The Art of Duke Hunting (27 page)

Silence descended on the pair of them abruptly.

Without thinking, he pulled the flask out of his pocket. He offered it to her and her eyes darkened with worry.

“No, thank you,” she said.

“March, please tell me you do not still think I drink to excess.”

She shook her head. “Of course not. I’ve never seen you three sheets to the wind, except perhaps a bit dipped the night of the storm.”

“You must put away your fear then. Would you like to taste it?”

“I never drink.”

“May I?” he asked with kindness.

“Whatever you like.”

He would not if she would not. He placed the flask beside her book.

They both stared at it.

After a few moments she retrieved it and drank from it.

She sputtered and coughed. And handed it to him.

“A bit less next time,” he said with a grin. He took a swig and replaced it on the table. “Now, that wasn’t so terrifying, was it? Now you can cross that fear off your list.”

“Yes,” she said slowly. “You are right. And I will. There is nothing to fear about spirits. If anything, one should blame the man, not the method of corruption.”

He nodded. “You are entirely correct. And you and I do not have obsessive natures, except where our work, our passions are involved. Do you agree?”

She didn’t answer. “So are
you
ever going to cross a fear off your list?” Her eyes were owlish, and her lips plush in the candlelight.

He was indeed becoming an idiot in his old age. He should have seen this coming. “You’re not going to suggest I get on a ship again, are you?”

“No, I didn’t say that.”

“But that is what you want, isn’t it?”

“No,” she said gently. “I would never ask anyone to do something they don’t want to do. Everyone has to make their own choices in life.”

He reached behind her and took another mouthful from his flask. He offered it to her and she accepted it. This time she did not cough when she drank. Her eyes watered just a little but she held her own.

“Don’t worry. I’m leaving, Montagu,” she said handing him back the flask. “I just want to thank you for everything you’ve done for me. You’ve helped me understand many things, and helped me to grow. I hope I’ve done the same for you.” She took back the flask and took another drink. This one long and deep.

He extracted his flask from her fingers. “March, did you eat anything at Vauxhall?”

She shook her head—a little too many times. “Only a few strawberries. Why?”

“I wouldn’t have any more, if I were you.”

“Oh, so first you want me to drink and now you want me to stop. Make up your mind, Monta—Montaguuuu.” She laughed.

He should shoot himself. What was he thinking to offer her spirits? Thank God he spied a plate of biscuits and a cup of milk on her dressing table. He fetched them and forced her to eat every last crumb.

“So, you . . .” she paused, most likely still affected by the spirits, but suddenly very serious. “Are you ever going to tell me about your fear? Your brother drowned, is that it?”

Bloody hell. This was the last thing he wanted to discuss. But he knew he owed her this much. He’d allowed her a little too much brandy, and he had never answered any of her questions in the past. He just did not ever reveal anything about himself to others. It was of no use to anyone. Talking of oneself was, at its base, selfish and boring to boot.

“Yes, he did. Many years ago,” he replied, hoping that would satisfy her.

“Why is your mother not afraid to travel?”

He exhaled. She was not going to let him off the hook, excellent fisherman that she was. “Well, first, she isn’t cursed, and second, she wasn’t on the ship when it sank.”

She blinked twice. “And?”

“And I was with him. It was just us two. A squall set in, and we hit a reef.”

She stared at him. Waiting.

“And the sailboat sank. We climbed up the mast. I couldn’t hold on to Vincent, and he drowned.”

“What do you mean, you couldn’t hold on to him? Was he hurt?”

“Yes.”

He could see how hard she was trying to think despite the spirits.

“Were
you
hurt?”

He paused. “Not really.”

“Roman Montagu, were you or were you not hurt? How badly? And what was wrong with your brother?”

He hated this. He really did.

“My arm was broken and he had hit his head.”

“Was he unconscious?”

“No.”

“So you were trying to hold on to him with only one hand? And he slipped from your grasp?”

