The Art of Duke Hunting

by Sophia Nash

  “Very good,” her mother said.

  “What was the fourth thing?” She might as well get it out of her all at once.

  “The fourth thing?”

  “Yes, you said there were four things.”

  “Well . . .”

  “Mother?”

  “Yes, my love?”

  “What do you want? Is there a fourth thing or not? I should call for Madame Cooper. It’s time to go.”

  “I want you to, um . . . You know I am not always perfect at these sorts of mothering things, Esme. Fashion, yes. The rest? Not as good.” She paused, her mind obviously at work. “It’s just that I would like you to not quite give up. Oh, I know it doesn’t make any sense. I told you to try to forget him. But I don’t think you should quite give up. More time is needed, I am convinced. Will you do that, my love?”

  “Mother?”

  “Yes?”

  “I love you, I really do.”

  “Of course you do. I always give the very best advice.”

  Esme smiled. She had always admired her mother’s confidence. “I’ve promised you four things. It is your turn to promise me one thing. I want you to stop worrying. I am about to have the time of my life and I might not return. I know you and Lily will do very well here. And I also wanted to ask you to visit me. Perhaps next summer? When do you—”

  “Esme, darling, I heard you distinctly ask me to only promise you one thing. That is two things. I will only promise you the first one—to not worry. But you must return here. One year, two years, maybe a little more. But then you must come back to England.”

  “We’ll see,” Esme replied and got up to call for her maid. It was past time to go.

  Esme tried to hurry everyone on the front white marble steps of the Norwich townhouse. But it was not easy. Lily was not good at saying goodbye, and neither was Esme’s mother. When she was finally settled in the first carriage with Her Grace, she was relieved. She had known he would not see them off. But one never really knew. It was better this way. Really, it was.

  And then there was another moment of anxiety as they boarded the magnificent large yacht. It was a heavy vessel, built for safety and comfort—not speed.

  Perhaps he would be there to say goodbye.

  But he was not.

  The captain welcomed them, and the crew busied themselves about the yacht with warm smiles of shy welcome. Esme climbed down the stair to the cabins, but at her door, her mother-in-law stopped her.

  “Esme?”

  “Yes, ma’am?”

  “Caroline, please.”

  “What is it?”

  “He is very like his sister.”

  “Sorry?”

  “My son is no good at bidding farewell to anyone. He is far too sensitive. The only difference between them is that where Lily cannot let go, he cannot even put in an appearance.”

  She would not play the innocent. She liked this grand lady far too much. “It’s far easier this way. Please there’s no need to worry.”

  “But that’s what mothers do. It begins the day our first child is born.”

  “Pardon?”

  “Worry. We cannot help it. Even if it accomplishes nothing.”

  Esme smiled. “Caroline?”

  “Yes?”

  “I have a present for you.”

  “You do?”

  “Yes. It’s waiting for you in your cabin.”

  “What is it?”

  “I can’t tell you. It would ruin the surprise. Shall we meet on the deck in say an hour? I shall be dying to know what you think.”

  The clouds of concern faded from her mother-in-law’s eyes. “What a perfect idea.”

  As she watched Caroline leave her with a new lightness in her step, it filled Esme’s heart with happiness. Mothers might worry, but worry was useless. Seeing joy radiating from someone’s face via distraction was the best way to erase it. She didn’t need to be there when her mother-in-law opened the package filled with supplies for a budding artist. If Caroline Montagu, the Dowager Duchess of Norwich, was not an artist in the making, Esme would eat her brand-new tubes of paint—fuchsia and all.

  Somewhere very deep inside of Roman, he knew what was going to happen. His entire godforsaken life had been nothing but a tragedy mixed with an ironic smidge of comedy from time to time.

  The barometer in the west library was dropping by the minute. Of course it was. He refused to think about it. Instead, he focused on the selection of a book about art that he would have his steward send to March and his mother.

  There were storms every other day off the coast. The Atlantic Ocean was a vast wilderness of watery danger. There had never been any doubt that they would encounter a storm or two along their voyage.

  It was just that the barometer was dropping too quickly. And they had just departed. He had seen the crew cast off the lines, from a distant vantage point, and the yacht would be expertly sailed by a man who was as good a sailor as Admiral Nelson.

  When the storm hit, they would most likely be in the exact same area The Drake had been the night they had been caught. It was a notoriously treacherous spot.

  His sister entered the little used and smaller of the two libraries.

  “Good afternoon, Lily.”

  His sister was in better spirits than just after March and his mother had departed. She looked so beautiful, Roman thought. Even more ravishing now at five and twenty than she had been at eighteen during her debut season. She was dressed to go out of doors, a dainty parasol dangling from one arm.

  “You’ll need something a tad more durable if you are going out and about.”

  “Whatever do you mean?”

  “It’s about to storm.”

  She crossed to a window and gazed outside. The clouds were ominous.

  “It doesn’t look too bad. I don’t think it will start for another few hours. I’ll only be out for an hour or so. Katie Harrington wants to show me the new mare her brother bought for her birthday.”

  “The barometer is dropping.”

  She walked over to glance at it. “So it is.”

