The Art of Duke Hunting

by Sophia Nash

  “The Italian sculptor?” he could barely form the words.

  “Yes. I told you he was a very great man. We met while I was visiting one of the museums in Rome, where his works were exhibited.”

  He couldn’t move. Couldn’t speak.

  “It’s the reason I named you Roman.”

  He tried to work past the knot in his throat. Who in hell was he? His entire life had just been wrung from him, twisted, and handed back to him in an altogether different form. He didn’t know whether he should be happy to know that the taciturn man who had acknowledged him was not his true father, or whether he should be sad that he was the product of a passionate affair of his beloved mother. Roman looked at the uncertainty and worry in his mother’s expression, and knew what to do. He took her in his arms. “Thank you for telling me. I will always love you for it.” He paused, his mind still reeling. “Is he still alive?”

  She looked away. “I don’t know. I did not follow his whereabouts after he begged me to go away with him and I refused. I could not leave Vincent behind. I just could not. I did not go to museums afterwards on purpose. Nor did I hold on to any hope. Norwich forgave me in his own way. I owe him for it. And after he died, it was only right to honor his memory by not seeking out Louis. It was a long time ago, Roman. I only want peace now. I am grateful, however, to Esme for allowing me to relive the joy I found in seeing great art.”

  At the mention of her name, Roman’s heart swelled. “Mother, I must go to her. See her straightaway.”

  “Of course. And you must tell her what I just told you. I trust her without question and I know she will not think less of me for it. She is the one for you, Roman. I only wish you had met her a decade ago.” His mother went on tiptoe and kissed first one cheek and then the other. “She is waiting for you in her cabin. You know which one. You chose it for her. And I forced her to go below when you were coming up the rope ladder.” His mother smiled. “Don’t look so worried. I shouldn’t tell you, but it was all I could do to restrain her from jumping overboard when she saw your approach. She knows nothing about playing the reserved, cool-as-you-please game of most ladies I know.”

  “That is precisely why I love her,” he returned.

  Chapter 20

  The newest Duchess of Norwich paced the small cabin, hope alternating with impatience. It was absurd. Why was he here?

  It could not be bad news. No, Caroline would have immediately come below to tell her. So, what could it mean? Why was he here? And why was everyone taking so long to come to her?

  He could not be here for her. Esme refused to allow hope to blossom more than a small sprout.

  And then there was a light tap, and he entered without waiting for her answer. He took up so much space, and now he was crowding toward her, his blue, blue eyes tracking her every movement.

  “March?”

  It was so unfair. Just the sound of the deep rumble of his voice sent shivers up her spine. “Yes?”

  “A change is in order.”

  “It is?”

  “Yes.”

  “But first I have something to tell you.”

  “You do?” She breathed. “Tell me.”

  “The night before last, you said you got to decide if I was the man for you.”

  “I did.”

  “But you did not give me the same choice,” he said. “Esme Montagu?”

  “Yes?”

  “You are the woman for me.”

  Oh, her heart was pounding, and she was furious that her eyes were stinging. She refused to cry. “I am?”

  “Yes. You are not only the woman for me, you are the one and only woman with whom I was meant to spend a lifetime. If you will still have me, we will live it together. Through the good times and through the bad times. We can always seek solitude when needed for your painting and my work, but we will also have happiness shared, if you choose to have me. Will you? Still have me?”

  She burst into tears. “Oh, I’m so sorry,” she said, desperately trying to regain her composure. “I am just so surprised. I mean, of course, I will have you. I am already yours and you know it.”

  He finally reached for her and she ran into his arms.

  She began, “Montagu . . . I lo—”

  He interrupted her. “No, my love. You must allow me to play the besotted husband.” He stared into her eyes. “I love you,” he said simply. “And I shall always love you. You may depend upon it.”

  The balm of his words made her heart feel light for the first time in many weeks. And her head felt just right cradled in the crook of his shoulder as he gathered her closer.

  “I also have other news,” he said, and kissed her head.

  “I have something I must tell you, too,” she murmured. She very much feared he would take back all he had just promised as soon as she told him. But she knew why she had not. She had not wanted him to stay with her via a misguided reason or effort. Esme had dreamed that he might one day love her for herself alone.

  He looked at her quizzically after the long silence. “What is it?” His expression was so serious.

  “You go first,” she said, hoping he could not detect the fear in her voice.

  “All right. I actually have two pieces of news.”

  “Yes?”

  “Yes. The first is that I finished the project. It is waiting for Prinny’s return along with a very long list of suggestions to see to before construction can begin.”

  “Oh, but then you must return to—”

  “No, you did not understand,” he stopped her. “We are not returning. We are going to Vienna for you to paint. The most important part of my work is done. Prinny must arrange the political maneuvering for the monies. We will return for the construction, but only after your commission is fulfilled. March?”

  “Yes?”

  “I cannot bear the idea of spending a night away from you ever again, my love.”

  Her heart was beating very fast.

  “Do you feel the same?” His eyes searched hers.

