The Art of Duke Hunting (14 page)

She gave William a look.

“If you change your mind and need something to divert your attention from the spectacular alteration in your life, just trot down to the dower house and we can resume painting, Esme. I do hope you will not let this new husband of yours interfere with your aspirations, my dear girl,” William stated. “It would be a shame. We all know your father, bless his artistic soul, had great plans for you. Plans I was to guide you toward. I do hope your second husband does not go on like . . . well, then. I shall say not another word.”

The countess shook her head. “Nonsense, William. I can tell Norwich is a very good man.”

“Mother,” Esme said, “You know very little about him.”

Her mother did not respond. Instead she looked pointedly toward William Topher. “Good day, William. You will join us for dinner tonight?”

“Of course.”

William Topher bowed and departed. Once out of sight, Esme heard him whistling softly as was his way.

“Mother, you have never been so familiar with someone you did not know before. Nor do you usually put on airs, except of course in Town when everyone puts on airs. Please do not make this more difficult than it is.” Esme poured the last drops of tea from the teapot into her mother’s cup.

“Well I shall put on airs when a duke is in residence. It is important to get off on the right foot with an adversary, don’t you think?”

“Adversary? I assure you that Roman Montagu is not an adversary.”

“Of course he is. He did not come to your marriage willingly. Now, after your lie-down, you must tell me what happened, in private. The forward rider gave me your letter, but really, my darling, I had so little time to digest it before you were arrived.”

“I’m sorry I could not send news earlier.”

“Of course you could not, my darling. But I am glad, actually, for I would have worried dreadfully if I had known a storm had nearly sunk
The
Drake
. And I am so sorry the trip you planned so meticulously was ruined.”

“It is not a tragedy, Mother. I will just plan it again.”

Her mother studied her for a long moment. “Of course you will. It is too bad the Prince Regent would not allow you and His Grace to set off for Vienna for your honeymoon instead of here.”

Esme refused to tell her mother of Roman’s terror of ships.

“But I suppose I understand. Of course, we saw the astounding columns in the
Morning Post
. And any of the royal entourage stupid enough to remain in London would be the target of the lower classes’ ire, as the prince endures every day, I understand. But . . .”

“Yes?”

“I don’t understand why your marriage could not be announced properly in the newspapers. It would help the Prince Regent’s effort to show the public that his entourage is reforming its outrageous ways.”

“Mother, I can only tell you that His Majesty ordered us here, and demanded that we not publicly announce our wedding until he decides it is the correct time.”

“Well, he could not have sent you to a more remote area. News travels about as slowly as a slug in winter here,” she said distastefully. “Dearest, I shan’t hold you any longer. I’ve kept you too long from your lie-down. We shall continue after.” Her mother studied her face with a knowing eye. “And then you will tell me if you’ve informed His Grace that you are a descendant of Esmeralda Mannon.”

“I have not,” Esme replied quickly. “Nor do I intend to do it. I do not want to over worry him.”

Her mother gave her a look. “If this is a marriage of convenience, and clearly it is, I would suggest you tell him as soon as possible, my love.”

Esme sighed. She really did want to rest. But her mother would not leave off without an answer. “I don’t want him to treat me differently—and he will if he knows.”

Her mother raised her eyebrows. “Perhaps it would be better if he treats you differently.” Fluffing out the skirt of her gown, Esme’s mother continued. “Your happiness is all I care about, Esme. I will not have another Norwich ruin the future of another Mannon. You are my one and only daughter and I promised myself and your father that I would do everything possible for you to reach your full potential.”

Esme rose to take her leave. “Please do not worry, Mother. I know I was gifted with only one talent. And I have never thought I would find happiness with another husband. But I must make the best of what has happened. And you must trust me to muddle my way through this as well as I can.”

