The Art of Duke Hunting

by Sophia Nash

  Roman started when he saw her.

  “Don’t you dare say a word,” she hissed. “If you tell me I look pretty it will only confirm that you found me plain until now—something I am very well aware of, I assure you.”

  He raised the level of his chin. “I was simply going to say that I liked you better in your night rail.”

  “Oh, stop it,” she ground out. “And by the by, I want your solemn promise that this will change nothing between us. I will marry you because I have to but that does not mean I will alter my plans to travel and paint.”

  “Look, March, you could at least act as if you are charmed by the idea of snagging a duke. Most ladies would.”

  “Well, I am not most ladies.”

  The bishop cleared his throat.

  “Not yet,” they both said to the poor man at the same time.

  “Do I have your vow, Montagu?” Esme insisted.

  “Do I have your vow that you will leave me in peace to do as I please? Not to insist I accompany you on your trips?”

  She paused, discomforted by what had to be said. “You will never embarrass me by rubbing mistresses in my face, will you?”

  He appeared very offended.

  She parted her rouged lips to apologize but he cut her off.

  “I shall only ask in return that you never bear another man’s child during our union.”

  She felt the heat of a blush at her low neckline as she nodded in agreement. She was so hurt, she could not stop herself from declaring something she did not want—a passionless marriage. “Our union will be in name only.”

  He appeared relieved. “Good.”

  And now she had only regret for allowing her pride to have its say.

  He nodded curtly and cast his gaze upon the bishop. “We’re ready.”

  The wisp of a man examined his fingernails, looked as if he wanted to sermonize and then thought the better of it. “We’re waiting for the witnesses.”

  “Witnesses?” She addressed the bishop.

  He did not answer. Roman replied, “Candover and Abshire.”

  She widened her eyes. “My cousin is here?”

  Roman started but before he could speak the prince awoke.

  “Oh, I say”—Prinny glanced in her direction—“you’re very fetching, Lady Derby. Are you certain we have never conversed before tonight? No, no, don’t answer. And where are the others?”

  “In the adjoining chamber, Your Majesty,” the bishop indicated with a wave of his hand.

  “Well, bring them in. Let’s see if they are both still alive, shall we? I, myself, would not wager on it.”

  The bishop did as he was bade and the two dukes, Abshire followed by Candover, entered, the first with a derisive mocking smile, and the other, Esme’s lofty cousin, looking at the former with more disdain and scorn than Esme thought it possible to exhibit on his otherwise handsome face.

  Her cousin, the premier duke, immediately crossed the royal chamber to greet Norwich with a hint of a smile. It was the most teeth Esme had ever seen her cousin show.

  Candover turned to her and embraced her in a rare show of affection. Over his shoulder, she saw Norwich’s shocked expression. He obviously had not known they were related. It only proved once again how he had never bothered to notice her in all the years they attended the same ton events.

  Candover pulled away to address her. “My dear cousin, I cannot tell you how relieved I was to receive Derby’s note that you were returned to us. That storm took the lives of all those aboard a ship that sailed not two hours before The Drake.”

  “I’m so sorry to have worried everyone.”

  “Esme?” That low rasping baritone quivered up one side of her and rolled off the other like a warm wave of danger.

  She tilted her head to spy the Duke of Abshire. “Your Grace.” She curtsied.

  “Oh, come come, Esme. You break my heart with your reserve. Never say you wish me to address my finest fishing companion as Lady Derby?”

  “That was when we were in leading strings as I remember.”

  He hooded his eyes. “That’s not how I remember it a’ tall, my dear.”

  Candover’s expression grew very dark. “Am I to endure yet another indication of your never-ending interference with my family, Abshire?” he spat out without endeavoring to regard the man he had detested for as long as Esme could remember. No one knew the precise event that had led to their estrangement but it appeared that they had become even further strained if that was possible. Esme would even go so far as to hazard that her cousin would have bashed the other’s head into the royal hearth if he could have done it without raising the prince’s ire.

  “Enough,” Prinny commanded. “I’ll not waste another moment listening to either of you. We shall get on with this so I may get my beauty sleep. I for one fear I need it.”

  “Majesty,” Candover stepped forward, “may I beg a small moment alone with my cousin?”

  The prince shook his head and sighed. “You are trying my patience, Candover. One moment and only one moment.”

  “Don’t worry, Majesty, according to the ladies I know, he only ever takes a moment,” Abshire inserted. “What? Oh, all right. I’ll stop. Do hold him tightly, Seventeen. I’ve got better things to do than to bruise my knuckles tonight.”

  Her cousin appeared ready to explode. It was to his credit that he merely narrowed his eyes, shrugged off Norwich’s grasp and offered his arm to Esme. He escorted her to a shadowed corner of the chamber. “My dear, shall I put a stop to this? I’m not certain I’d be able to actually, given the horror that has overtaken London recently. But I won’t have you unhappy again. Norwich is a decent enough fellow—one of the best truly. How came you to be in this pickle?”

  “Did not the prince explain it?”

  “Yes, but I could not make heads or tails of it to be honest.”