  “Of course I do,” she whispered as she stroked his face. “But you must want to be in London more than anything right now to see your plans realized.” How was she going to tell him? How was she going to be able to bear the look of revulsion he was sure to sport when she told him her ancestry?

  “Esme, you must tell me what you want.”

  She could tell he was trying very hard to keep his expression blank.

  He continued. “Would you prefer to be alone for several weeks or months to create this masterpiece? I have already told you my feelings, but your sensibilities are even more important to me.”

  “Ummmmm . . .”

  “The truth if you please.”

  She forced herself to speak. “Roman, I have something very important to tell you. And then, if you still feel the same, we can take these decisions together.”

  “There is nothing you can say that will alter my feelings and decision.” He smiled and he suddenly appeared years younger to her in his absolute happiness.

  She swallowed and glanced at the floor. “Perhaps, but I will understand if you want to resume our prior arrangement after . . . after I tell you.”

  He gazed at her with expectation, but did not hurry her. When she could not make herself open her mouth again, he finally closed the gap between them and again held her in his embrace. She drank in the warm and familiar scent of him. Oh, how she wanted and needed his arms.

  “It doesn’t matter, Esme,” he insisted. “Nothing can be as bad as you think. I am here and will always be here to help you if you will allow it, darling.”

  She closed her eyes. “My mother’s maiden name is Mannon.”

  His arms immediately stiffened.

  “I am the last direct descendant of the lady who cursed your family. My full name is Esmeralda Mannon Morgan March. I should have told you a long time ago.”

  The strong, warm comfort of his body against hers disappeared and she opened her eyes to face him.

  “You
forgot Montagu,” he said with a gleam in his eye.

  “Pardon me?”

  “It’s your hearing again?” he suggested with a smile.

  “No. But I don’t think you—”

  “Esme, I don’t care who your family is or was. I just want you to be my family now. Will you?”

  A tide of relief and warm happiness flowed through her. “But you’re not afraid of the curse?”

  “No, and I shall tell you why. But first, I should ask if you know if the curse applies only to Norwich dukes with the first duke’s blood in their veins.”

  “Why would you ask such a question?”

  “Can you not guess, my love?”

  She studied him. “The version of events told to me by my grandmother suggests that the first Esmeralda cursed every Norwich heir and duke who possessed Norwich I—the Duck Hunter’s—blood.”

  His smile was blinding. “Excellent news, my darling. I’m delighted to inform I am probably not cursed at all.”

  “That is good because I dreaded having to warn you that the captain brought his collection of duck calls on this yacht. I would stay very far away from his cabin if I were you.”

  He threw back his head and laughed, his fears obviously gone far, far away. He grabbed her in his arms and swung her in a circle before he herded her onto her small bunk. “May I tell you why the curse will not plague me?”

  “It only matters that you believe it, Montagu. But I should also warn you that according to my grandmother, I have no power to remove the curse. I think you know I would if I could.”

  “Shhh . . .” he held a finger to her lips. “No, I won’t have you worry,” he insisted. “Let me tell you why.” And so he told her what his mother had revealed to him.

  Esme swore ten times over that she had always suspected he was an artist at heart because of his designs, his mathematical genius, and the way he had expertly painted seabirds that day on the Isle of Wight. Within a quarter hour, she proposed a dizzying number of artistic endeavors the both of them could explore together.

  It was a very long time before anyone on board saw the Duke and Duchess of Norwich again.

  Every last person on the ship celebrated.

  With the captain’s duck calls.

  In the end, there was a small detour to their destination.

  His wife had commented on the lines of worry she had spied on his face the morning after they reunited. She sat across from him at the mahogany table in the cabin, trimming a quill as he dressed.

  “Who are you writing to?” He wanted nothing more than to remove the boots he had just put on, pick her up, and take her back to the small bunk.

  “To my mother and to Verity,” she said, not looking up from her handiwork.

  He sighed and drew out a chair opposite to sit with her. “I must write to Kress straightaway to relieve his worry concerning his fortune.”

  She raised her eyes from the page and looked at him.

  “What is it, my love?” She reached across to stroke his sideburns.

  This calmed him in some mystical way no scientific theory could ever explain. She evoked such peace in him whenever she touched him. “I’ve fulfilled Prinny’s directive of waiting, and I must inform Kress. I must return his fortune. I owe him twice over, for if he had not forced the wager that made me board The Drake, I would never have found you,” he said, catching her hands in his, “the love of my life.”

  She smiled with such happiness radiating from her face. “But it will take weeks for a letter to reach him if you post it from Vienna. We must instead go to him now. Penzance is not so far. If we stay but a day or two, it will only add a week at most and I am not to see the Duc d’Orleans for at least a fortnight after the day we were supposed to arrive. And I’m certain your mother will not mind if we take a slight detour.”

  He eased her lovely light brown hair away from her face, which had grown so very dear to him. He prayed they would have many more years in front of them—enough to fill up every reservoir of happiness they possessed.

  Instinctively, he knew that the love they shared today was but a hint of the grand passion that would build throughout the rest of their lives. He could not imagine that his love for her could grow more, but it had become clear in the last few days that he knew nothing about how passion fueled the hearts of eternal lovers.

