him in duty only. And it would most likely be the one and only time this would happen. He had made it obvious he wanted to be a husband in name only. There would be no children unless a small miracle occurred tonight and she very much doubted this.

She swallowed, and gently eased open the door, holding her breath.

Yes, he was there. His feet tented the sheet.

Esme tried very hard not to wake him as she eased on the right side of the bed. Her body dipped the bed slightly as she got in and she held her breath for a few long seconds. Thank the Lord he did not awaken. She lay on her side but within moments he turned toward her and was spooning her, drawing his strong forearm around her middle and pulling her close to him. He was so much warmer than she.

“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

W
ell, 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.