The Art of Duke Hunting

by Sophia Nash

  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.”

  “Of course you’re not. I would never insult you, Your Gr—”

  “I told you to call me Montagu.”

  “—Montagu. But I want you to know that Lionel was not like others knew him. He was very kind, very jovial.”

  In truth, Derby had managed to do and say things so jovial and offensive, Roman remembered, that three quarters of the ballroom doors had been closed to him when he died a year or so ago.

  Roman eyed the ale. Even though he was parched, he just didn’t have it in him to reach for a tall tankard of the pale golden brew. Her assumptions were ridiculous, of course, of that he held not a single doubt.

  “It’s all right,” she said. “I never expected you to keep your word.”

  Instead, he reached for the lemonade on the other side of the table and handed her a glass before taking one for himself. He eyed it with distrust.

  She smiled and then took a sip. A dainty sip.

  He gulped it down before the god-awful tartness nearly gagged him. “Delicious,” he said, his taste buds revolting at the bitterness.

  “Agreed,” she replied. “Very good.”

  “If you are partial to lemons that is.”

  “Oh, take the bloody ale,” she retorted.

  “Not if my life depended on it.”

  “Well!”

  “Well,” he replied. “Shall we participate in lawn bowling?”

  “Oh, yes,” she said, eyes shining. “Oh, but I do not have my spectacles.”

  “
Thank God,” he muttered.

  “That wasn’t very flattering.”

  He liked it when she bristled. Females never dared bristle in his presence. They were either too much in awe or they were determined to catch the matrimonial prize of the decade by fawning in earnest. “You misunderstood. I meant that I am glad you forgot your spectacles so that I would have a better chance at besting you.”

  “Well, I shall just go back and retrieve them.”

  He held her back. “No. I’m actually famished. Let’s eat.”

  “Are you always this grumpy and impolite?”

  He almost choked with laughter. She was an original. “Grumpy? I’ve never been grumpy in my life. And I’ll have you know that I’m in an excellent mood.”

  “Really?”

  “Really.”

  “Well, I think you are just suffering the effects of being foxed like a skunk, Montagu.”

  “It takes a brave female to call me a skunk, March.” He made an exasperated sound as he picked up another glass of lemonade. This was utterly ridiculous. Just because her husband had been a blindingly mad drunk did not make him a fool when he enjoyed a pint of ale.

  “Thank you, Montagu,” she murmured sweetly.

  Blast it all. That damned smile of hers made him almost want to drink the rest of the vile stuff he held in his hand. Almost, but not quite.

  She was surprised he didn’t just reach for the ale. She had never teased anyone the way she had just goaded the Duke of Norwich. She should not be so forward and provoking. It bordered on impolite—something she had never been in the past. She just wasn’t sure why she couldn’t stop herself.

  Oh, she had a very good idea. It was the past. Her husband had chosen whiskey over a long life with her. And yet he had not been able to help it and so she couldn’t blame him even if she secretly did. And that irritated her more than anything for he had seen the good in her when no one else had. And he had married her when no one else would. She had been a wallflower of the first order. He had rescued her from entrenched spinsterhood, and a lifelong sentence of uncompromised virginity. And then he had taught her all about pleasure, and about love, before he had fallen into the grips of a passion stronger than his with her.

  The duke was leading her to one of the long tables, and the common folk made a space for the two of them. They sat side by side instead of across from each other. It was too bad the villagers were so in awe of him that there was not a chance of anonymity. They were surrounded by avid listeners.

  He seemed to be able to read her mind and so they ate in relative silence. He consumed more food than she had ever witnessed someone eat in her life. Chicken and cabbage, lamb pudding with raisins, and even the beef with boiled potatoes. He did, however, push aside the breast of duck.

  His table manners were flawless. He held his fork and knife as if they were artist’s tools and the food was the medium. She watched as he quickly and deftly removed the skin of a pear without once touching the fruit with his fingers. And then she remembered what those same fingers had done to her.

  Not for the first time did Esme remember what had happened between them not so very long ago—but what seemed almost a lifetime ago. He was so very handsome, like a prince—no, a king—come to life. But she was no princess. She was more the coach that turned into a pumpkin at midnight. And she was certain the events of that night would never be repeated. She wasn’t even certain she would want them to be repeated. The intensity of it had been unnerving.

  Eventually a small group of musicians gathered and began tuning their assorted instruments. “Shall we?”

  “Are you certain you want to?”

  “Why I love to dance, March. I like it almost as much as I like gambling and drinking and carousing.”

  “Of course you do.”

  He was trying to tease her.

  “And besides, March, you won’t need your spectacles to dance.” He stretched out his palm and she placed her own in his and he led her to the center of the square. The shadows of the trees and the lanterns within them created an eerie yet romantic atmosphere. Surprisingly, in this rustic setting, the musicians began a waltz.

  He grasped her waist in one hand and her fingers in the other, exerting complete control of their movements—just like he had at the end of the surreal, intimate act in the ship’s cabin. It was a minute or two before he chanced to speak.

