Grace Burrowes - The Courtship

In the past five minutes, they’d gone from an uneasy discussion on a hard bench, to a conversation between two refugees from… life. “You’ll hate working at a desk, my lord.”

“I’d hate even more the vapid existence of a younger son dancing about on the end of Her Grace’s leash. My sister-in-law begged us to come home, and Tony and I could refuse Bella nothing.”

“You are fond of Lady Pembroke?”

“I was eight years old when I met her, and yes, she is the first woman I fell in love with, if you discount Mrs. Wood.”

He was perfectly, astoundingly serious. “Mrs. Wood was your governess?” This was safer ground, no awful words lurking unsaid, but in some ways the honesty he offered was equally dangerous.

“The very one. A dear old soul who made Latin and French into games and declared sums fit only for naughty boys on rainy days. Tony and I adored her. My father intervened when the tutors took over and said Mrs. Wood must stay on as our French instructor because her accent was superior.”

“Can you speak any French at all?”

“Je vous adore, Miss Himmelfarb, will that do? I enjoy languages, but find sums a bloody lot of work, particularly in a commercial context. You know, you never did tell me how you endure these infernal house parties. Tony thinks we’ve been sent here to convince us to take brides out of sheer self-preservation. A bachelor’s pillorying earned by our failure to become engaged this past winter.”

A little dart of pain lanced through the sense of commiseration Esther had been fancying she shared with Lord Percival. A man who complained of being marital prey did not regard present company as a threat.

Which she wasn’t. He was a duke’s son, after all.

“I do as little as possible to burden the help, for one thing. These parties are very trying for them, and they can be unexpected allies.”

“Sound advice. Mannering has to do double duty, serving both myself and Tony. But how do you… endure?”

His tone held genuine consternation, a sentiment Esther could share all too easily.

“Nap in the middle of the day, my lord. Don’t drink to excess ever, and keep a chair wedged under your door latch if you’re alone in your room. If your drink tastes the least strange, set it aside, the same with your food. Retire to your room on the pretext of seeing to correspondence, and you should be given some privacy. I also ride out on the fine days but take a groom with me, even when I’d prefer a solitary outing.”

His examination of her this time was not accompanied by a smile. “I see you are a veteran of these gatherings, Miss Himmelfarb. Why aren’t you married, if you find them so tedious?”

“Maybe for the same reasons you aren’t married.” Even that was probably saying too much. Esther retrieved her empty cup from where it sat on the ground between them. “I ought to be going in, my lord.”

“Percival, or Percy to my friends. We can be friends, can we not?”

He was offering something—friendship, of some offhand, passing variety—even as he removed from consideration the curious, budding, silly notion that he might have noticed her as a man notices a young woman.

“I must be going.” Esther scooted to the edge of the bench only to find her companion on his feet, his hand under her elbow.

“I’d see you in, Esther Himmelfarb, and even up to your room, but we both know what gossip that might cause. My thanks for your company and for sharing your posset.”

She turned to go, but his hand was still on her arm and his fingers closed around her wrist. A few beats of silence went by while Esther cataloged impressions.

He was wonderfully tall and substantial, a man upon whom even an Amazon like herself could lean, confident of his support.

At the end of a long day, his scent was still beguilingly pleasant. Not overwhelming, not cloying, just a teasing hint of cedar and spices that made her want to close her eyes and breathe through her nose.

And he was near enough that Esther could feel the heat of his body in the moonlit shadows.

“Good night, Esther.”

“Good night, my—Percival.”

Would he kiss her? She hoped he would, a token kiss to her cheek, a small memory of pleasure in the midst of purgatory, a touch to make all that had been shared before a little more real.

His lips brushed her forehead before he dropped her wrist. “Sweet dreams, my lady.”

She was being dismissed. Esther stepped back—did not curtsy—and left him standing in the garden, bathed in cool, silvery moonlight and solitude.

“Moreland! You will attend me! Hippolyta Morrisette has sent news!”

Her Grace’s trajectory into the breakfast parlor was checked by the need to turn sideways to fit her panniers through the doorway, though this did nothing to stop her prattling. “Not four days into the house party, and both boys are already much admired by several young ladies.”

