The Art of Duke Hunting (30 page)

He sighed and drew out a chair opposite to sit with her. “I must write to Kress straightaway to relieve his worry concerning his fortune.”

She raised her eyes from the page and looked at him.

“What is it, my love?” She reached across to stroke his sideburns.

This calmed him in some mystical way no scientific theory could ever explain. She evoked such peace in him whenever she touched him. “I’ve fulfilled Prinny’s directive of waiting, and I must inform Kress. I must return his fortune. I owe him twice over, for if he had not forced the wager that made me board
The
Drake
, I would never have found you,” he said, catching her hands in his, “the love of my life.”

She smiled with such happiness radiating from her face. “But it will take weeks for a letter to reach him if you post it from Vienna. We must instead go to him now. Penzance is not so far. If we stay but a day or two, it will only add a week at most and I am not to see the Duc d’Orleans for at least a fortnight after the day we were supposed to arrive. And I’m certain your mother will not mind if we take a slight detour.”

He eased her lovely light brown hair away from her face, which had grown so very dear to him. He prayed they would have many more years in front of them—enough to fill up every reservoir of happiness they possessed.

Instinctively, he knew that the love they shared today was but a hint of the grand passion that would build throughout the rest of their lives. He could not imagine that his love for her could grow more, but it had become clear in the last few days that he knew nothing about how passion fueled the hearts of eternal lovers.

He had been reticent yesterday when he had told her about his true father. But in her signature fashion, she had built on it by saying she liked him better for it. With her excitement and her every praise of the sculptor whose blood ran in his veins, his sense of self had grown. And she had gently insisted they try to find him when they arrived in Italy.

“Esme?” he said, rising from the chair.

“Yes?” she replied, not looking up from her letter.

Roman circled the table and came behind her. He gently brushed aside her soft hair and pressed a kiss to her warm, lilac-scented long neck. She immediately turned and Roman removed the quill from her fingers.

Esmeralda Mannon Morgan March Montagu needed no further hint. She took matters into her own bewitching hands—a trait Roman was beginning to love. As they whiled away the hours lost in each other’s embrace, Roman finally understood what had eluded him for so long. Love was not to be feared.

“My darling,” he whispered in her ear as she gently caressed his face.

“Yes?”

“Thank you.”

She slowly rose onto one elbow. “For what?”

“For being so patient and so kind. You are the greatest woman I have ever known. Your capacity to love and accept others for who they are is unparalleled.

“You know I’ve always considered myself a failure at love,” she whispered. “And I’ve always felt more at ease giving love instead of receiving it.”

“I guessed that long ago,” he replied. “But your instincts were far better than mine. After my brother’s death, I embraced solitude, never wanting to depend on anyone, nor have anyone depend on me. Love was never an option. But you have shown me this is not the way to happiness. And you, my love, had better be prepared for the result. I intend to shower you with all the love you deserve and more for the rest of our lives.” He paused. “Which will be very, very long since I am depending on you to cast a spell on our longevity.” He paused with a grin. “One can hope it will not involve waterfowl.”

She smiled hugely and kissed him for all she was worth. It would take him many, many happy years to find out that she did, indeed, have a talent inherited from her ancestor.

T
heir approach to St. Michael’s Mount was done an hour before dawn. Moonlight reflected off the beautiful, ancient granite walls of the towering former abbey. Norwich shook his head as he stared at it from the railing.

Kress would surely be climbing the walls in boredom within this wreck of a castle, even if it was magnificent. His half-French cohort was the latest member of the royal entourage, and he was a gentleman who detested anything to do with countrified living. Kress was a man who lived for the glitter and jaded amusements of Town.

Norwich pulled Esme closer to him as they stood side by side. She was nearly his height and he adored the way they could gaze into each other’s faces without a crook in either of their necks.

“Who will be there?” The luster of her hair gleamed in the lowlight.

“I’m not at all certain. Kress, obviously. The question is whether Candover or Prinny has joined him. As you know, the both of them were secretly on their way southward. I understood from Candover it was to ‘save Kress’s bloody absinthe-soaked neck.’ ”

She laughed.

He loved to see his bride so happy.

