Genevieve Windham had experimented boldly with her drawing master nearly ten years ago. For years, she’d watched and waited, until she’d chosen Elijah for her next venture into self-exploration and intimate pleasures.

What’s-his-name, the scapegrace itinerant Don Juan of the paint brush, had disappointed Genevieve Windham, badly. She’d even given the blighter a second chance, and he’d not improved his marks.

Elijah was not going to disappoint her. Though it might cost him his sanity and his soul, he would not suffer his Genevieve to be disappointed again.

* * *

“Percival Windham, what are you up to?”

His Grace’s pen paused at the duchess’s tone of voice. When he’d been a younger husband, that Wrath of the Goddess inflection had been enough to freeze his blood—or heat it. Coupled with Her Grace’s posture—spine straight, arms crossed, fire flashing in her green eyes—that tone still made a prudent husband pay close attention.

He sat back but did not put the pen down. “In what regard, my love?”

She advanced across their private sitting room, nightgown and robe swishing, and appropriated the chair on the other side of his desk. “Do not think to dissemble, sir. I had tea with Lady Carruthers and Lady Hornby.”

Percival twirled the quill pen, feeling both irritated and proud. The irritation was at having been found out so quickly; the pride was because Esther would always be able to unravel his small stratagems.

“And how are their ladyships?”

“They are leaving for the country tomorrow, and taking their spouses and offspring with them. Neither Hornby nor Carruthers will be underfoot to obstruct any of your bills in committee, contrary to all of your grumbling for the past week or more.”

A duke didn’t grumble, but a husband looking for excuses to bide in Town might.

“I suppose they’re leaving the obstructing to Flint and Matheson, then.”

“Flint has been at his family seat for more than a month. He’s popped up to Town only to indulge her ladyship’s holiday shopping.”

“And is your holiday shopping complete, my love? My own is not.”

Some of Esther’s ire dimmed. She excelled at the quick rage, at least in private, but she also excelled at swift forgiveness.

Her mouth flattened in a way that suggested not full pardon but a commutation of sentence might be under consideration. “Percival, I do not need gifts from you. You are gift enough, when I think that I might have lost you…”

Percival well recalled the sensation of a horse sitting on his chest, the terror of being unable to breathe, and the twinges and aches that had preceded his heart seizure several years past. Not for anything would he want to relive those moments, nor would he want to inflict the worry and misery of them on his dear duchess.

And yet… That heart seizure had had positive consequences, one of which was the look in Her Grace’s eyes at that very moment. Percival dropped the pen and reached for his wife’s hand. “Esther, I am in grand good health. You would scold me to soundness were I not.”

She smiled, she blinked, she squeezed his hand. “I would, and then I would let the children have a go, and even the grandchildren. I would let Westhaven’s horse—”

Percival put a finger to his wife’s lips. He would not linger about in the mortal sphere because of her scolds. He’d continue to enjoy a vigorous life because he loved her and she loved him. “Come sit with me.”

He rose, drew her to her feet, and escorted her to their cuddling couch. Every ducal residence had at least one, usually in their private sitting room, with an auxiliary located in the duchess’s private parlor. No argument was allowed on the cuddling couch, no scolding, no… prevarication.

On that thought, Percival seated his wife. “Are you looking forward to the holidays, my dear? All of the children have confirmed that they’ll be in attendance.”

She tucked her legs up and curled into his side. “They had better be. Small children travel far more easily than the older variety, and a short visit from one’s offspring at the holidays isn’t too much to ask. But, Percival, have you counted heads?”

He had, but not like Her Grace would in anticipation of a family house party.

“Morelands can easily accommodate such a crowd.”

She reviewed the numbers with him: seven married offspring, most with at least one child or in anticipation of a child. Kesmore had two extra from a previous marriage—darling little scapegraces who would lead their parents a merry dance in a few years—and if Rose were to consort with her cousins, then Amery, his lady, and Rose’s small half brother would have to be included too.

“That’s twenty-nine people, Percival, not including ourselves, and if I’m to have the least chance of maintaining peace and order over the holidays, then we must depart for Morelands posthaste.”

