Grace Burrowes - The Duke and His Duchess

Several fewer cows. Percival had taken to passing her at least half his beefsteak at breakfast with a muttered, “Finish it for me? Mustn’t let good food go to waste.”

A kiss to her cheek, and he’d be off for his morning hack or to a levee or one of his “never-ending, blighted, bedamned committee meetings.”

In moments, they had the pieces arranged on the chessboard between them. Percival sat back and passed her his brandy. “A toast to a well-fought match.”

He was up to something—still, yet, again. Esther took a sip and passed the drink back. “To a well-fought match.”

She regarded the board with a relish she hadn’t felt since… “Percival, when was the last time we played chess?”

His frown probably matched her own. “Not since… you were carrying Victor? Or was it Gayle?”

They measured their lives in pregnancies and births, which had an intimacy to it. “Gayle. We played a lot of chess when I carried Gayle. You said the child would be professorial as a result, and he is.”

“Then perhaps we should get into the habit of laughing, in the event you’re carrying again. A merry little girl would liven up Morelands considerably.”

How was a woman to concentrate on chess when her husband came out with such observations? Did he want to try for a daughter, or was he saying Morelands lacked cheerful females?

“My love, I am atremble in anticipation of your opening salvo.”

Teasing, then. She was inclined to give as good as she got. “You should be atremble to contemplate your sons as grown men. If the mother’s behavior in gestation influences the child’s disposition, we’re likely to see a number of grandchildren at an early age.”

Percival’s smile was sweet and naughty. “I suppose we are at that.”

Esther opened with a feint toward the King’s Gambit, but whatever was distracting her husband of late, he was not completely oblivious to the pieces in play. She settled into a thoughtful game, sensing after about two dozen moves that Percival’s lack of focus would cost him the game.

“Percival, you are not putting up enough of a fight.” And the chessboard was practically the only place Esther could challenge him and enjoy it.

“I do apologize. More brandy?” He held up his drink, which he’d replenished at some point.

“A sip. Maybe you are trying to addle my wits.”

“Spirits fortify the blood. It’s my wits that are wanting. Shall I concede?”

Three years ago, he would have fought to the last move, teasing and taunting her, vowing retribution behind closed doors for wives presuming to trounce their husbands on the field of battle.

Three years ago, she had fought hard to provoke such nonsense.

“You’re going to lose in about eight moves. I won’t be offended if you’d rather we retire.”

He knocked over the black king with one finger. “I married a woman who can be gracious in victory. It shall be my privilege to escort that woman upstairs.”

In fact, he escorted her to the nursery, taking the second rocking chair when she sent Valentine off to sleep with his final snack of the day. The way her husband watched this bedtime ritual—his expression wistful to the point of tenderness—sent unease curling up from Esther’s middle.

When Percival had tucked “his favorite little tyrant” in for night and Esther herself was abed beside her husband, she reached for his hand. “Percival, I would not want to intrude into spheres beyond what is proper, but is something troubling you?”

His sigh in the darkness was answer enough, and when he rolled over and spooned himself around her, Esther’s unease spiked higher. “I received another communication from Peter today.”

She’d been expecting him to put her off, or worse, explain to her that it was time their marriage took a more dignified turn. The little girl in the park came to mind, the one with the pretty features and the horrid mother.

Though at one time, Percival had apparently thought the mother the very opposite of horrid.

“This letter troubles you?”

“Exceedingly.” Percival’s hand traced along Esther’s arm, a caress that let her know, for all his quiet, her husband was mentally galloping about at a great rate. She did not allow her mind to wander into thickets such as: Did my dear husband touch Mrs. Donnelly like this? Did he lie beside her and tell her his worries when the candles were doused? Does he long to again?

Esther felt a brush of warm lips against her shoulder, and then Percival went on speaking, his mouth against her skin. “I have been telling myself that surely, Peter and Arabella will be blessed with a son. Their affection for each other is beyond doubt.”

“Far beyond doubt. One has only to see how Peter watches Arabella from across the room.”

“Or how she watches him.” Another silence, another kiss, then, “Peter sent a substantial bank draft.”

Esther’s first reaction was that they were badly in need of a substantial bank draft. Then another reality sank in: “This saddens you.” She could hear it in his voice. Hear the grief and the dread.

“He’s getting his affairs in order. He said as much in the letter, as if Peter’s affairs could ever be anything else. He’s preparing documents for the duke that will do likewise, and His Grace will sign those documents if Peter is the one asking him to.”

The post came in the morning, and all day, the entire day, Percival had been carrying this burden alone. Esther rolled over and wrapped her arms around her husband. “Peter may yet rally. His Grace still has good days.”

Percival submitted to Esther’s embrace like the inherently affectionate man he was, also like a man who had too few safe havens. “Peter assured me there was no possibility Arabella could conceive.”

Esther stroked a hand from Percival’s forehead to his nape. Early in the marriage, she’d realized this particular touch soothed them both. “Peter and Arabella haven’t enjoyed marital intimacy for at least two years. Her sense is that he’s unable. Whatever ails him, it affects him in that regard as well.”

She felt Percival’s eyes close with the sweep of his lashes against the slope of her breast. “For two years?”