“No.”

“Well, then what was it?”

“I—I let him go.”

She stared at him, those gray eyes of hers studying him. “You did nothing of the sort. Maybe it seemed that way. He slipped from your grasp—that’s all. Obviously you were near to death yourself.”

He felt ill. “You were not there. That’s not what happened.”

“I see.”

She didn’t believe him. No one had. Everyone had told him he was blameless. But not one of them had been there when the wave had crashed over them, and he had let go.

“March . . .” he whispered. “I will let you down. I always let people down.”

She came over to him and grabbed his collar and dragged him down an inch so they were eye to eye. “Don’t you dare,” she said intently. “Don’t you dare be the second man in my life to let me down.”

“March,” he ground out. “You cannot count on anyone. You know that already. And people have to choose if they want to be relied upon. What is your true fear? That you will be alone?”

“No,” she replied quickly. “I enjoy being alone far too much, as well you know.”

“So what is it, then?”

“Love,” she said, her expression filled with sadness. “I don’t think I really know what it is after all—or how to give or receive it in the right fashion. My father always said it was the most important thing in life. And I’m a complete failure at it.”

“Oh, March . . .” He didn’t know what to say. She was the most loveable person he knew.

He pulled her into his arms and kissed her. He kissed her plush mouth, and he pressed his lips against her forehead. He kissed her eyelashes and tasted her salty tears.

He couldn’t tell her what she wanted to hear, but he could show her. He poured out all the love she deserved in his actions.

He tugged at his neckcloth, and undressed in haste as he brought her to her bed and got into it with her. She said not a word, but every now and again, a tear ran down her face.

She was so fragile to him. He didn’t want to hurt her. And yet, it was ridiculous. She was an incredibly strong woman, physically; and her inner spirit was honest and true. He knew she would be perfectly fine without him. Actually, she would be far happier in the end, even if she didn’t see it now. But, at this moment, while she was still here, he wanted to treat her with all the love and care she deserved.

He stroked her arms, and her legs, and brought her night rail over her head as he stroked her sides. He knew she loved her breasts to be touched and so he stroked them and suckled them and pushed away her hands when she tried to minister to him.

This had to be for her. Only for her.

He took her slowly. First with his fingers, and then with his mouth, and his tongue. She loved when he stroked her with his fingers and took her in his mouth. And he reveled in every inarticulate small sound she made. For so long he lavished attention to every last inch of her until she begged him to stop. She would not take her full pleasure.

It was as if she was waiting for him.

And so finally he gave her what he instinctively knew she wanted. He closed the space between their bodies and they were flesh to flesh. He entered her slowly, but without pause.

She was so warm, and so soft and wet. He felt her love wash over him and it cleansed his spirit as it had the last time.

She raised her knees off the bed and hugged him closer to her. It was the simplest and oldest of motions, but she was in raptures within moments. He was deep, ever so deep inside of her and he could feel the intensity of her pleasure as he triggered it again and again.

She couldn’t seem to stop. Like the rolling of the waves off the coast, she kept pulsing about him, her face buried in his chest. Not a sound did she make.

Suddenly, he couldn’t hold on any longer. A pure rush of sensation, starting at the base of his back, swept through him, sending shocks of intense pleasure where her skin touched his.

He could not stop. He could not pull out. He was powerless to even move an inch. The most potent undulation pumped through his arousal, until he had given all of himself to her. And she had been right there with him, her body milking his, her arms like bands around him, as if she were melded to him.

He dropped his head to her forehead, breathing hard. What had he done? God. He had never, ever allowed himself to find release in a lady’s body.

“Montagu?” she said with startling clarity.

He lifted his head and looked into her beautiful gray eyes. “Yes?”

“I love you. I know you don’t want to hear it. And I know you don’t want this love I feel. But I can’t
not
tell you anymore. You are the most amazing person I have ever met and you deserve all the love I have—even if it is imperfect. I can’t leave without telling you . . . I love you.”