  She knew he did not mean to insult her, but it was obvious no one would understand why the Duke of Norwich would have even noticed her. “I cannot make heads or tails of it either, but really I have no choice given the situation.” She attempted a smile. “Everyone will be very impressed, especially my mother. I’m coming up in the world, am I not, Cousin?”

  He regarded her carefully. She wished he would fight for her—or at least not assume she would be grateful for this opportunity to wed again. And to a duke no less.

  Roman approached and tilted his head toward their sovereign. “Prinny awaits.”

  Candover studied first Roman and then her. And then Roman again. “While I consider you a fine enough man, Norwich, if I ever, ever I say, receive one complaint from my cousin about your conduct toward her, you will be held accountable by me.”

  “I’m shaking in my boots,” Norwich stated impassively. “And if I have complaints?”

  Esme finally felt a stirring of amusement in this absurd evening.

  “You will keep them to yourself and still be held accountable,” Candover replied. “And no, I do not want to know what happened on Wight. There is not a single doubt in my mind that you are both blameless and that we have that contemptible Mr. King to thank for this evening’s farce of a union. I am sorry for you, Esme. Congratulations on your happy future, Seventeen. You could not have found a better bride.”

  Norwich leaned in to whisper something into Candover’s ear. Esme heard something about the Duke of Kress and the fortune lost.

  “What are you saying?” The Prince Regent boomed. “I’ll not have another word between you. Come along then.”

  Out of the corner of her eye, Esme saw her cousin shake his head in response to Norwich’s request.

  “I’m sorry, I cannot,” Candover murmured.

  “You never liked Kress. You know, you must begin to try to like some people sometime.” Roman sighed.

  “I like you well enough, Seventeen,” Candover ground out. “Enough to allow you to marry my cousin.”

  “That’s different,” Roman replied with a grin. “You have no choice in the matter.
”

  “Excuse me,” Esme said with hauteur, “but in case both your eyes are failing, and in Norwich’s case there is a distinct possibility, I am standing right here. I shall always choose my own husbands, Cousin.”

  “As you should, my dear. As you should,” Candover said with something resembling a smile on his lean face.

  As there was no more to be said, there was nothing left to do but perform the unthinkable. And with astonishing speed they were wed.

  When Esme echoed the promises the man of the cloth put forth, she had to hold back the tears that were threatening to spill down her cheeks. She wasn’t sure why her sensibilities were so involved. She wasn’t even sure what she was feeling. This was not how it had gone when she had first wed. Then, she had been suffused with a quiet happiness. It had been a lovely little country wedding complete with a lovely little wedding breakfast after.

  She looked at the man promising to love her, to cherish her, to care for her in sickness and in health and realized she had not a notion if his family members lived with him. She wondered if she would live with his mother and also his sister, a beautiful lady named Lily Montagu who was surrounded by peers at every entertainment Esme had ever attended. And she would now be sisters with the pretty creature. It was unfathomable.

  Her thoughts were interrupted by the bishop. “Your signature is required here, Your Grace.” He extended a large official-looking book toward her.

  It took a moment before she realized the man was referring to her. Her Grace. For the rest of her life she would be addressed as such. Esme only wished her mother was here to hear it. She would laugh so hard she would cry . . . with good-natured amusement. The wallflower of the era marrying a dyed-in-the-wool duke and an overly handsome one at that.

  The bishop nodded toward the ledger pointedly. She took his cue and signed the necessary document, Roman following the same course a moment later.

  Candover came forward silently and embraced her tenderly again. She had always felt he considered her as much a sister as his five actual sisters. He had actually been far kinder toward her than the others.

  Abshire was clapping Roman on the back and saying something that caused her husband—her husband!—to grin.

  Prinny steepled his beringed fingers together. “Delighted for you both. Norwich, I would arrange a celebration for you but we must delay. You must first go on an extended secret honeymoon. I insist.”

  “Honeymoon,” they both said simultaneously.

  Unnerved, Esme eyed her cousin. He shook his head and rolled his eyes.

  “Yes. Far north, I think. Would you like to visit the Queen’s castle in Littleshire? I shall order fires in every grate. Then again, you shall have each other to keep warm. Yes, that is a far more preferable plan. There shall be no fires, then.”

  Abshire chuckled discreetly.

  The prince’s lewd wit was far too well known to cause shock. His jowls flapped again when he laughed with the dark duke.

  “But I must go to Cornwall, Your Majesty,” Roman said. “I shall first see Kress and return his fortune. I did not earn it and the matter must be resolved.”

  “Oh no, no, no, no no,” Prinny said with a wag of his finger. “We cannot have that. It’s as I told you. You are ordered to leave the matter to me. I shall inform Kress of the good news of your return when I choose. There is not a moment to waste. And Candover and Abshire? You are not to breathe a word of any of tonight’s goings-on until I allow it. Understood?”

  The two dukes agreed.

  “But I don’t understand, Your Majesty,” Esme inserted. “Whyever can we not remain in London?”

  “Because that is not what newly married peers of the realm do,” he said, his lips twitching. “Now I will hear no argument on this. It will also serve to silence Mr. King once and forever when I inform him but swear him to secrecy. We must be very careful with our timing, you see.”

