by Sophia Nash
Lady Shelby tittered, she of the very orange-colored hair, and one of the gentlemen cleared his throat again.
“Mr. King, there is a fascinating hedge on the other side of this bridge. May I have the privilege of showing it to you?” Roman spoke with a certain tone. It was the bored voice he employed when something unpleasant had to be done.
“Of course,” Mr. King said, his smile widening.
Roman strode away while Mr. King waddled as fast as his overflowing girth would permit.
And then Roman allowed himself the pleasure all of the ton would have killed to enjoy. He hoisted the man onto his tiptoes by wrenching his knotted neckcloth with one fist. “Now see here, King. Let us agree on this one point. It matters not how much I detest those who feed on other’s privacy, and how much you relish it. If I hear one breath of gossip regarding me attributable to you, I shall tell the world of your cowardly behavior last night. It is very simple, no?”
“I don’t know what you’re talking about, Your Grace,” he gasped. “My intention was not to insult.”
“Of course not. And by the by, you are not to say a word about Lady Derby either.”
“I cannot imagine why I—”
“I can,” Roman interrupted dryly and released the man. “Good night, sir.”
He crossed back to the group of people who were not even trying to appear disinterested. He bowed to them with hauteur and turned on his heel without a word. Roman grasped Esme’s hand and placed it on his arm, nearly tugging her to walk back to the inn. “Why pray tell,” he ground out, determined to change the topic, “were you going to Vienna?”
“I refuse to reply until you answer my request.”
“And which request was that?” He had a bad feeling in the pit of his gut.
“The one which you will stop drinking all spirits as a measure of your gratitude to me for saving your hide last night and for allowing you to escape parson’s mousetrap, Your Grace.”
“Montagu, damn it.”
“Do you always blaspheme in front of ladies?”
“Do you always make unreasonable demands?”
“It was not a demand. It was a request.”
“A bloody absurd one.”
“The best ones are, Montagu.”
“What has this to do with last night?”
“It has everything to do with it if you think about it. Did you not find yourself on a ship in the middle of a storm because of an obscene amount of spirits?”
“I meant what has this to do with what happened between us?”
She paused and looked into his eyes. “It is important to me.”
He sighed and scratched the back of his neck again. “Fine. Whatever pleases you, March.”
“Do I have your word, Montagu?”
What in hell?
“Between gentlemen, their word is law,” she reminded him.
“This is not between gentlemen. This is between you and me. Two people who confided in each other on the eve of near death.”
“So are you proposing that we remain confidants?” She smiled.
He shook his head. He would never, ever, ever, understand the female mind. “It would seem there is little choice in the matter, March.”
Roman realized later, much later, when he was alone in his chamber that if she wanted to be a confidant, why hadn’t she confided more about herself to him? What in hell was really so important to her in Vienna? Was there any reason to leave the epicenter of the world—London?
And why did he even care? He would give his eyeteeth right now for a glass of his finest brandy. Hell, he would give them for fine wine, or even swill. His head ached again. A pox on all females who wanted to be treated as gentlemen.
Esme was certain she would sleep like the dead after so many eventful hours. It was not to be. She tossed and turned, dreaming fitfully of a shadowed figure on a ship, swinging about a mast and hitting his head. And of her not being able to reach him in time before he was dragged to the side of the ship only to slip over the railing and be swallowed by the sea. And then Lionel was in her arms and making love to her as he had always done, so slowly, so kindly, so lovingly, and so often drunkenly. But then his dazed eyes changed from brown to piercing sky blue and she pulled away only to find she was in the Duke of Norwich’s arms and he was taking her with such force while terror colored his face.
The next morning she dragged her weary bones from the twisted sheets and gratefully accepted the ministrations of the inn’s maid. She knew exactly what she was going to do today to restore her balance.
She nearly skipped out the front entrance of the Horse & Hound, bypassing the dining room and any chance of seeing the duke who had dogged her dreams.
Esme set her easel high atop a sea cliff, facing the chalk-white crags jutting into the sea in the distance. She set her watercolor paints on top of a stump and splashed water from her large flask into a cup. She carefully unfolded her spectacles and perched them on the end of her nose.
She sat motionless before the beauty of the scene in front of her and studied the play of sunlight on the water and the texture of the rocky ledges. It was not Italy, to be sure, but it was a delight to have new scenery to paint.