As she climbed up the last stair to the nursery, Esme was grateful to her parents. Her father for nurturing their shared passion for art and her mother for loving them both. And her mother had always taken the correct course of action where Esme’s, ahem, lack of charms were concerned. Her mother never falsely praised her. If anyone knew she had been born with few admirable physical attributes, it was Esme.

A long time ago she had decided not to care about her lack of beauty. One could not concentrate on flaws one could not fix. She would never have allure. But she could paint. And the more she painted, the more she liked what she put on the canvas. It was the one thing she could count on to bring her a measure of joy. That and caring for the people she loved.

The Duke of Norwich would never love her the way she knew in her heart that she could love him. It was ridiculous, really. But that fateful evening she had first seen him in that London ballroom, she had felt the shiver of fate. He had quite obviously never felt it. But perhaps they would treat each other with kindness, and mutually respect each other in their day-to-day lives.

Esme wondered if she would be lucky enough to have a baby. Oh, she knew they had both agreed to remain childless, but one could never guarantee it. No matter how careful they might be, one could become with child.

She tried not to let hope flourish. She had had two disappointments. Twice she had found herself with child and twice she had lost the infant within a month’s time. She had not told anyone of her delicate condition either time. Esme had wanted it that way as she knew her mother would be heartbroken if she learned of the two losses.

Esme gazed at the lovely large chamber on the second floor of the manor, facing the side tiered garden, where a large oak tree proved a shaded retreat near one of the windows. Esme had sat in the rocking chair near that window many months after losing the second infant. It was where she had taken the decision to put away her desire for a child and concentrate on her art instead. There was no point pining for something one could not have.

As she sat there now, she forced back the longing she had. She would not put herself through it again. If her mother brought it up she would take her aside and tell her of her failures and ask that they never speak of it ever again.

And her mother would do it. She could be counted on when the going was rough.

After Lionel had died, her mother had come and had brought her breakfast and dinner in bed for many days, cajoling her to eat every bite. Esme bowed her head. It was her art that had seen her through in the end. And it would do so again. She rose and smoothed out the wrinkles in her gown.

She was no longer tired. She would go and paint. She would take the half-finished painting of the mill and complete it. Maybe even start a new work.

Esme struggled to climb the hills and navigate the dales with her easel, canvases and painting gear. She was crossing the last rise before the mill, when she spied someone under the weeping willow in the pasture. She changed directions and stopped just short of his boots.

He was such a very handsome man. His chin jutted out, the hint of a snore whispering from his lips while she watched him. He looked far more at peace now than the last few days. She understood why. He had consumed too much drink, endured far too many ships, and one too many weddings. His own.

Her heart softened. Barely a week ago he had not even known of her existence. Yet, he had married her to save her reputation by order of the Prince Regent. All in all, he was a true gentleman. Perhaps a reluctant one, but at least he possessed good character.

She nudged his foot.

He awoke mid snore. “Whatzfuget?” His eyes snapped open.

“I just wanted to tell you something,” she said. “Then you can go back to sleep.”

He sat up awkwardly. “What is it?”

“I just wanted to say that I am sorry about the strange welcome you received. My mother and William were merely surprised by our arrival and all the news. They had not had time to fully understand what had happened. They are not usually so ridiculous.” She smiled. “At least they are not so ridiculous until they know someone better and they take a liking to the person.”

“So they have taken a liking to me?”

She bit her lip. “I only ask that you give them time to adjust—especially William. I shall make them keenly aware that we have a marriage of convenience only. I don’t want you to think that I expect, or anyone else will expect, anything more than that.”

“Pardon me?” He rubbed the back of his neck.

“Since love is not involved, I only have one request.”

His eyes were glazed over. “Yes?”

“I would only ask if we could endeavor to always be very civil, polite and respectful of one another, especially in front of others. I would hate to be one of those couples who argue and spite one another.”

“Have I ever been impolite and disrespectful?” he asked.

“Not very much, no.”

“When?” he asked gently.

“When what?”