George, His Grace, the Duke of Moreland, rose from his place at the table. “Good morning, Your Grace. I trust you slept well?” He tossed a meaningful glance at old Thomas standing at attention by the sideboard.

Her Grace’s lips thinned as she allowed her husband to seat her. “I slept abominably, though I find this morning there is cause for cautious optimism.”

She would not be silenced, not by the presence of a servant, not by the open door, not by anything less than the hand of Almighty God slapped over her mouth, and even then she’d give the Deity a struggle for form’s sake. Her Grace was a determined woman and always had been.

His Grace flicked a glance at one of his oldest retainers. “Thomas, if you’ll excuse us?”

The barest hint of commiseration showed in the old man’s eyes before he bowed once to the duke, again to the duchess, and withdrew, closing the door behind him.

“His knees creak, Moreland. You should pension him before he keels over in his livery.”

And lose one of few allies under the ducal roof? “Thomas serves loyally, Your Grace, and has some good years left in him. May I fix you a plate?”

Her Grace fluffed her skirts just so. “Please. I’ll have eggs, toast, ham, a portion of apple tart, and half a scone with butter and strawberry jam.”

Determination apparently built up an appetite, and yet the woman still had a fine figure—from what His Grace could gather. They’d had separate apartments for more than twenty years, and what happened in the early hours of the day behind the closed door of Her Grace’s dressing room remained a mystery.

As well it should.

His Grace needed two plates to hold the food his wife had requested. He set the plates down before her and took his place at the opposite end of the table. “What news have you had from Lady Morrisette?”

The duchess tucked into her breakfast, gesturing with her fork for the teapot. “I don’t know as I can trust Hippolyta Morrisette’s veracity, but she claims both Tony and Percy are quite as sought after as Quimbey himself.”

Then the boys were to be pitied. “Is that so?”

“You will not take that tone with me, Moreland. We need grandsons, and it’s my duty to ensure we get them. Criticize me for many things, but I am dutiful.” She glowered at him for a moment for emphasis—unnecessary emphasis—before returning to her meal.

They hadn’t started out sniping at each other. They’d started out two young, lusty people who’d hoped and prayed their parents had found them a suitable mate. And for a time…

And then little Eustace had fallen from his pony, and it had become clear that they’d buried marital happiness along with their firstborn son. Thank a merciful God the accoucheur had told the duchess that Tony was the last child she could safely carry. Ten years of Her Grace’s grim focus on marital duty had about given His Grace’s interest in procreation a permanent tendency to wilt.

Shrugging that thought aside, the duke tried for a tone that was conciliatory without being condescending. “You have become determined on grandchildren only since Twombly took a child bride, Your Grace. He should be shot for mistreating your sensibilities, but you’ll soon be surrounded by other gallants. Did Lady Morrisette mention any young ladies in particular?”

Her Grace stirred sugar into her tea with vengeance. “Twombly deserves his fate, marrying a mere girl. She’ll be the death of him, mark me on this, Moreland. And of course I will have other gallants, but Twombly was a fine dancer.”

Twombly was an aging hanger-on, not worthy of Agatha Venetia Drysdale Windham’s notice, though it was none of His Grace’s affair where or with whom his wife spent her time. Still, a husband was entitled to the occasional protective gesture.

“Shall I call him out for you when he’s back from his wedding journey?”

The duchess shifted on her seat. “Wouldn’t that be a fine thing if he prevailed, leaving me a dowager duchess with no grandsons? No, thank you, Moreland. And yes, Hippolyta says Lady Zephora Needham is spending as much time as possible with Percy and Tony, and Charlotte Pankhurst is pitching for whichever son is not escorting the Needham girl. Needham is an earl, but Pankhurst is in line for a marquessate, and those are not to be sneezed at. Pass the cream.”

His Grace obliged, and then—knowing it was folly—gave his wife the benefit of his thinking regarding the entire campaign to see the younger sons wed.

“You know, Pembroke may yet have more children. We needn’t be hasty with Percival and Tony, and might regret forcing their hands.”

Her Grace paused in mid-chew and raised her head, like a grazing animal scenting an intruder in its grassy paddock. “That useless twit Pembroke married will produce nothing but girls, Moreland. What use are girls, tell me?”