  He had been reticent yesterday when he had told her about his true father. But in her signature fashion, she had built on it by saying she liked him better for it. With her excitement and her every praise of the sculptor whose blood ran in his veins, his sense of self had grown. And she had gently insisted they try to find him when they arrived in Italy.

  “Esme?” he said, rising from the chair.

  “Yes?” she replied, not looking up from her letter.

  Roman circled the table and came behind her. He gently brushed aside her soft hair and pressed a kiss to her warm, lilac-scented long neck. She immediately turned and Roman removed the quill from her fingers.

  Esmeralda Mannon Morgan March Montagu needed no further hint. She took matters into her own bewitching hands—a trait Roman was beginning to love. As they whiled away the hours lost in each other’s embrace, Roman finally understood what had eluded him for so long. Love was not to be feared.

  “My darling,” he whispered in her ear as she gently caressed his face.

  “Yes?”

  “Thank you.”

  She slowly rose onto one elbow. “For what?”

  “For being so patient and so kind. You are the greatest woman I have ever known. Your capacity to love and accept others for who they are is unparalleled.

  “You know I’ve always considered myself a failure at love,” she whispered. “And I’ve always felt more at ease giving love instead of receiving it.”

  “I guessed that long ago,” he replied. “But your instincts were far better than mine. After my brother’s death, I embraced solitude, never wanting to depend on anyone, nor have anyone depend on me. Love was never an option. But you have shown me this is not the way to happiness. And you, my love, had better be prepared for the result. I intend to shower you with all the love you deserve and more for the rest of our lives.” He paused. “Which will be very, very long since I am depending on you to cast a spell on our longevity.” He paused with a grin. “One can hope it will not involve waterfowl.”

  She smiled hugely and kissed him for all she was worth. It would take him many, many happy years to find out that she did, indeed, have a talent inherited from her ancestor.

  Their approach to St. Michael’s Mount was done an hour before dawn. Moonlight reflected off the beautiful, ancient granite walls of the towering former abbey. Norwich shook his head as he stared at it from the railing.

  Kress would surely be climbing the walls in boredom within this wreck of a castle, even if it was magnificent. His half-French cohort was the latest member of the royal entourage, and he was a gentleman who detested anything to do with countrified living. Kress was a man who lived for the glitter and jaded amusements of Town.

  Norwich pulled Esme closer to him as they stood side by side. She was nearly his height and he adored the way they could gaze into each other’s faces without a crook in either of their necks.

  “Who will be there?” The luster of her hair gleamed in the lowlight.

  “I’m not at all certain. Kress, obviously. The question is whether Candover or Prinny has joined him. As you know, the both of them were secretly on their way southward. I understood from Candover it was to ‘save Kress’s bloody absinthe-soaked neck.’ ”

  She laughed.

  He loved to see his bride so happy.

  And then they were arrived and the lines were secured by the waiting men at the small port of the mount. Roman helped his mother and Esme descend the gangway, and they made their way up the steep incline to the ancient fortress, the last bastion near the tip of Land’s End.

  A massive Cossack footman allowed them inside without a word. The man did
not even make them wait by decamping to inform his master of their arrival. Surely, they were all abed at this hour. But, apparently, no. The huge man looked them over from head to toe and then motioned them with the crook of his fat finger to follow him.

  Kress’s great-aunt, a grand French countess who was either blind or not—a question that he and Kress had debated privately between them for the last two decades—had always surrounded herself with the oddest assortment of servants. This footman was all the proof Roman needed that he would find her here.

  Esme, Roman, and his mother were escorted into a massive stone chamber, some sort of ancient dining hall with a huge fireplace filling one side. A small group of people turned upon their entrance.

  Roman had the joy of seeing the jaw of his oldest friend in the world, Alexander Barclay, the very newest Duke of Kress, drop open in shock.

  “I knew it,” Kress sputtered. “You’re too damn stubborn to die, Seventeen. As I always told you, that curse does not apply to you.”

  Isabelle Tremont, the Duchess of March and the only female in the royal entourage, rushed forward and hugged him. Roman was so surprised by her exuberance that he could do nothing but clasp her to him gently. He had had no idea she would truly care if he lived and breathed or not.

  “Oh,” she exclaimed. “Where have you been? Does Prinny know? You must have crossed paths with him. You’ve missed him. He is on the road to London. He will be so relieved to learn of your well-being.”

  “I have your fortune, Kress,” Roman said quickly, not wanting another minute to lapse before he could ease his friend’s mind. “I did not win the wager. I lasted not a full day on that blasted vessel.”

  Kress glanced at Candover, who said not a word.

  Kress’s eyes narrowed. “You knew, didn’t you?” He looked ready to do bodily harm to Candover. “Is there no bloody code in this damned royal entourage? There should be a code. And the first rule should be, ‘One shall always immediately tell the other if they know where their sodding fortune is.’ ”

  Candover calmly replied, “I beg your pardon, she’s standing next to you.”