The Art of Duke Hunting (18 page)

She wanted to cry because this window seat was one of her favorite places in the beautiful stone manor, and she had spent many an evening right here, sketching or reading. In the past, she had at least had the comfort of knowing that she was loved by her husband.

But now? The one man she wished most could one day come to love her—never would.

Esme eased from her perch, retrieved the book William Topher had lent to her, and mounted the stairs to find her bed.

If ever she needed another sign that her marriage was a complete disaster in the making, this was it.

Esme opened the book to try to lose herself in the beauty of centuries of art in Vienna. Between the lines, she tried to forget all about Roman Montagu and concentrate on the trip she would take by the end of the season. Away from England, and Roman, she would finally be free to immerse herself in the only thing that was guaranteed to make her forget all about the Duke of Norwich.

E
arly in the afternoon of the following day, the entire household descended on Boxwood, the Fitzroy family seat, per the formal invitation sent by Lady Verity Fitzroy. Rory Lennox, the Duke of Abshire, arrived within the hour. Candover was in Cornwall, most likely turning the wedding screws on Kress, who Roman was hamstrung to help.

Nevertheless, the day would be a diversion in Roman’s world, which had gone to hell in the same fashion as the world of every other duke he called a friend. Well, at least he could converse with Abshire. Indeed, there was nothing quite like a private chat with another member of the royal entourage to make one remember the natural order of things.

Abshire sat in what was presumably his archenemy Candover’s ducal chair before a tiny fire in the grate of a great yawn of a fireplace in one of countless salons. The ladies and Topher had left the two dukes in peace and were either taking the air, skipping down pebbled walkways, or frolicking in the lake for all either of them knew.

And so Roman let down his guard and allowed himself to be drawn into a topic that was one they all tried to avoid at every opportunity. The infamous evening before Candover’s nuptials had only served to make the matter even more unbearable.

“Marriage, my dear fellow, is nothing but a black hole of despair as Prinny’s own union is ample evidence,” Rory advised. “It was created for two reasons only: the orderly procreation and raising of heirs and to place two otherwise sane individuals into a recipe for a complete and utter quagmire of bitter accusations and unhappiness or, if one is very lucky, simple and complete boredom.”

Ah, Abshire was in fine form today. It was just what Roman needed.

“I am telling you, Seventeen, your best chance for success is to always keep an ocean between the two of you. My guess is that in the end you will let her go off on a ship, make her own way—which is the only solution really. Of course, you will have to attempt to look the other way when she takes a lover, which she should do since you do not want her. Oh, you’ll hear news of every step of her travels. And she will outlive you and most likely be happier. They are not the weaker sex, don’t you know?” He began to show a hint of a smile. “Then again, you will do many of the same things to sweet Esme—such as taking lovers whenever needed. It’s the way of our age, thank God. Yes, this entire marriage business will be a disaster. You’ll see.”

“And just where,” Roman replied, “did you obtain all these truths since you’ve never married? Not that they are not the most wise words I’ve yet to hear concerning the solid foundation on which to build a marriage.”

Abshire snorted. “Build a marriage, eh? I’m a very tolerant man, and would never question another man’s ideas unless, of course, he is speaking of marriage, a subject about which I know more than a fair amount.”

“And yet, if memory serves, you were on the verge of wading into this unhappy quagmire at one point. No?” Roman hoped his friend would not challenge him to a duel with these words.

Abshire elegantly crossed one leg over the other while staring at the flickering flames. Only his eyes spoke of the level of anger he bore without a word. He changed the subject just as Roman knew the other duke would.

“I shall wager you a thousand quid that Kress refuses to marry anyone on Prinny’s list of eligibles in Cornwall.”

“I will not take the wager,” Roman replied. “I saw the list in London and every last one of those females is impossible. But I will wager you the same amount that Kress will wed someone—anyone—within the year, if only to save the monarchy.”

“Oh, all right,” Abshire muttered, “I accept your wager if only because I am bored all to hell and back. Prinny was every bit as guilty as the rest of us that night. I, for one, blame the Prince Regent more than anyone. Except Kress, of course, and that damned, bloody absinthe he gave us all. He deserves to be the first to be leg-shackled. It’s too bad we can’t force Prinny to go through with it all over again.”