  She looked at him, and he was again reminded how similar she was in appearance to Vincent. She was the beautiful, idealized feminine form of him.

  “Are you worried? About Esme and Mama?”

  “No,” he replied instantly. “Not at all. I’m more worried about your visit with Miss Harrington. Is her brother still pining for your favors?”

  “Charles? You must be joking. He married Cynthia Pendrey two seasons ago.”

  “Right. Well, then. I’ve not had the pleasure of turning down a proposal for you in quite awhile. Who is the current favorite?” He smiled. “Just so I can be prepared.”

  She stared at him with Vincent’s eyes. “Actually, I’ve only just begun to consider eventually wedding someone now that you have indeed married. Although, I’m not certain a marriage of convenience meets the terms of our agreement.”

  “What agreement?”

  She stared at him. “Have you forgotten our conversation of six years ago?”

  He blinked. A conversation? They’d had some sort of . . . Oh, God. “Lily, do not tell me you were serious.”

  She was as still as a fashion plate in one of those magazines ladies favored. “I knew you didn’t believe me then. I was wondering how long it would take before you thought to confront me though. Longer than I thought, in the end.”

  “Are you telling me you refused a dozen suitors because of that ridiculous, juvenile conversation?”

  “No, it was more like two dozen. They stopped coming to you for permission as I think they realized that unless I desired it, you would not agree to it.”

  He was so far out of his depth, he felt as if he were drowning.

  “Just because I was only nineteen did not mean I was not serious.”

  “Are you telling me you refused all those gentlemen because I said I would never marry?”

  “Yes. I told you I would not unless you did,” Lily reminded him.
“If you would not grab onto happiness with someone, I wouldn’t either.”

  “But that is ridiculous.”

  “No. You are ridiculous, Roman. I don’t care if it’s because of the curse or because of Vincent. But it is finally done and you married the nicest person in the world. But now you’ve let her go. So I am giving up on you. Officially. This season, I am going to try to find the man for me.” She paused and looked beyond his shoulder. “Well, now you’ve done it. I’m late for my friend and it has started to rain. I’m going to send a note to cancel, go up to my room, and try to remember why I love you.”

  She turned on her heel and left. And once again, he found himself dazed and flummoxed by yet another woman. There was a reason he preferred the company of gentlemen. Where was a member of the royal entourage when one needed him?

  It had not taken long at all, Roman realized in retrospect. At the first clap of thunder, he dashed a note to Abshire’s steward, informing that he was taking advantage of his friend’s standing offer to use his prized yacht. He then directed his staff to bring ’round a carriage and retrieve a few personal effects. He shouted instructions about the management of his project to his steward, Simon, and shocked his butler, Mr. Stephens, and valet speechless by demanding they accompany him as he prepared to go.

  Damn it all to hell. Was he ever to have a moment of peace? He was on the point of leaving the townhouse when Lily and Lady Gilchrist pounced on him from the salon nearest the door.

  “Where are you going?” Lady Gilchrist asked, trying but not succeeding at hiding the hopeful expression in her visage.

  “You know very well where I’m going, madam.”

  “Vienna is lovely this time of year, I hear,” she replied owlishly. To her credit, his mother-in-law refrained from any sort of display of overly familiar affection. He could not say the same for his sister.

  Lily ran into his arms and hugged him fiercely. He tried to disentangle himself but gave up when she would not leave off. Finally, he kissed the top of her head and she released him, with a lopsided smile. He donned his great coat and gloves, looked at the two ladies in front of him one last time, and departed without another word.

  Roman made his way to the docks in the deluge, and for the first time in his life did not think of the curse that had dogged his innermost thoughts since the day his father had died five years ago. He didn’t care about it anymore. He knew where his path lay, all stupid ducks be damned.

  On the bench opposite him in the carriage, Stephens and Tanner were smiling in a way Roman had never seen. The driver found Abshire’s slip and within a half hour they set sail, on the fastest small yacht in English racing history.

  “Lord, I never thought I’d see the day we’d have this chance again, Your Grace,” his butler said, his thinning hair gone all to hell in the wild wind. He was letting out sail as Tanner tended the cleat. These two men had been crew to Norwich vessels during his father’s day. And Roman was at the helm, just as he had been all those many years ago.

  For the oddest reason he could not fathom, not an inch of fear bloomed. Oh, he might die tonight. He might die tomorrow. He might even die within the hour—and it might be by duck. But, by God, he was going to live this life of his again. He wanted all of it. Not just math and science, and helping better the lives of others. He was going to embrace everything life had to offer and stop letting fear rule any part of it.

  The shoals off the coast were treacherous, but he, Stephens, and Tanner knew well the dangers involved. Roman scanned the maps in Abshire’s cabin and could navigate with the best of them. It was what he and Vincent had done every chance they could get during the summers they were on the familial estate on the coast.

  He glanced at the small granite compass Esme had given him that he would always carry, and prayed he would overtake them within three hours if they were lucky.

  And when he did find her—even if he had to sail all the way to the Italian coast? Why, he would tell her that if she would still have him, he would never again spend a night away from her—his freedom be damned. He wanted her to depend on him. He wanted to be the man for her—to be her great champion—if she would give him one last chance.

