The Art of Duke Hunting (7 page)

He drew down three colors onto the palate and dabbled the brush before delicately applying the paint to the paper.

She watched, fascinated by his natural, raw talent. Most people approached the easel with trepidation and fear. Especially with watercolors, which were difficult to correct. But his ease with the brush, his instant concentration, and sure hand was surprising. Within minutes, her brown speckles were transformed into a flock of birds.

He gazed at the scenery, lifted her ridiculously dainty spectacles from his eyes for a few moments before dropping them back in place and continuing to add touches here and there.

She said not a word. Finally he handed the brush back to her. “You see, not so complicated.”

She squinted intently at the painting. “Are those ducks?”

“No, those are not ducks,” he said sourly.

“But they’re rather large to be anything else.”

“They’re seabirds.”

“They’re too dark to be seabirds.”

“Seabirds on the Isle of Wight are darker than the ones on the mainland.”

“Really?”

“How in hell should I know, March.”

“Then why did you say—”

“To suggest what you should tell other people when they ask why the seabirds are too damn dark.”

“So you’re telling me to lie, Montagu?”

“Of course. For the sake of art.”

“You forgot that vice in your list of family faults.”

“Not at all, March.” He smiled. “I just lied when I told you the list.”

She laughed. “Are you always like this?”

“How?”

“You don’t act very much like other dukes I know.”

“I beg your pardon,” he said, acting extraordinarily affronted.

“The two I know don’t smile very often.” She paused and squinted at him wearing her spectacles. “Do my eyes look that large when I wear those?”

He carefully removed them and handed them to her. “Twice as large, I assure you. Shall we take the air then?” He offered an arm, which she accepted.

“And why do you not paint since it so obviously gives you pleasure, Montagu?” She liked very much using his family name instead of his title.

He pulled her closer to the cliff and gazed at the grassy ledge as he spoke. “Producing art is a trifling effort best left to men who are dreamers, or far worse. Math and science are truth. They are the primary efforts that solve the world’s problems.”

“I should not like to be there if you decide to spout your ideas concerning artists in a museum.” She stopped and darted a glance to see his cool expression. “Well,” she continued, “you’re allowed an opinion. But if you think being an artist is of so little importance, what about someone who fritters away their time going from amusement to diversion with a band of renegade dukes who drink day in and day out?”

“I do not go to amusements and drink all day.” He paused before the smallest smile teased his mouth. “I only do that at night, and only on occasion.”

“And during the day?”

His sky blue eyes bore into hers and his mysterious, intense expression added to the devastating image he presented. She wondered how many ladies had given their hearts to him.

“During the day I decide what diversions I will choose for that night,” he replied in a way that spoke of the opposite.

“Why do you do that?”

“What?”

“Pretend to be a jaded rake.”

“Perhaps I am a jaded rake.”

“You’re not,” she insisted. “I know that animal very well.”

“Really?” His eyebrows rose.

“Yes. For example, I would say the out and out bounder in the royal entourage is the Duke of Abshire, no?”

She noticed he had a funny habit of scratching the back of his head when he didn’t want to answer a question.

“Well,” he said slowly, “he is not an innocent. Are you well acquainted with Abshire?”

“Don’t look so surprised. We are, of course, acquainted.”

“How so?”

“I was raised in Derbyshire and so was he. And he was one of my husband’s intimates for a time. A very short time, actually.” She tried to keep the wistfulness out of her tone. “His ducal seat lies in the parish next to our manor, or rather the new Earl of Derby’s manor.”

“I don’t recall well your husband, March. Was he a good man? Or are you glad to be rid of the nuisance of a husband ordering you about?”

She dropped her arm from his and stared at the sea from the path on the cliff. A strong wind buffeted her hair and she knew she would look like a washerwoman by the time they returned to the inn for supper. She really didn’t care at all. “He was the best of men, Montagu.” She paused and whispered the last, “And the worst.”