Her Grace was a firm believer in peace and order, which was all well and good from Percival’s perspective, provided a bit of mayhem and mischief came along to liven things up.

“You’ve forgotten somebody, dearest wife.” The use of the word dearest would remind Her Grace of their sole remaining unmarried child.

“Jenny.” Her Grace closed her eyes and leaned more heavily on Percival’s shoulder. “She adores her siblings, but this gathering will be hard on her.”

Percival adored all of his children, of course, but he’d always felt that in his daughter Genevieve he had a kindred spirit. This notion had little apparent basis in fact. Jenny was sweet, kind, dear, devoted to family, and in every observable way, a paragon—which His Grace was not.

Jenny was also, however, prodigiously stubborn, as evidenced by her ability to withstand any and all marital lures longer than her notably reluctant brothers or sisters.

“About our Jenny…”

Her Grace’s head came up. “I’ve suspected you were up to something, Moreland. Out with it.”

Percival occasionally ignored summonses from the regent, but never ignored that command from his wife when on their cuddling couch.

“Are you familiar with Elijah Harrison, Esther?”

She sat up but kept her hand in Percival’s. “Flint’s oldest, and the despair of his marchioness. The boy hared off years ago intent on his art, and there hasn’t been a full reconciliation yet. Good-looking, said to be under consideration for the Academy, and not given to artistic excesses. The regent likes his work, and he’s had commissions from the Continent.”

In a few accurate sentences, she’d gone from a duchess peeved with her duke to a mama hound on the scent.

“Rothgreb is having Harrison paint a portrait of Sophie’s little ones.”

He felt the duchess snap the puzzle pieces into place. “Percival, that is… that is… diabolical. That is brilliant. That is magnificent.” She bussed his cheek, the greatest prize he might win, short of securing a husband for his daughter. “Elijah Harrison is a handsome fellow too, and Kesmore speaks highly of him. Husband, truly you have outdone yourself. Jenny has been restless lately and has tried so hard to hide it.”

Percival lived for such praise, and to make his duchess’s eyes sparkle.

“So you understand why I need a few more days to shop for your present, Esther?”

“You need not give me a present, Percival, and I need more than ever to get back to Morelands. We can invite Mr. Harrison to call, and to the open house… what?”

“Jenny bides at Sidling as long as we’re in Town, my love.”

She drew in a breath, huffed it out, and settled against him. “You are ever more daring than I, Percival. Do you really think such drastic measures are called for?”

God, yes. If Jenny were to be ensnared, Harrison would likely have to strut his artistic wares—among others—directly under Jenny’s dear, stubborn, discerning nose—again.

“It can’t hurt. Jenny holds her art very dear.”

Though, thank God, she no longer went sneaking out in male attire, risking scandal and disgrace every Tuesday morning for the sake of a few sketches. His Grace had nigh had an apoplexy to go with his heart seizure when his footmen had brought him that news.

And then there was that Denby rodent, now wielding his damned paintbrush in the wilds of Massachusetts, where bears and wolves might have the use of his talents with His Grace’s blessing. Thank God, Bartholomew had caught on to the man’s intentions before disaster struck.

His Grace set those thoughts on the scrap heap of paternal regrets and regarded his duchess, who—if Percival knew his wife—had on her considering cap.

“Can’t Jenny remain with Sophie even when we return to Morelands?”

“Jenny hates to bake, my dear, and yet she’s too nice to tell Sophie to leave her in peace. Then, too, I hear Flint and his marchioness will be up to Town on Thursday.”

He’d made sure of it, in fact.

“Friday, then. We’ll leave for Morelands on Friday.”

His Grace made no protest, though he’d hoped for another week at least, but Harrison was a bright lad and a genuinely talented artist. Then, too, the season of miracles approached.

“Friday it shall be, and we’ll collect Jenny on Saturday. Now, about your present…”

* * *

Elijah Harrison knew how to undress a woman with his teeth. Jenny watched as several bows came undone—more than three, fewer than she’d like—while he delivered a lecture to her on the ideal design of nightclothes.

Or something. Her brain was having difficulty extracting meaning from words, and the whisky was not to blame. The fault lay in Elijah Harrison’s hands, in his voice, in his kisses.