  For six hours they sailed. The ominous waves crashed over the port side, and Roman pushed the limits of the yacht despite the gale.

  And finally, just as he decided that he was a complete idiot and that attempting to find another vessel in the middle of a storm in the vast Atlantic was a fool’s errand, he saw a dark shadow beyond the sheets of rain that had finally begun to fizzle.

  He pointed toward the other vessel and gained Stephens’s and Tanner’s attention. “Ship ahoy!”

  The two men shouted with excitement. All of them were wet to the bone yet not one of them would ever complain. Of that Roman was certain. It was because these two men cared. They cared what happened to him even if they rarely uttered more than a polite yes or no to him.

  He suddenly felt very humble before them.

  Stephens clapped him on the back with his great bear-like arms. “I knew it! I knew we’d find ’em, Your Grace!”

  Tanner grinned like a young boy. Roman had rarely ever seen the man smile before.

  “Thank you,” Roman said into the wind. “I will never be able to thank both of you enough. Double rations of rum all ’round!” They would wait to celebrate, of course, but it was only right to promise a pirate’s celebration in a moment like this.

  They sailed through the night on the larger vessel’s tailwind. There was not a chance of boarding the other in such weather, but Roman took great comfort knowing she was in his sights.

  And as the skies cleared in the hours before dawn, and he saw the glimmer of the stars, he prayed one last time that everything would be all right.

  She might not want him after everything he had said and done. She might very well have hardened her heart and given up on him. She might not want to depend on him for anything. He had certainly spied a measure of pride in her—as she should have. She might have decided that, indeed, he was not the man for her.

  As the dawn broke, the waves calmed, and soon enough they drew alongside the other craft. Roman charged Stephens and Tanner to sail Abshire’s sleek yacht back to London.

  With a minimum of effort, Roman transferred to the other vessel, and climbed the knotted line to the top railing and swung himself over. The captain of the other yacht welcomed him. The man knew well enough to order his crew to busy themselves and disappeared himself within moments.

  His mother was waiting for him on the opposite railing. March was not in evidence. His heart plummeted as he approached his mother and kissed the cheek she offered.

  And then her arms were wrapped around him and she would not let him go. She was crying.

  He had only ever seen her like this once. The day Vincent had died. He gently guided her to the prow of the vessel for privacy. “Mother . . . I’m sorry.”

  “Hush,” she said, accepting his drenched handkerchief. “You came.”

  “I’m sorry for all the unhappy years. I should never have closed myself off, especially from you and Lily. I’ve been a coward—”

  “Stop,” she said with such force, he did as she bade. “It is I who have been a coward,” she whispered, unable to look at him. “I promised I would never tell you. I promised him so many times. It was the only thing he demanded, and the only way he would forgive me. But I should have told you immediately after he died. It’s just that I had too much pride and worried about your opinion of me. And so I just conveniently never told you.”

  He stilled. “What are you talking about?”

  “Your father made me promise I would never tell you.”

  He closed his eyes.

  “You were not his child. He acknowledged you, of course. I am so sorry, Roman. So very, very sorry. We never will tell anyone else. But you had to know. And, and . . .”

  “Who was he?” He could barely hear his own words.

  She finally looked at
him, tears streaming down her face. “A very great man. The man I loved with all my heart. We met the summer my parents took all my brothers and sisters and me for a tour of Italy. My father would not let me marry him. And our family returned to London immediately. But I never forgot him even when my parents arranged my marriage two months later. I had no choice, Roman. It was an alliance between two great families, as you know.”

  “And?”

  “I had Vincent more than a year after the wedding. But I always pined in secret no matter how hard I tried to forget.” His mother paused and then continued, her voice so low Roman had to bend closer to make out the words. “And then he came to London to find me. He had hoped I was still unmarried. And then . . . well, the unforgivable occurred, while Norwich was gone off with his friends.” She stopped, uncertainty in her sad eyes.

  “Tell me,” he said gently.

  “It was the greatest of sins, Roman.”

  “I don’t care,” he said. “And I fully understand. Father was unbearable. We all knew it. Even Vincent could not always coax him out of his ill temper, despite the fact that my brother was our father’s favorite. And . . .” He stopped, unable to finish the sentence. He still found it nearly impossible to discuss his brother.

  His mother grasped the sleeve of his coat. “I hope I have done the right thing in telling you, Roman. At least you will finally comprehend why your father was cool toward you. He even went so far as to quash the budding artistic talents you possessed at a very young age. And I felt helpless to stop him. But now you know why. Norwich even refused to love Lily. He never trusted me after you. But don’t think I was unhappy. He at least liked to travel, which I loved too. And so we went about our marriage as most do. But there was never any love between us, Roman. He was a man who did not want love. Yet, I wanted something very different for you, and Lily, and Vincent.”

  Roman stared at his mother, her head bowed forward in complete embarrassment. “Who was he?” he asked quietly.

  She appeared wistful. “Mendamos. Louis Mendamos. You take after him. Very much so.”

  A flood of shock and uncertainty washed over him. Good God.