  “So what was he really like, March?”

  “Who?”

  “Your husband of course.”

  “Why do you ask?”

  “Because I refuse to talk of the weather. And . . .”

  “And?”

  “And I refuse to talk about me.”

  “But all dukes like to talk about themselves.”

  He smiled. “Not always. I rather remember your husband now. He was a, ahem, jovial sort as you said.”

  “That is putting it kindly,” she said. “He was a desperate case.”

  “And yet, you loved him.”

  She started. “That’s a very private matter.”

  He examined her face closely and she wanted to look away. “Yes,” he continued gently, “you loved him and I suspect he loved you.”

  She swallowed. “And how would you know these things?” Her voice was a bit too high-pitched to her own ears.

  “I am good at guessing.”

  She didn’t know how to respond. She didn’t want to respond. She had not spoken of this to anyone.

  “Perhaps you’re correct,” she finally admitted. “It was a very good match even if it was officially an arranged marriage. My father was his father’s best friend in the world and we had known each other most of our lives.” She didn’t want to tell the whole story. But for some odd reason she felt compelled to speak. “Something grew of it. He was very gentle and kind to me. He encouraged me. In the end, I do believe he liked me very much. And I him.”

  “He loved you,” he stated again.

  She stared at him and said nothing.

  “And so you are in mourning.”

  “No. It has been a year since he died. A year and four months.”

  The waltz came to an end and he eased his grip on her waist. She was sorry he released her and led her back to the serving tables now filled with custard and fruit pies. His appetite was unimaginable.

  “May I ask how he actually died?” He gathered two plates full of desserts and found a table where all the occupants had departed.

  “Oh, the doctor would tell you all manner of complicated terms. Does it matter?”

  “It explains your request.”

  “You cannot say it’s a surprise. But now that you know, I am letting you off the hook again, Montagu. You have done your duty. You may go ahead and drink that ale you long for.”

  He looked at her with those unnerving pale blue eyes of his and did not move. “Thank you. I think I shall.” He paused but did not move to pour a drop. “A bit later perhaps.” His eyes had become quite serious.

  A trumpet sounded and the voices of the revelers dimmed again as the haphazard orchestra struck the notes of a country dance. Sets were forming in the middle of the green and the Duke of Norwich raised one eyebrow and again offered his hand without a word.

  She grasped it. “Oh, thank you. I suppose I should warn you that I make it a point never to refuse the opportunity to dance.” The wallflower within her had never wilted. She would have to have one foot in the grave before she would refuse to dance with anyone. She had spent too many years on the edges of too many ballrooms, a smile plastered to her face, as every other lady was asked to dance except her.

  He smiled. “I only am asking you to dance to show you there is nothing wrong with living solely for diversions and entertainments.”

  She felt deflated.

  He tilted up her face with a finger under her chin. “Ahem. I suppose I should now warn you that I sometimes say the opposite of what I mean in jest.”

  A warm feeling, very much like her favorite plum pudding hot off the
fire, invaded her heart.

  He didn’t know why he kept up this front with her. She was a kindhearted lady and there was no reason for him to try and charm her. It was just that he had always assumed different façades for different people for so long that he didn’t know how to be himself. Unless he was alone. There was only one thing he was serious about, and it wasn’t diversions. It was physics and geometry and mathematics. There was nothing humorous about absolutes. And he loved the beauty of solving concrete problems without any remaining gray areas clouding the resolution.

  There were only three people who knew a few details—a very few—of his life and interests and they were Kress, Abshire, and Candover, all members of the exclusive royal entourage. It was just a shame that the three of them did not get on. Abshire and Candover positively loathed each other. And Candover considered Kress a half-baked Englishman with French revolution on his mind, while Kress considered Candover a priggish bore devoted solely to duty and without an ounce of humor. They were both correct in their assumptions. Abshire and Kress’s friendship showed promise but was still in the making.

  Roman accepted Esme’s gloved hand in his and led her to the set that was forming. He had never bowed to dairymaids, or do-si-do’d with innkeepers, but there was always a first time. He followed the pattern of the simple dance and enjoyed the effort. There was none of the jaded elegance of the amusements in town. There was only much laughter and boisterousness. And these simple folk sweated and didn’t try to hide their enthusiasm.

  Roman kept an eye on March. She was enjoying the dance too. There was a sparkle in her gray eyes and a lightness to her step. The way she held her head and the arch of her back was lithe and graceful. She might not be a ravishing beauty but there was something about her that intrigued him. If she were not a gently bred lady he would have enjoyed taking her to his bed again and making love to her. And he would kill to see and touch and stroke those legs of hers again.

  But there was something else about her that stopped him. She had this untouchable air to her. She had dignity and he couldn’t bring himself to suggest a liaison. It was ridiculous, really. Widows were his prime favorites in town. But he worried her heart might become engaged, and he would not hurt her after all she had done for him.