“So do I,” he replied gently. “I am only sorry I am not the man for you.”

She stared at him for a long time. “It’s the reverse, Roman. You
are
the man for me. I get to decide who is for me and who is not. It is obvious that it is I who am not the woman for
you
.”

He was done with words. They didn’t help. And they would only sting. And so he said nothing. Instead, he rolled to the side and cradled her in his arms as he had done all those nights when she had been hurt in Derbyshire. She was warm and safe in his embrace and he would keep her there until morning light if she would let him.

He knew he was being selfish and he knew he was hurting her. But she moved closer to him, laid her head on his chest, and said not another word either.

Neither of them slept. He could feel her even breathing, but not the light, sweet snoring he had come to enjoy.

How on earth was he going to let her go?

Chapter 19

E
sme sat with her mother in her chamber the morning she was to set sail, a large breakfast tray in front of them on the low marble-covered table. For once, her mother was not wearing the mysterious lovely smile Esme wished she possessed.

Instead, her mother buttered triangles of toast, and carefully placed a dollop of apricot preserves on each piece. Preparing food is what her mother had always done when she was worried about her only child.

And Esme did what she had always done when her mother worried. She forced herself to eat every last bite, even if it tasted like sawdust.

“You will promise me three things, Esme.”

“Anything you like, Mother.”

“Four things, actually.”

“Yes?”

“First, you will write to me at least twice a week. It is only fair.” Only the odd swallowing motion gave her mother’s sensibilities away.

She took the small silver butter knife from her mother’s hand and returned the half buttered toast point to the plate. And then she inched closer on the chaise and took her mother in her arms.

“I shall miss you dreadfully,” Esme whispered.

Esme felt her mother’s gentle hands stroking her hair, and she closed her eyes, drinking in the sensation.

“As I will miss you, my darling.”

“What are the other things you would like me to promise?” She inched closer, enjoying the warm scent of her mother’s lily of the valley perfume.

“That you will grab on to your life, and paint to your heart’s content. Creating art always brought your father profound happiness and it does the same for you.”

“I know,” Esme murmured into her mother’s shoulder.

“Esme, you are destined to become the greatest artist of this century. This commission is only the beginning.”

She didn’t reply. Instead she eased away from her mother’s arms and smoothed the fabric of her new pale blue lace morning gown. Between her mother, Lily, and her mother-in-law, Esme had been forced to endure more shopping expeditions in Bond Street environs than she ever had in her entire life. She appeared every inch a duchess now—just when there was no need.

“And third,” her mother continued, “I want you to try to forget him. I know you love him. I also think he loves you. But, he is a desperate case, and he is inflexible, Esme. I’ve observed him. And his mother has hinted about a few things. He does not like to surround himself with others. He does not want to intimately share himself with people. Oh, he will always provide for his family. And he takes great joy in their happiness, but that is all. You cannot expect anything truly intimate with a man like this.”

“Mother, you know I would never force anyone to do anything—especially to try to love me,” she said, forming a false smile. “In fact I think you know that I tend to fade into the scenery if someone even hints they do not enjoy my company. I might have hoped he wanted me as I cared for him. But he does not. It is very simple and you are right. I will forget what might have been.” She didn’t add that it would take forever plus one day to forget a single moment with Roman Montagu. “I’m very good at that, as you know.”

“You are, my love. Almost too good at times. You are the strongest female I know, Daughter—you got that trait from me by the way.” Her mother picked up her toast again and recommenced buttering it. “But you are also the one with the greatest heart and the most tender sensibilities—that is from your father. You must not let what has happened affect your joy in life. Please.”

“You mustn’t worry, Mother. I will be perfectly fine. You know that. I will throw myself into my art and that will be the end of it. I am determined to be happy.”

“Very good,” her mother said.

“What was the fourth thing?” She might as well get it out of her all at once.

“The fourth thing?”

“Yes, you said there were four things.”