Chapter 4

A
s Roman dressed for the revelry on the village green that early evening, his mind turned to the last words she had uttered before she had changed the subject and insisted they return to the Horse & Hound to prepare for the festivities.

It appeared the folk on Wight organized merriment on that day each year. And since there was nothing better in the offing, the majority of those who had been aboard the ship had decided to partake.

He ducked down and peered out the window of his small but very clean chamber. He racked his brain to try and remember what he knew about Lord Derby. For God sakes, he should be able to remember something about him. Then again, there were far too many earls—ninety
bloody
four if he remembered correctly—to keep track of in England, compared to dukes.

What had she meant when she had said he was the best of men and the worst? Sounded like a typical absurdity from a lady. No. He could not say that. March was not one of those flittering, giddy, empty-headed creatures who floated on silk and spouted nonsense while too busy examining the beauty of their person.

God, his head ached. He would have given a pretty penny for a gulp or three of whiskey. Or even gin. How sodding ridiculous. Since when did he remotely depend on spirits to rebound from a night of debauchery?

What exactly had happened that night? It seemed such a long time ago, but really, it had been less than forty-eight hours since the royal entourage had gathered at Prinny’s Carleton House to mourn the impending loss of bachelorhood of one of their own. Candover, bless his premier ducal soul, had been the poor sodding fellow who had finally capitulated to the familial requirements of taking a bride to secure an heir and a spare. Didn’t he know better? Roman had decided long ago that marriage was certainly not the answer—especially if one was saddled with a curse. Yes, a cursed duchy should be left to molder and rest in peace.

Roman’s mother would shake her head if she heard him. Then again, she shook her head at him most of the time. Not that he didn’t love her. He loved her almost as much as he loved his sister Lily. But that was only half as much as he had loved his brother Vincent. And it was forty-seven times more than he had liked his father—the man who had sent him away to school at the age of six in a ruthless campaign to exorcise all but mathematics and science from Roman’s mind. Oh, there had been an English, French, and history course now and again, but never any drivel as Roman’s father had described all art, music, and even philosophy.

Roman watched a group of workmen setting out tables, and then the maids followed with platters of food and by God, yes, pitchers of ale. Ale . . . hmmm. They had not had such common stuff at Carlton House of course.

His very good friend, Alex Barclay, the brand-spanking-new Duke of Kress (the duchy could not have devolved to a better fellow, really) had been the purveyor of the first round . . . and the second and maybe third round of spirits in the prince’s apartments. It was that wretched, Frenchified licorice-smelling stuff that had done him in. None of them had ever tried it before. Just the thought of it made him want to retch.

Roman remembered vague flashes of events thereafter. He could swear some of them had gone swimming, which was ridiculous. And, of course, he was certain he hadn’t partaken of that tomfoolery. But he could remember a huge swan squawking, and chasing him, trying to take a beak full of Roman’s bloody arse. He sort of remembered a pistol trading hands in the night, and he recalled riding a huge gray horse over cobblestones—even though he didn’t own a gray. The clattering had been nearly deafening. He shook his head. That was all he could remember. Nothing about the ship. Nothing about the—

A knock on the door sounded and he answered it himself. There was something very novel about having to do things for oneself. For as long as he could remember, he had not answered a door.

“Are you ready?” March’s gray eyes held much merriment, the captain’s less. The reality of his damaged vessel was most likely finally sinking in.

Roman bowed very slightly. Dukes were taught to bow in the fashion of almost a nod. “For anything, Lady Derby. Good evening, Captain.”

“How fare thee, Your Grace?”

“I shall be better as soon as I figure out a way off this island without climbing onto another ship, sir, if I may be so bold.”

The older man chuckled. “If you learn how to walk on water, I should be glad to see it.”

Roman motioned with his hand indicating they should depart, and then they were in the well-lit whitewashed hall, and making their way down the front stair, where one in three steps creaked, but in a charming kind of way—like the stairs to the attics of Norwich Hall.