And then they were arrived and the lines were secured by the waiting men at the small port of the mount. Roman helped his mother and Esme descend the gangway, and they made their way up the steep incline to the ancient fortress, the last bastion near the tip of Land’s End.

A massive Cossack footman allowed them inside without a word. The man did not even make them wait by decamping to inform his master of their arrival. Surely, they were all abed at this hour. But, apparently, no. The huge man looked them over from head to toe and then motioned them with the crook of his fat finger to follow him.

Kress’s great-aunt, a grand French countess who was either blind or not—a question that he and Kress had debated privately between them for the last two decades—had always surrounded herself with the oddest assortment of servants. This footman was all the proof Roman needed that he would find her here.

Esme, Roman, and his mother were escorted into a massive stone chamber, some sort of ancient dining hall with a huge fireplace filling one side. A small group of people turned upon their entrance.

Roman had the joy of seeing the jaw of his oldest friend in the world, Alexander Barclay, the very newest Duke of Kress, drop open in shock.

“I knew it,” Kress sputtered. “You’re too damn stubborn to die, Seventeen. As I always told you, that curse does not apply to you.”

Isabelle Tremont, the Duchess of March and the only female in the royal entourage, rushed forward and hugged him. Roman was so surprised by her exuberance that he could do nothing but clasp her to him gently. He had had no idea she would truly care if he lived and breathed or not.

“Oh,” she exclaimed. “Where have you been? Does Prinny know? You must have crossed paths with him. You’ve missed him. He is on the road to London. He will be so relieved to learn of your well-being.”

“I have your fortune, Kress,” Roman said quickly, not wanting another minute to lapse before he could ease his friend’s mind. “I did not win the wager. I lasted not a full day on that blasted vessel.”

Kress glanced at Candover, who said not a word.

Kress’s eyes narrowed. “You knew, didn’t you?” He looked ready to do bodily harm to Candover. “Is there no bloody code in this damned royal entourage? There should be a code. And the first rule should be, ‘One shall always immediately tell the other if they know where their sodding fortune is.’ ”

Candover calmly replied, “I beg your pardon, she’s standing next to you.”

Roman noticed a very pretty lady, just a half step away from Kress. She was clutching a very odd and very ugly bouquet of half-dead flowers. And on her hand the most enormous diamond and sapphire ring resided.

Kress’s jaded brown eyes filled with pride. “You’re a bit late to the celebration, Norwich. May I present the lady I married one half hour ago? My wife, Roxanne Newton Barclay, the Duchess of Kress. Roxanne,
cherie
?” Kress addressed the lady beside him with more tenderness than Roman had ever beheld in his oldest friend. It almost eased the shock Roman felt upon learning the news that the one man aside from himself who had been determined to avoid leg-shackling had fallen as hard and as fast as he had.

Kress’s eyes did not stray from his bride. “May I present Roman Montagu, the Duke of Norwich,
cherie
? As well as his mother, Her Grace, the Duchess of Norwich, and—”

“Actually,” Roman’s mother interrupted. “I’m delighted to inform that I am now quite officially the Dowager Duchess. Roman?”

He gently squeezed Esme’s waist in a highly improper and intimate fashion. She looked so very happy beside him and his heart swelled. “I’m honored beyond measure to introduce
my
wife, Esme Montagu, the new Duchess of Norwich, to you all.” It was his turn to endure the shocked expression of his friend. Roman continued smoothly. “March? My good friend, Alexander Barclay, the Duke of Kress, and Isabelle Tremont, the Duchess of March, who—”

The petite duchess was examining Esme and interrupted him. “Oh, Esme and I know each other very well, Norwich. Do you have any idea how lucky you are to have captured this lady’s interest? She has a talent unparalleled. Oh, Esme, I am so pleased to see you! It has been an age. Have you seen the latest exhibition at the Royal Academy?”

Esme embraced her friend before Isabelle turned to Norwich again. “But why do you address Esme as ‘March’? This is all going to be highly confusing—sort of like the ridiculous number of alias names that have been floating around the Mount the last month. You should have been here, Norwich.” She then paused for a moment and backtracked. “But the name ‘March’? That’s my title. Although, James?”

“Yes?” Candover looked at the pretty duchess with the same casual indifference that he always employed. It spoke of anything
but
disinterest.