  Esme had heard the Prince Regent could be very odd at times. The gossipmongers had the right of it. But who would ever dare question their sovereign? She had the notion this had something to do with Kress.

  “Yes,” the future king continued, delighted beyond measure. “No one will listen to that ridiculous man’s silly gossip after they eventually hear you are marvelously married and happy. You shall leave straightaway. Your affairs will follow but a few hours behind you. And have no fear, I shall inform all those family members or friends you have seen today, and swear them to secrecy.”

  “But . . . but—” She tried to gain time.

  “But, what?” Roman asked, exasperated.

  His tone brought her back to the scene. Lord. She had married him. He was her husband. “I want to meet your family.”

  “My family?” Roman looked at her with surprise.

  “No, that will not do,” the prince inserted. “That joy will have to wait until after you return. Besides, no one takes their in-laws on their honeymoon. Not even the most unhappy of couples, such as myself. By God, if I endured a honeymoon, you two can too.”

  “Well, could we at least stay at Derby Manor in Derbyshire, Your Majesty,” Esme requested, editing out pertinent information concerning the dwelling’s current residents.

  “Your former husband’s estate?” Roman asked, annoyed.

  “No, the current earl’s estate,” she replied peevishly. She couldn’t believe she was peevish on her wedding day. Then again she still couldn’t fathom that it was again her wedding day.

  “Perfect,” the prince said. “It’s even further from London. And the last place anyone would look for Norwich.”

  And with that, the entire absurd matter was put out of its misery. And she didn’t even care that she was mixing clichés in her thoughts.

  This entire business was irregular. It followed that the departure would be irregular too. At sixes and sevens they were hurried into one of two plain black barouches, the curtains fully unfurled.

  They sat there in silence for nearly a half hour, leaving each to their own thoughts. She was decided she would not say a word to the man who had thrown a proverbial dash of cold water over all her long-held, well-laid plans. He would have to—

  “Well, he can’t command us to have intercourse,” Roman muttered under his breath.

  Chapter 7

  Roman repeated it as if he hadn’t realized he’d already said it once aloud. “No, he can’t command us to have intercourse.” He paused. “At least after the marriage is consummated.”

  Something fluttered in her stomach. Good Lord. She would not let his comment affect her. He hadn’t meant it the way she heard it. Oh, but her sensibilities were ruffled. She had at least thought he had enjoyed sexual congress with her, even if he had been terrified of the storm. Now she was too hurt to say a word. And the idea of consummating the marriage now held little appeal. It was absurd. Oh, perhaps she was being overly sensitive, but she couldn’t help herself. Her self-doubt concerning her plain appearance ran too deep for her to second-guess.

  Well, she would have two days to consider her options. Surely he would not suggest that they consummate the marriage straightaway. Why, it would take them at least two days to reach Derbyshire—and that was only if they traveled with no delay, stopping only at posting houses to change horses.

  She watched him remove a flask from his waistcoat. And perhaps for the first time in her life, Esme understood the desire for oblivion.

  He paused, the flask half lifted toward his lips. He glanced sideways at her. Without a word, he offered it to her.

  She looked away.

  “Suit yourself,” he replied and then drank long and deep.

  “I suppose now would be the time to tell you that we will not be alone at Derby Manor,” she said coolly.

  “Since I understood Lord Derby is in Town, I suppose you are referring to the new earl’s servants,” he replied.

  “Not precisely.”

  Perversely, he irritated her further by dropping the subject. He apparently did not have any curiosity
whatsoever about the people who would witness their honeymoon gone to hell.

  Well, all the better to surprise him.

  Roman wasn’t sure what irked him more—his aching head, or the suddenly mysterious woman beside him.

  His wife.

  He had never thought he would live to say those two words together. They sounded every bit as ridiculous as he would have imagined.

  But if he had to take a duchess, there was some small shriveled part of him that was rather pleased it was she.

  It was not that she was suddenly and mysteriously possessed of a certain type of aristocratic mien, nor was it her odd mood, one he was willing to overlook considering the extraordinary circumstances. But there was something more to it. If he had bothered to brush away the myriad complicated mathematical notations clogging his brainbox, he might have seen what it was about her that he valued.

  It was her heart.

  She was a giver. In a world of takers, she was the opposite.

  But what he was unwilling to part with was his own heart.

  The rest of the long journey was accomplished in peace after that first discomforting hour. It was done quite easily for the new duchess made a slight adjustment in the travel arrangements. At the first posting house, she descended to attend to her needs, taking forever and a day. She then never ascended back into the carriage wherein Roman sat in deep contemplation.

  No. Instead, he was told by the coachman that Her Grace, the Duchess of Norwich had chosen to sit in the second carriage, where her new maid, sent along by His Majesty, resided. It annoyed him to think that his sire had not thought to send at the very least a valet for his use. He refused to consider that what really irritated him was that March had decided to sit with a stranger instead of him.

  And so Roman brooded alone. He brooded alone for one day and then for a second day. After the first hour of that second day, he pulled out his plans for the city’s waterworks and gained much ground in solving several problems. But in the back of his mind, he really contemplated only three things: