The Art of Duke Hunting (22 page)

Hell. He was being ridiculous and he knew it.

Roman crossed to the French doors and stood by the long, fine white lawn under-curtains, fluttering in the breeze of the open door to the terrace. He surveyed the beauty of Derbyshire. It had been an age since he had gone to his own seat—Chardon Cross—on the eastern coast of England. There were too many memories there of Vincent.

He immediately forced his mind away from his brother. There would never be any reason to go there again. He managed the estate, and the other eight properties in the entail very easily from London, in the townhouse he had purchased the month after he had assumed the title. There were no memories there. And his mother and sister preferred Town to any other place in the portfolio of Norwich estates. They only visited their friends and acquaintances during the worst of the summer, while he usually stayed in London to focus on his scientific interests. The three of them would reconvene in Town at the beginning of the Season, when the House of Lords recommenced their debates and procedures.

It was the life he had made, and the one that fit him best. He only wished he had been able to find a suitable husband for his beautiful sister. Despite the fact that so many Seasons had come and gone, and that a constant stream of suitors of every age tried to curry her favor, she would not have any of them. This saddened his mother to distraction, although she never said a word. Instead, the three of them said all the correct things to each other, attended every important event together, and shied away from every possible memory of the time when they had been a true family at the ducal seat on the coast.

Roman had the innate sense that Esme would fit in very easily with them during the brief occasions they would attend celebrations to appear the proper family.

Roman cursed. Usually, he was much more adept at ordering his thoughts to productive ends. He should know better. He crossed back to the desk to give another go at the new pump design, and then paused.

Esme was at the threshold, looking at him, her hand raised at the edge of the door, poised to make her presence known.

“Hello, you,” he said simply, and crossed the space that divided them.

“Hello,” she replied shyly. “I’m so sorry I missed supper.”

He smiled. “No, you aren’t.” He took in her paint-stained apron, which she hadn’t even bothered to remove, and the blowsy nature of her simple coiffure, after a long day out of doors. She was quite beautiful in truth. “But don’t worry. No one missed you. You have them all trained very well. One day you will have to tell me how you manage it, as my own mother and sister plague me to death at times.” He took one of her hands in his and kissed the back of it. “Mmmmm . . . fuchsia is quite delicious.”

She smiled, the worry at his possible displeasure from her absence fully gone. “It’s easy,” she murmured. “You just tell them that if they ever question your whereabouts you will begin to lie to them and send them in the opposite direction to where you are. And here is the important part.” She paused with significance. “You say that you will stay away twice as long if they ever berate you. Although that one doesn’t work well with mothers.”

“Is that how you got along with your husband?” He kept his words gentle.

“My husband was a very tolerant man,” she replied. “I don’t know anyone else who would have put up with me. Well, no one else ever asked, to be honest with you.”

“I rather think it’s the other way around, March,” he replied gently. “You were very tolerant of him. You were very good to put up with him.”

Her face flooded with color. “You have it all wrong. He was the best of husbands. Better than anyone I know.”

Something odd in his gut clenched, and for the first time he forgot to filter the words flowing in his mind. “Really? The best drinks like a fish every night? That is very odd given your reaction each time I have a glass or two of spirits. If you didn’t care about it, why do you make such a fuss?” He put a hand up to stop her intention to interrupt him. He couldn’t halt the outrageous words leaving him. “Perhaps you liked that he drank so that it allowed you to spend all day away from your family without a care or any guilt.”

She was fast. So fast he didn’t see it coming. But there was no power behind her palm as it met his cheek.

“You know nothing about my family,” she said with a rush. “I probably know more about your family than you do. You are a fine one to insult. Abusing spirits might have saddened me, but he was a fine husband, who took very good care of me and everyone who depended on him at Derby Manor. He left it in a better state than his predecessor. Now, you owe me an apology, sir.”

He examined her face. All the anger had left him. Her husband had been a better man than he would ever be capable of being to her. But she was living in denial. “I would have been furious if I had depended on someone and they let me down by drinking themselves to death.”

Her hands were shaking by her sides. He couldn’t figure out for the life of him why he was doing and saying these things to such an amazing woman. But he wanted her to fight for herself. To understand that she deserved better. Better than that miserable drunk of a husband and better than he could ever be to her.

