The Art of Duke Hunting (16 page)

A thousand possibilities flowed through his mind. He needed something on which to draw.

A fluttering object caught the corner of his eye and he spotted Esme’s easel propped against a birch tree, but she was nowhere in sight.

He urged the horse into a canter but slowed soon after to jump off near the tree. He grabbed a piece of sketching paper and some charcoal from her small box. Lost in thought, he began to draw geometric diagrams so quickly that he soon had five pieces of paper before him, every inch covered with figures and arcs, and numeric equations. He reached for another piece of paper and realized he had used it all.

“Do you need more? I would be happy to fetch some for you.”

He looked up only to see Esme resting against the side of the millhouse, nearly invisible in the deep shade of the tree nearby. He had been so lost in thought, and she so quiet, he had not seen her. “How long have you been sitting there?”

“Not long.”

“And you said not a word.”

“Why would I? You were obviously doing something very important to you.”

He shook his head in disbelief. The females he knew would have interrupted him within a half minute of seeing him.

She repeated her offer. “Shall I fetch more paper for you?”

“You would do that?”

“Of course.”

He let the silence hang in the air, along with the rustling of the leaves in the hedge and trees nearby. She did not ask the obvious. Why did she not barrage him with a thousand questions about what he was doing? “That would be more than kind of you.”

She stood up, laid down her own sketch on a nearby stump, and placed a book on top of it to keep it in place. “I shall take Dobby and be back in a trace.”

He said not another word. As he waited, a ball of sadness rose to his throat. She truly was an extraordinary female. Generous, kindhearted, and possessed with great talent. She gave of herself. And what had he done? He had done nothing but take from her.

He stared at the mill again, and the relationship between the wheel and the water. One could say the water was the energy, the giver, and the mill was the taker, making a product.

He crossed to the stump where she had left a stack of her own drawings. Moving the stone weight, he examined her efforts.

He was transfixed by the images. She was a master. Image after image it was proven to him. He could not figure out why he had not fully recognized it when he had seen her painting on the Isle of Wight.

He studied more closely the drawings. He finally understood. While her landscapes were lovely, it was her ability to capture people that set her apart.

He shook his head. Had not William Topher told her the opposite? He should refrain from saying anything. Roman was by no means an expert, nor did he want to complicate or question her vocation.

He stared at her drawings until he saw her in the distance.

He quickly rearranged her sketches, placed the weight on them once again and thanked her for the new supply of sketching paper. March returned to her place in the shade.

For another two solid hours they worked together but apart. It was an amazing sensation. He had always worked alone. Every five to ten minutes, he would look up from his computations to see if she was still there.

He finally saw her rise from her perch, gather her artist supplies and turn to face him. “I’m for home,” she said. “By the way, Lady Verity Fitzroy is coming to dine with us tonight. Will you join us?”

He jumped up to do the right and proper. “Of course I will join you. But you should take the horse. May I escort you?”

“Oh no. I like to walk after sitting so long.” She was near him now. “I had the impression that you disliked art.”

“This is not art.”

She angled herself for a better view.

He was certain she would not understand. It was better that way. No one understood his work or the mathematical machinations of his mind.

“Hmmm. I always loved geometry,” she said. “But the computations are . . . complicated. This has something to do with water?”

“How did you guess?”

“Well, it is not the equations. It’s just that you were staring very hard at the mill wheel for so long. What is this for?”

“I shall tell you, but you must not relay it to anyone else.” He did not stop to think if it was wise to trust her. “I do not want to rush this. I’ve been secretly working on a water delivery method so that clean water could be pumped through all the boroughs in London every hour of the day.”

“You mean no one would have to rely on private well water? Or wait for the two-hour allotment?” Her eyebrows rose. “So many are sick from the water in Town.”

“Exactly.”

Her eyes lit up. “When will it be ready?”

“I do not know. The problem lies with the pumps. They require too much space and are very complicated.”

“Who knows you’re working on this?”

“No one.”

“Why on earth not?”

“As I said. I do not want to be rushed. It’s complex.”

She looked at him. “You’re absolutely right. I hate to be hurried.”

“Did I rush you last night, March?” he asked, looking deep into her gray eyes.

She looked away, embarrassed. “No.”

“Are you sure?”

“Yes . . . I mean, no, you did not rush me.”

“I did,” he insisted. “I should have prepared you. Taken my time. I am very sorry, March.”

She shuffled the sheets of sketching paper in front of her.

“Do you . . .” He paused, unsure of what he had been about to suggest. “Pardon me, March. But will you allow me to try again?” He wanted desperately to do right by her. She was everything kind and good and he had been the opposite.

She appeared very embarrassed by his words, and her face was still averted. Then all at once, those piercing gray eyes met his.

“No, thank you.”

Chapter 10

S
he could not believe she had had the audacity to turn down her new husband’s gentle request to “try again.” Oh, she knew why she had refused him. First, she was angry at him for deeming her unworthy of being a wife and mother by spilling his seed on the sheets. Second, she couldn’t lie with him again. She just could not. The first time with him had been an act of reassurance and comfort. The last time had been an abomination and had left her feeling empty and worse.

Perhaps he respected her well enough, but that was all. He did not love her and never would.

He stood in front of her with his coiled virility taunting her spinsterish demeanor. He had expected her to demur to his suggestion, but she could not.

The idea of once again having intimate relations with someone who did not love her, and would never love her, left her feeling cold.

“And is this all the answer I am to receive?” he asked slowly.

“Yes.”

“Have I hurt you in any way, March?”

She examined his face. “I am perfectly fine physically.”

“And your sensibilities?”

A flush wound its way up her body and settled on her face. “Why did you spill your seed on the sheets?”

He paused. “Because I do not want to get you with child.”

Well, at least he was honest
.