Despite the ache in his head, Roman kept a pleasant enough countenance. It had been ingrained in him: dukes did not complain. Unfortunately, he would have preferred to complain all the time. “Lovely calm evening,” he stated.

“It’s always like this after a storm,” the captain replied.

“And always like this before a storm, too,” she said pertly.

“Right you are, Lady Derby,” the captain said chuckling. “Have you always liked sailing, then, madam?”

Roman nodded to the inn’s footman to open the door. “I would wager she likes it better than anything.”

“And why would you say that?” She eyed him from beneath her lashes. On any other woman it would have been coquettish. On her it seemed natural.

“You like it enough to go off alone. You didn’t depart London with a single other acquaintance, if I understood it correctly.” He paused. “Almost like you were running away.”

The night air was cool, still, and very clear.

“Of course not,” she said. “I do not like to bore others and I’m determined to do exactly what I would like to do on this trip. And I would rather someone else not bore me for the same reason.”

The captain looked between them as Roman and Lady Derby examined each other. “Pardon me, but I must have a word with Jem. Must find out how the repair is coming along.”

Neither said a word as the captain departed until finally she turned to face him. “How very lowering. I obviously bored the man to pieces. Like I said, it’s why I am traveling alone. Was it something I said?”

“Yes,” he answered instantly. “It was precisely what you said.”

“What did I say?”

“Well, if you can’t remember, March, I shan’t tell you. Why suffer embarrassment twice when we can just ignore the whole thing and keep walking. Toward the table.”

“What’s on the table that’s so fascinating?”

“Ummm, the spiked eel looks very good, no?”

She made a face. “No.”

“The filet of goat, then?”

“Ugh.” She wore an insufferably smug smile. “You’re looking at the ale.”

“Of course it’s the ale. I’m bloody thirsty.”

She turned serious. “But you promised.”

“I promised not to drink spirits, for some insane reason. I must have been rummy to the gills to make such a promise. But that is just ale—not spirits at all.” He nodded toward the tankards. “I must have been truly foxed to agree to something like that.”

“No. Just suffering the regret of the night before,” she replied.

He tugged at her arm. She willingly followed him to the relative privacy of the willow tree near the line of tables.

She examined him. “Tell me. Do you crave it?”

“I beg your pardon.”

“Do you think about it all the time? My husband did, I think.”

He stood very still. Finally, he would know who Derby was. “And what happened to him?” he asked carefully.

“You did not know him? Hmmm. I would have thought you might have.”

He wished he had. It would allow him to know her better. “I’m not sure I did. The name is very familiar though.”

She blushed for some odd reason. “I’m not surprised.” She shrugged her shoulders. “But most of his friends deserted him in the end.”

“Why, that is deplorable. What did he do to deserve such treatment?” he encouraged.

“Surely you can guess.” She tilted her chin up. “He drank himself to death.”

It was hard to think of a response to such brutal honesty. He slowly replied, “I am sorry to hear it.”

“And I am not certain if I made his life better or worse. You see, I helped keep him alive. The doctor said he would not have lasted as long if I hadn’t been there,” she said, without pride. “I merely extended his misery.”

Or yours,
he thought to himself.

She quickly changed the subject. “It’s the hair of the dog, right? You really would like some.”

“No, no. I’d like just to quench my thirst. It was overly warm today, don’t you think, March?”

She smiled that enchanting way and he thanked God those spectacles of hers were nowhere to be found.

“
Drunken Derby
. . .” she said quietly with a pleasant enough expression.

“Sorry?”

“My husband, Lionel. They used to call him
Drunken Derby
behind his back. They didn’t think I heard them.”

A thousand and one sticks in the house of his brain fell into place. Oh, for Christsakes.
He
was her husband
.
Or rather,
had been
her husband. The saddest yet most entertaining spectacle in Town—
Drunken Derby
. A gentleman who one never saw sober and who rarely remained standing throughout a night. He was ruined with a capital R.

No wonder she was hell-bent on reforming him. Well, Roman would set her right, straightaway. “I am not like your husband.”