This was always how she had maintained her calm when the murky waters of sadness had threatened to overcome her in the past. Oh, no one had ever known when she had felt that way. No, that was not true. Lionel had known even when she had tried to hide it. And he had felt so guilty and made so many promises, always with a wincing grin, as he tried to cover the aftereffects in the morning.
She dabbed her largest brush in the water and washed a pale hue of sky over the parchment. There was not a single cloud.
Two hours later she swirled her smallest brush in the muddied water, tapped it gently, and carefully applied a hue of brown, gray and green shades to the bristles for the minutest touches to the greenery on top of the cliffs. Esme jarred her hand at the worst possible moment when she caught a glimpse out of the corner of her eye of someone walking toward her.
“Oh pish,” she exhaled, when she saw that she had ruined the painting. She quickly dabbed at the brush stroke with a cloth.
It was he. The one who had plagued her thoughts all morning. She took him straight on.
“Good morning, Montagu.” She reordered her brushes in the tall jar.
He completed the last few steps to her side. “And good day to you, March.”
It pleased her that he used the name she had requested. She looked down only to find her apron was smeared a thousand shades of brown, the result of so many hours before an easel. She felt the sting of a blush rise from her bodice. She knew she didn’t look her best, but she refused to care. It was hot under the sun.
“May I see?” he asked.
“No, it’s ruined.”
“Hmmm,” he said in that infuriating tone people use when they would instantly disagree without even examining the issue.
She sighed and moved a little for him to see her work.
For long moments he studied her painting, until the silence became so loud, she felt the need to end it. She opened her mouth but he stopped her by raising his hand in the air.
“You are a great artist.”
“It’s my dream,” she replied. “But not something that I can truly call myself.”
“So you insist I call you March for no good reason and yet you refuse to acknowledge your talent.” He sighed. “Makes perfect sense.”
“A true artist is one who earns commissions on the strength of their talent. I have yet to do so. But art is my passion, and since the day I discovered paints at the age of five, no one has been able to remove a brush from my fingers.”
He examined her and she had the worst feeling that he found her very ugly with her spectacles. She struggled against the urge to remove them. She would not try to appear more alluring. There was not an alluring bone in her body.
“You will be heralded as one of the best painters of our generation,” he said. “I
am certain of it.”
She bit back the urge to deflect praise. “Thank you. Do you paint too?”
“Of course not.”
“Why do you say that?”
“Do I seem to you to be the sort of man who could be a dabbler or dilettante?”
“I’m a dilettante,” she stated without hesitation.
“No, you’re not,” he replied. “Although what is that in the right upper corner? Birds?” He turned the full force of his blue eyes on her and smiled.
She hoped he couldn’t see her nervousness at his proximity. “It’s what happens when you don’t take care and you get flustered by someone’s approach.”
He chuckled with that voice that was so deep and masculine that its effect surprised her.
“Maybe you could fix it.”
He turned his gaze back to the painting and Esme noticed his extreme squint. She grinned.
“And what is so amusing?”
She removed her spectacles, which she only used for reading and painting, cleaned the lens with a cloth and handed them to him.
He stared at them aghast. “Why are you offering those?”
“Because you need them.”
“Me? Why I’ve never needed spectacles in my life.”
She smiled. “Are you too vain to try them?” She knew how to goad with the best of them.
“How ridiculous. Norwiches are not vain. Arrogant, to be sure. And perhaps a bit too much puffery on their hunting prowess—at least earlier dukes than I. But vain? Never.”
“Really? Then why won’t you try these?” She offered again. “Or are you going to insist Norwiches are never farsighted, too?”
He rolled his eyes and snatched her small, delicate spectacles. He put them on with a deep sigh of annoyance. “See? Vanity’s not an issue. Don’t need ’em. That’s all. By the by, your eyes are . . . lovely.” He turned to her painting. “Perhaps you could turn those spatters into a flock of birds. See if you just elongate the dots and put a sweep of wings on them . . .”
Esme slipped a tiny brush in his hand. “Show me.”
He was completely engaged in studying the artwork. All thoughts concerning her eyes were obviously gone. But his compliment, the first she’d ever received about her eyes, warmed a tiny chamber of her heart, a place that rarely received compliments on her appearance.
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
As 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.
Wh
at 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.