The Art of Duke Hunting (26 page)

“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 arrived 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 stepped 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.

T
he 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.

He knew he would go to her tonight. She was scheduled to sail with his mother the day after tomorrow. This was the only time he knew he could speak to her without interruption.

He did not want her to misunderstand his intentions, and so he instructed his valet, Mr. Tanner, to lay aside his dark blue velvet dressing gown, and instead he donned the clothes he would have worn the next morning. Again, his valet, who had been in his employ for as long as he could remember, said not a word. At the last minute, he accepted the silver flask his man offered with knowing eyes.

He waited until all sounds of Tanner retreating belowstairs faded.

Roman glared at himself in the looking glass he used to shave each morning and wondered who in hell was the old man staring back at him. His hair had turned a shade grayer during this summer that would not end. His eyes looked tired and drawn. He shook his head and headed for the door. Lord, he was becoming vain in his old age. That could not be a good sign.

He walked purposefully, and silently, along the carpeted hall toward her chamber. He hoped she was not already in her bed.

Roman knocked on her door and listened keenly.

“Mother?” her voice called behind the door.

“No. It’s me.” Why was he so bloody nervous? He added the obvious. “Montagu.”

“Come in,” she said.

He opened the door to find her just leaving her bed, her back to him as she straightened the covers, fluffed the pillows, and placed a book on her bedside table.

She removed her spectacles as she turned to face him. She appeared very much like a young girl to him. Her hair was down, not in her usual evening braid. She carefully placed her small gold-rimmed spectacles on top of the book.

“Hello, you,” she said softly.

“Good evening,” he replied.

The two then spoke at the same moment.

“I’ve come to apologize, I had no right to—” he said.

“I am sorry for speaking so freely in front of—”

They paused before Roman spoke again. “I haven’t seen you wear your spectacles in some time.”

She shrugged her shoulders and looked embarrassed. “Oh, I wear them still while reading and painting. I just try not to wear them in public. I’m not too proud to admit I’ve become vain in my declining years.”

He threw back his head and laughed.

“And just what is so funny?” she retorted, her hands on her hips.

“First, you are not in a decline. Second, I had the exact same thought not two minutes ago while standing in front of a looking glass. You were right. We are very much alike.”

“The best of friends are,” she said.

“Is that what we are, March? The best of friends?” He thought he saw a hint of sadness pass over her expression before she evaded his gaze.

“Why are you here?”

“Why are you changing the topic?” he murmured.

“I will answer, if you go first.”

“All right. I really am here to apologize. I realize what a fool I have made of myself. I don’t know what came over me, March. Like you, I have never struck another person in my life. Never had a reason to, to be honest. And now it will be all over the newspapers, and Prinny will again be furious. But more importantly, I don’t want to cause you any embarrassment, or any pain or unhappiness.”

“It was an innocent mistake,” she admitted. “And I know why you misunderstood. Look, I just want to tell you that you were partially right. You were wrong in thinking that William had any improper intentions regarding me or my art. His opinions might differ from yours or other people, but he has an excellent eye. Although you were right when you suggested that I no longer needed a mentor. And William was delighted when I told him I was going to Vienna without him. Apparently, he has been dreaming about his dotage for a long time.”

“Good for him. I’m sorry it had to begin with a left hook.”

She smiled. “I think he will enjoy the notoriety. He has never had anyone take him as seriously as you did—aside from our acquaintances in the art world.”