“I did not want to add to your burdens.” Though in hindsight, she wished she hadn’t kept this intelligence from her husband. “Bartholomew truly is going to be a duke.”

“He’ll make a fine duke—you will see to it, if nothing else. It isn’t Bart I’m worried about.”

Esther continued stroking her husband’s hair, taking some comfort from the idea that as reluctant as she was to contemplate becoming a duchess, her husband was equally reluctant to become a duke.

“You already are the duke, you know.”

He shifted up and nuzzled her breast. “I am no such thing. I’m only the spare by an unfortunate act of providence.”

Just as Esther did not ponder at any length whether her husband was resuming relations with a dashing mistress, Percival apparently did not want to examine too closely the prospect of a strawberry-leaf coronet.

“You are Moreland, Percival. You’re tending to matters of state, you’re running the estates, and you’ve secured the succession. For all relevant purposes, you are the duke—and you’re making a fine job of it.”

The conversation was intimate in a way that felt different from their previous intimacies. This was intimacy of the body, of course, but it was also intimacy of the woes and worries, and it bred desire as well.

If she initiated lovemaking with her weary, unhappy spouse, would he reciprocate, or would he withdraw, leaving Esther physically and emotionally empty?

She settled for taking his hand and resting it over her breast, then kissing his temple. Her last thought as she succumbed to slumber was a question: Would Percival use some of Peter’s largesse to set up a mistress? For a duke was entitled to his comforts.

He probably would, and tell himself he was being considerate of his wife when he did.

“He’s a good man, your papa. An important man.”

Devlin did not meet his mother’s gaze as they walked along. She was pleading with him somehow, and he didn’t like it. He also didn’t like this neighborhood, where the streets were wide and the walkways all swept and he didn’t know the way home.

“Devlin, he was in the cavalry.”

Devlin forgot about the list of things he didn’t like.

“I’m going to be in the cavalry. I’m going to have my own horse, and I’m going to protect everybody for the king.”

Now Mama stopped walking, and right there with people hurrying by, crouched before Devlin. “Your papa can make that dream come true, Devlin. I cannot.”

Which was why they were going to his papa’s house, he supposed. They’d been to visit other men’s houses. Mama would wait in the stables and mews, and Devlin liked that just fine. Those places smelled of horses, and the grooms were usually friendly to a small boy who thought horses were God’s best creation.

“Will you talk to him in the stables?”

Mama kissed the top of his head—he hated when she did that—and rose, taking his hand again. “If I have to.” Her tone was grim, determined. She said Devlin got his determination from her.

She talked to men in the stables lately, sometimes telling Devlin to be good when she went into the saddle rooms or carriage houses with them. She was never gone long, and they could always get some food on the way home when she’d had one of her visits with the men.

Then too, stables were warm, and they smelled good. Home was not warm these days.

You could tell a lot about a man from his stables. Sir Richard Harrowsham was a friendly man who laughed a lot. His horses were content and well fed, his stables clean without being spotless.

Mr. Pelham’s horses were nervous, the grooms always rushing about, and the aisles never swept until somebody stepped in something that ought to have been pitched on the muckheap as soon as it hit the ground. Mama had been crying when she’d come back from her little meeting with Mr. Pelham.

Devlin’s papa’s stables were large. There were riding horses, coach horses, and even a draft team, which was unusual in Town for the nobs, though not for the brewers and such.

Devlin did not think his papa was a brewer. The grooms were friendly, the tack was spotless and tidy, and the horses… Devlin peered down the aisle at the equine heads hanging over half doors.

The horses were magical. They were huge, glossy, and glorious even in their winter coats. Their expressions were alert and confident, somehow regal. If horses could be generals and colonels, then these horses would be.

“You wait here,” Mama said, sitting Devlin on a trunk. “Be quiet and don’t get in the way.”

“Yes, Mama.”

She said something else, very quietly, in Gaelic. Mama never spoke the Gaelic in public. “I love you.”

Devlin smiled up at her, trying not to show how pleased he was. “Love you too!”

He watched her cross the stable yard and take up a position near somebody’s back gate. All the houses here had back gardens; their kitchens didn’t simply open onto a smelly alleyway. The grooms went about their business, mucking, scrubbing out water buckets and refilling them, cursing jovially at each other—but never at the horses.

When a groom asked Devlin if he’d like to help brush a horse, Devlin decided his papa must be a good man indeed.

* * *

Esther knew who the pretty red-haired woman was and wondered if this remove to Town was intended by the Almighty as some sort of wifely penance.

“Mrs. St. Just, is there a reason why you’re lurking at my back gate in the broad light of day?” My husband’s back gate, in point of fact.

Upon closer inspection, Percival’s former mistress was thin, she wore no gloves, and her hair bore not a hint of powder or styling. She wore it in a simple knot, like a serving woman might. Esther hadn’t been able to put any condescension into the question—Percival recalled this lady fondly, drat her.

Drat him.

“All I seek is a word with you, my lady.”

Here, where any neighbor, Percival, or the children might happen along? Not likely. “Come with me.”

Esther’s footman looked uncertain, while Mrs. St. Just looked… frightened. She glanced toward the stables, as if she’d steal a horse and ride away rather than enter the ducal household.

“I must tell my son where I’ve gone. He’s just a boy, a little boy, and he worries.”