“When have I been impolite and disrespectful?”

She studied her fingertips. “When you said Prinny could not force us to consummate our marriage.”

“I did not say it to hurt you.”

“I know. But it did.”

“If you think I said it because I do not want to be with you as we were that one time, then you misunderstood.”

“Then what did you mean by it?”

“I said it because I was tired of Prinny telling both of us what to do.”

“I see.”

“And I will try never to be unkind or impolite or disrespectful to you. Ever, March. I am sorry if I hurt your sensibilities.”

She stared at him. She swallowed her pride. She was very good at doing it usually. This time was harder than other times.

“March?”

She could not meet his gaze. “Yes?”

“Will you put your easel down and the other things?”

“Why? I had planned to paint at the mill.”

“Please?”

She carefully laid everything at his feet and stood in front of him very still.

“Will you not join me under this tree? It’s quite peaceful here.”

“I don’t want to disturb your solitude.”

“You are not disturbing it—at least not since your boot nudged my boot.”

She tried to hide a smile. She sat next to him, about a foot away.

He scooted next to her and very gently put his arm about her shoulders. He leaned forward and gently kissed her cheek.

“You don’t have to do that,” she said quietly. A breeze ruffled the leaves, and the long tangles of weeping branches swirled.

“I know,” he said.

“Then why did you do it?”

“I’m trying to tell you that I really am very sorry for hurting your sensibilities. I do want to consummate our marriage, March. And I thank you for agreeing to become my wife.”

“I’m sorry you were forced into it. We shall have to try and make the best of it.”

“And the way to make the best of it,” he said, “is to remember the importance of each other’s independence and freedom. I will not be like other husbands. You must travel and paint and do what you love just as I will do the same. I will never stand in your way. In fact, I will encourage it. I will always remain in England and attend to my own affairs, and I will insist you follow your own path no matter where it takes you.”

She pondered what he said. There was kindness in his words but also a sting. He had made it clear that he wanted her to live apart from him—never to have to see her. He wanted to share not an inch of her life. She could not form a reply.

He continued. “As you know, marriage changes people. It brings out the worst in most of them. My parents were a prime example of how to live miserably together. We will not have to worry about this since we will not be in each other’s pockets, will we, except for on very rare occasions? Say Michaelmas and other annual celebrations?”

She brushed a wisp of her lovely new maid’s elaborate hairstyle out of her eyes and took the opportunity to move a little away from him. He really did not want to commit to share any part of her life. “I understand.”

“Do you?” He appeared very relieved.

“Oh, yes. More than you think.” She stood up. “I shall just go on to the mill then, before the afternoon light fades. I want to capture it.”

“Shall I come with you?”

“Oh, there is no need. I am very capable of doing things for myself and I know you must be very tired. I’m sorry to have disturbed you when you were resting so comfortably.”

“You did not disturb me, March.”

“I’m glad.” She turned on her heel and began to walk away.

He said something and it drifted toward her. “Then, I shall see you at supper? And shall we adjourn to your chamber after?”

She clenched her hands but did not trust herself to speak. She nodded her head but did not turn. She kept on walking.

She ruined the painting of the mill. It took her four hours to do it but she did an excellent job of making a mess of it. After, she felt much better. She felt better still after walking around the lake three times, missing supper, and watching the moon rise.

H
e could not understand what had detained her. He had thought he had made it perfectly clear. He had apologized, reassured her, and assumed they would endure dinner with her mother and William Topher, who spoke of nothing but oil paints and Esme. And the more the other man spoke, the more Roman was convinced William Topher was besotted with his wife.

Oddly, both the dowager countess and Topher were not the least bit concerned that Esme had not joined them at table.

“Oh, my daughter is incorrigible,” the countess said with a smile. “Once she has a brush in her hand, she forgets all time. Her father had the same fault. You would do well to accept it as I did when I was first married. She is probably contemplating the shades of moonlight.”