“Perhaps, you should address me as such. I mean, I’ve always thought it highly unfair. Why is it that all of the rest of the entourage address each other by their titles and I must forever be Her Grace, or Isabelle?”

Candover emitted a pained sigh.

Esme dropped a curtsy as Kress bowed to her, and then accepted a warm welcome from Kress’s wife, Roxanne, and finally straightened for Candover’s chaste, cousinly kiss on her cheek. Everyone did their duty to Roman’s mother, who appeared overjoyed by events.

Kress and Roman glanced at each with raised brows.

Kress spoke first. “I want an afternoon—no, an entire day with the lady who managed to tame the wild beast. March, is it? May I have the pleasure of your company tomorrow, or rather, today, now that the sun has come up?”

“Not on your life,” Roman replied before his wife could utter a sound. “Unless, of course, I am permitted the honor of an afternoon with that lovely creature next to you. Your Grace? What say you?”

Roxanne Barclay smiled hugely. “Why, I would be deligh—”

“Absolutely not,” roared Kress. “He is not to be trusted. He is not—”

Roxanne interrupted Kress. “You say that about everyone in the entourage. Abshire, Candover, Barry, and especially . . .
Sussex
.”

Kress was quite obviously not pleased by the mention of the most charming, handsome duke in their exclusive circle and it amused Roman to no end. He had thought Kress and Sussex got on well enough together. Apparently, not where Kress’s bride was concerned.

“If you had seen them the night of Candover’s wedding debacle,
cherie
, you would know why,” Kress replied, more embarrassed than usual.

“But I thought none of you could remember a thing,” Isabelle inserted.

“We don’t need to remember,” Candover ground out.

“I like your friends very much,” Esme said, turning to Roman.

“I had hoped you would, March,” he replied, his heart expanding as he looked at her. He still couldn’t believe she was next to him. He doubted he would be able to let her out of his sight for at least a fortnight. It was a good thing they would be boarding that yacht again within a day or so.

“Norwich?” Isabelle repeated. “Are you ever going to tell me why the name ‘March’? She was Lady Derby and now she’s your duchess.”

“It was my first husband’s family name,” Esme answered for him.

“But now you are a Montagu,” Roxanne said gently.

“Yes, well, it will not do for me to address her thusly as that is how she addresses me,” Roman replied.

Esme tilted her head to look at him. “Well, you could use Morgan or Mannon,” she said shyly.

Fate, indeed, was nothing but a very odd duck. He smiled to himself.

All at once, he felt Esme’s hand reach for his. “Or whatever name you like.”

Kress grinned. “I would advise a name with a number. Seventeen never pays attention to anything unless it involves numbers.”

“Perhaps you should do the same,
mon vieux
,” ground out Roman. “I was not the sodding idiot who lost an entire fortune not a week after it had been entrusted.”

Kress’s wife Roxanne diplomatically interrupted. “The name Esme or Esmeralda signifies great beauty, does it not? Mannon is also lovely. Why cannot you use either?”

Candover, who had been as silent as he always was, replied. “Esmeralda Mannon was the infamous lady who cursed the first Duke of Norwich. She didn’t care for his engagement gift of a dozen bloody ducks. Esme is her direct descendant.”

Roman started. “You knew?” For the first time in their acquaintance, Norwich would have liked to bloody Candover’s nose. In fact, he might very well do it this—

“Of course, I knew. But I didn’t want to spoil the enjoyment of the day you would finally figure it out on your own.” He looked at Esme and winked. “Was it as ghastly as I can imagine, cousin?”

All the fight went out of Roman as he looked down to see the great humor flooding his wife’s face. He stroked her jaw with one finger. “Well, was it?”

She darted a look toward Candover. “Ghastly isn’t the word I would choose, cousin. But then, I am surprised by the audacity of such a private query. Curiosity is not usually a word I would choose to describe you.”

“She is definitely one of us,” Roxanne announced to Kress. “I shall arrange for the front chambers to be made up for our new guests, darling. And I shall wake all our other guests, as a grand double wedding celebration is in order. Will that suit you, March? Pardon me, is it Esmeralda, or is it to be Mannon?”