“March, I know you want to travel, and paint. You will not be able to do that if you become with child.”

“That was the only reason?” she asked, hope stirring in her breast.

“All except one,” he replied slowly.

“And that one would be?”

“Something I don’t care to discuss.” His face was now as cynical and hard as the marble busts in the Prince Regent’s apartments.

“Please tell me. I am willing for both of us to have private lives apart from one another but this is too important.” Lord, this was the most embarrassing thing in the world. “What was the other reason?” She could see in his eyes that something was not quite right. “It’s all right. Just tell me.”

“I do not want a child. It has nothing to do with you,” he said quietly. “I ask you not to bring up the subject again.”

“All right,” she said, “but tell me why. As your wife, even if it is not a real marriage, I deserve to know. But I promise never to say a word to anyone.”

His sky blue eyes searched her face.

“Please,” she added.

He looked away. “I do not desire a continuation of the Norwich duchy. It will revert to the Crown upon my death. But I want you to know that I shall settle my affairs, leaving you a significant portion of unentailed wealth when I die. It will be far more than you could possibly need, but I never want you to be in fear of straightened circumstances.”

She should tell him about her ancestry. But for some inexplicable reason she could not find the words to do so. She just did not want to ever doubt his intentions toward her.

“How kind,” she said with an odd note in her voice that she could not hide. “So to reiterate, you want to have relations again. You do not want us to nurture a child. You want both of us to live apart and have complete freedom to do as we choose. And the duchy is to be dissolved all because of a ridiculous curse involving ducks?”

He did not look in the least bit put out. She fingered the edge of her painting apron.

“Exactly.”

“I see,” she said, not seeing anything whatsoever. “And why do you want to lie with me again?”

“Because, it is as I told you. I was not gentle. And . . . and it’s
you
, March. It was not well done.”

“I told you I was fine.” But something had gone soft inside of her when he’d said, “
And it’s you, March.
” “But I shall not turn you away if you choose to come to my room at some point.” She suddenly felt very warm, and very shy. Then her sliver of pride, which she carried with her and displayed at only times of extreme stress—pushed up inside of her. “But, I must tell you it will have to be the very last time we lie together. I do not really enjoy such intimacy unless both share a deep love for each other.”

He studied her without a word.

She could not stay another moment. Esme turned on her heel and strode away.

That evening, she felt equally ill at ease when she was near him or had to speak to him. He was such a solid and handsome man, with his aristocratic mien. His premature gray hair was combed back from his noble profile. His large forehead and prominent nose spoke of innate intelligence. He was too handsome for his own good, sitting there at the opposite end of the long, formal table, she thought wryly.

Her best friend, Verity Fitzroy, obviously thought so too, for she kept nudging Esme under the table and raising her eyebrows pointedly.

“Stop it,” she hissed. Her friend finally halted her ridiculous behavior until she invited Esme outside to take a short stroll in the night air, away from the prying eyes and ears of Esme’s husband, mother, and teacher.

“I’m sorry I was so silly at table. I think I’m losing my manners and I’m beginning to act like a child, so little have I been allowed to mingle with others,” Verity said, with a lilt in her voice that belied the sadness in her eyes. “How can I be counted on to act content when my brother has had the audacity to lock me away at Boxwood?”

“Are you ever going to tell me what you did to deserve such archaic treatment?” Esme arched a brow. “Well, you aren’t truly locked away. You’re here now after all.”

“I’m confined to Derbyshire and I’m not to go with my sisters to Town for the Season. But enough about me. How on earth came you to be wed to Norwich? I thought I would explode with curiosity when your mother came to call to invite me tonight.”

“I suppose she explained everything to you?”

“Not a single word. She looked like a beautiful Persian cat who had swallowed the most delicious canary but she would not spit out a single feather. It was most annoying.”

Esme laughed. “That is what I adore about my mother. She will always surprise you. I did not know if she would be able to keep such a secret. But have no fear, my dearest cousin, for you are the one and only person I shall tell the whole of it to. Every last embarrassing, terrible, scandalous detail.”

During a half hour of lightning-fast conversation, Verity was apprised of the outrageous goings-on of the past weeks. Indeed, her friend looked ready to swoon at several points. She even extracted her smelling salts from her reticule. Then again, Verity loved to pull out her smelling salts at every possible occasion as she believed life was one long slog of boredom and she loved dramatics in any form.

After Verity had examined and exhausted every single last possible question surrounding Esme’s rushed marriage, she stopped under a lantern in the tiered gardens.

“He is very handsome,” her cousin said gently. “Do you love him? It would be hard not to fall in love with a man like that.”

“No. I do not love him.”

“But you like him. You
esteem
him.”

“I esteem him, but I have just enough pride to refuse to love someone who does not love me.”

Verity’s brown eyes were dark and huge in her face. “Tell me he does not love you. I shall bring James’s dueling pistol case, load each weapon and discharge both at his derriere to make sure he understands what an idiot he is. He should instantly love you after all you did for him on that ship.”

“Oh, he likes me, I suppose. He
esteems
me, I am sure.
Like
and
esteem
are the words one uses to express the most boring sentiments in the world.” She paused and cast her gaze at the moon. “But he will never
love
me. There is something in his expression that makes me think he does not want to love anyone. So I am trying not to take it personally.”

“I would take it personally.” Verity reached for Esme’s hand and urged her to sit on the cold earth at the base of the tree. The lantern light shone on their faces.

“Dearest, I have told you everything there is to tell. Now it is my turn to hear what you’ve done to deserve your brother’s ire,” Esme insisted with a smile she forced to her face.

“I cannot.”

“I beg your pardon?” Esme was shocked. They shared absolutely everything between them. They were as close as any two sisters if not more so as they had chosen to be each other’s only confidant and they were cousins.