“Oh come now, Prinny is merely terrified England will become the next France, where excess led to revolution.”

Abshire slowly raked his face with a jaded, hard stare. “So, you never replied. How are you planning to conduct this sad union of yours?”

“No, you changed tack when I mentioned that you had almost waded into this same quagmire state—voluntarily, I might add—a long time ago.”

Abshire leveled a stare at him. “Pass me my glass, will you?”

Roman silently handed his friend one of the two glasses of wine at his elbow. He knew then that Abshire would not say a single blasted word about his near brush with matrimony many years ago. But Roman could not leave off his curiosity about his new wife. “You do not think very highly of Esme, then, given your thoughts on leg shackling?”

“There you are wrong, my friend. Very wrong.”—the dangerous eyes of the most cynical gentleman of Roman’s acquaintance glazed over a bit—“She was always loyal to her husband, despite his descent into absolute dissipation. She is very well liked by all who know her, and she can be quite witty.” Abshire paused. “But don’t ever go fishing with her. The last time I did at the age of nine, I do believe I broke her pole in half after she caught twelve fish and I caught none.”

Roman scratched the back of his head. “So, she likes to fish? That’s unusual.”

“But it’s nothing compared to her devotion to her passion.”

“Art,” Roman said, resigned.

“Yes,” Abshire mused. “She’s quite talented, don’t you think? It was too bad she did not have someone better to guide her, help her develop her gift.”

“We’re agreed on that point,” Roman retorted. “The man is not to be borne.”

Abshire cocked a brow and a half-smile decorated his face. “Who?”

“Who do you think?” Roman retorted. Abshire knew exactly of whom they spoke.
Topher
. Had not Rory opened the topic? There were times Roman understood Candover’s dislike of Abshire, who could play the all-knowing bemused observer better than anyone Roman knew.

“Actually, I’m not certain,” Abshire insisted. “I was referring to husband number one, old man.”

For some blasted reason he could not name, Roman’s neck itched. “And I was speaking of that idiot, Topher.”

“Hmmm. Topher? Really?” In a rare mood, Abshire smiled. “I’ve had some enlightened discussions about art through the ages with the man. I do not consider him ill-informed a’ tall.”

“Well, he certainly is a poor mentor. I do not agree with the majority of his stream of drivel. Indeed, I believe he is consciously or unconsciously giving Esme very poor advice.”

Abshire steepled his fingers and rested his chin against them. “Really?”

Roman exhaled in annoyance. “Is that the best you can do? Answer
really
to my every utterance?”

“Yes,” Abshire immediately retorted. “Unless, of course, you would prefer for me to tell you what I really think, which might leave you feeling like the bloody idiot you claim Topher to be.”

“Oh, go ahead,” Roman ground out. “I’ve never seen you restrain yourself before.”

Abshire chuckled. “Jealousy is such an uninspired and unamusing trait. You could at least try to inject a bit of originality in your experience with it, my dear.”

“Absurd,” Roman replied. “I merely said the man was . . .”

At that moment, the idiot of the hour, Mr. William Topher, himself, entered the chamber without a single knock of warning. The man was not only a fool, but a cheeky one to boot.

“Pardon me, Your Graces.” Topher halted and bowed. “But have you seen Esme?”

“Why do you ask?” Roman made a good show of ignoring Abshire, who let out a cough to hide a vile snicker of amusement.

“We had a rendezvous to descend to the lake.”

“I see,” replied Roman, not seeing at all.

“She was to take my likeness again—this time in one of Boxwood’s rowboats. She needs to refine capturing the essence of a subject in different settings.” Topher accepted the silent invitation from Abshire to join them in front of the fireplace.

Again the man had nothing but nonsensical advice. Of course. In the stacks of paintings Roman had secretly seen in his wife’s private salon, she had excellently captured all her subjects in their many settings. “In your bloody opinion,” Roman muttered under his breath.

Abshire turned to Topher and recovered the moment. “You are a favorite subject of Her Grace, are you not?”

“Well, you know, I’ve guided Esme for the last ten years.” Topher preened. “Naturally, she took my likeness many times over, and learned something each time. But her forte lies with landscapes, of course.”

“I disagree,” Roman immediately retorted. “Portraiture is where her talent is fully revealed. Any bloody person can see it.”

A long silence settled into the salon, like a wet blanket. Abshire coughed again. It sounded remarkably like a choked bark of laughter to Roman’s ears.

William bloody Topher was smart enough not to argue.

Abshire could not stop himself from goading further. “I say, Topher, I very much enjoyed our conversation about Renaissance art. I’m certain Norwich would vastly enjoy an afternoon spent discussing the finer points with you.”

Topher’s visage brightened before he allowed a moment of doubt to register. But before the handsome sod could say a thing, Roman gracefully rose to his full height.

“Of course, today would not be the time to discuss anything,” Roman grit out so Topher would take the hint and leave them in peace.

Topher cleared his throat. “So sorry to intrude. I shall just keep looking for Esme, Your Graces. Do ask her to find me if you see her. I shall return to the lake to wait for her. She’s not always good at following directions, don’t you know.”

When Topher disappeared, Abshire turned to Roman. “Perhaps you should go after her, too, my dear fellow.”

“Says the man who just described marriage as a black hole of despair.”

“Yes, but it would be an amusing and adventurous black hole if she is anything like she was when I was nine years old.” Abshire studied him and narrowed his eyes. “But I warn you, Norwich, do not break her heart. There are few females in Derbyshire whom I would defend, but she is one.”

Roman placed his empty glass on the side table and stretched. Yes, it was long past Abshire’s turn to roast over the coals of the fire he had built. “Finally.”

“Finally, what?”

“Finally, there is something you and Candover can agree on.”

Abshire scowled, and a dark lock of his hair fell forward. “We agree on nothing.”

“Then again,” Roman said quietly, “it is not the first time you both agreed on the merits of a lady.”

Abshire rose up, knocking his glass off the table. He blasphemed so blue and advanced toward him.

“If you say one more idiotic word, Norwich, I will consider you more contemptible than bloody Candover. Now get out of my sight and go find your wife instead of attempting to make me find an excuse to knock you senseless.”

Roman gave a long look at Abshire, whose expression had gone white as a ghost. He should not have referred to the rumors that swirled over the enmity between Candover and Abshire. It only made matters worse. Roman just didn’t want to discuss his own life and how it was contaminating the happiness of a woman who was blameless.

He left without another word.

An hour later, hot from the exertion of searching for her, he stopped in the shade of a stand of trees. Where in hell had she gone?

He wondered if Topher was lollygagging by the lake or if the idiot had forgotten all about Esme in favor of charming the other ladies present. The man was the most ardent sycophant in Creation.

Oh, he was being ridiculous. He knew from firsthand experience that Esme was a lady with only painting on her mind. And she was clearly somewhere with her easel, canvases, and paints. It annoyed him. For some odd reason, he had the strongest desire to see her. Not to speak with her, or distract her. But there was something so calming and peaceful when they were alone together.

How absurd. Alone
together
? Impossible.

He untied and unwound his damp neckcloth and removed his coat and waistcoat. Rolling up his long white linen sleeves, he cursed as pointedly as Abshire had done earlier.

He began the long walk to the estate’s famed boxwood maze. What had changed?

At least Roman knew he possessed one positive trait. He was always bitterly honest with himself. He could admit Esme was everything Abshire and Candover had hinted. She had only and ever been fair, and kind, and honest with him. Yes, she had let pride rule her emotions when he had hurt her with his suggestion that they lie together again. But, her extraordinary giving nature, very evident the night she had comforted him in the most primal way possible, was everything.

God.

He was such a fool.

If he had to take the rest of his life to make it up to her he would. If he had to spend every waking moment smelling oil paints he would do it. He would do any bloody thing she wanted. But damn it, he would make her happy—because seeing her happy would make him happy. And he had to tell her. Tell her how important she had become to him. Tell her that he wanted to make her happy. Tell her there was something inexplicable that had formed between them.