“All right,” she seethed. “You want me to tell you I was angry when he chose whiskey, and brandy, and wine over a life with me? You are bloody right I was angry. But what good is that? It never changed him and it won’t change what happened. We can only live in the present, can we not? Oh, we can prepare for the future somewhat, but to be truly happy and productive we must throw away the past and live for today. Are you doing that, Montagu? Are you living in the present? Or are you living in the past—allowing it to rule your every waking moment? I don’t know what precisely happened to you when tragedy struck your family, but I think I recognize a man who has decided that sharing any portion of his life with another human being—and I’m not speaking about me for I know we are united for convenience only—is too complicated, and not worth the effort. You have obviously already decided that love and happiness do not endure and the end will hurt too much, so why even attempt it?”

The shock of her words left him colder than death. He could not utter a syllable.

She looked at him with great sadness in her eyes. “I am sorry for saying it. And perhaps, I am very wrong. Love might, indeed, be too difficult to attempt or to sustain. I should not have said a word. I know better. Words do not mean very much, do they? People end up doing and feeling what they choose and nothing you can say will alter them. Nor should one try. You would like to know how I felt about the past? It is very simple. You are right. He let me down and gave up. He did not care enough in the end to fight harder for a life with me.”

Her eyes would forever haunt him. They were wise and ageless.

“But other than his one flaw, and everyone has flaws, he was an excellent husband. And he at least knew the value of love, and of bringing others happiness. And at least he tried
because he knew what was important in life even if he did not have the resolve to see it through
.”

Her message was very clear. She thought he was living in the past, and wallowing in self pity, and refusing to allow anyone in his life. The problem was he didn’t know how to be happy. She was suggesting he did not want to work for what was important in life. But she was wrong.

He knew what was important in life—bettering the lives of those less fortunate. And he had the brain to do it.

What he absolutely refused to see—in the darkest corner of his mind—was that one’s own happiness was worth fighting for. And even if change was inevitable—and happiness or love was not permanent—he should fight for it. But he could not.

He crossed to the desk and gathered up the letters he had prepared. He handed them to her. “I am hoping these will bring you a measure of joy, Esme. I am leaving at first light. I can see how unhappy I am making you. I will follow Prinny’s wishes and secrete myself at Abshire’s or somewhere else for the next few weeks until I may return to London or descend to Cornwall. I’ve purchased a private yacht, which will always be at your disposal. My steward in London will hand select the captain and crew for you.” He stopped, and then removed his gold fob and pocket watch, which he forced into her hand. “I want you to have this.”

“I cannot accept it,” she started. “I cannot do—”

“Please,” he murmured.

She stared at the watch, indecision lighting her face. Suddenly, she pulled out of her gown’s pocket a small granite-backed compass and placed it in his hand. “All right. But you shall have to take this. I used to get lost quite a bit when first I came to Derby Manor. But I don’t need it anymore.”

He had to lean forward to hear the next bit.

“My heart is my compass now.”

He inhaled deeply and accepted the token. “By the by, your mother will never tell you, but I will. She sent out a footman to spend the day in the shadows near you. Don’t for a moment think people do not worry about you. They care about you because you always try to bring everyone around you all the joy and happiness you possess innately in your heart, March. I shall be forever grateful to you for giving so much of yourself to me during that storm. I know not one other person on this earth who would have given me what you did. And I thank you for this compass. I shall always carry it with me.”

“I am sorry, too. I am sorry for everything, especially striking you. I’ve prided myself in never harming a living thing. I can never take pride in that again.” She stared at him for a long time, and then said very quietly, “It could have worked, you know, perhaps not love, but at least a deep affection. We, both of us, are very independent creatures who treasure our freedom. The freedom to do what we want, spend time apart, and to follow our individual dreams. There are not many like us. Most people look at each other like possessions, forever ordering each other about, hurting each other, trampling on each other’s dreams and desires. We would not have done that. But I understand. You do not want anything other than your wild solitude. Then fly away. I truly do wish you only the best life has to offer.” She stuck out her hand as if she wanted him to shake it. Like one man facing another man.

He grasped her slim hand tenderly and shook it. He was dazed by her words. What was worse was that there was some part of him that recognized that she might be right. And if there was anyone he could envision sharing a life with, it would be the woman in front of him. Why couldn’t he just throw caution to the wind, grab her with both hands, and try?

He should know the answer. He really should. But he did not. He was, at heart, a wild beast who did not want to be tamed. And yet . . . she did not want to tame him. Of that he was certain. So why was he choosing solitude over companionship? Why was—

“Goodbye, Montagu,” she whispered. A few moments later he was staring at the darkness in the room, where she had been.

And then life unfolded just as he had suggested to her. He took his leave of Derby Manor at dawn the next day, without another word to anyone. It was better that way. He did not go to Abshire’s, as he knew he could not bear the mention of her name again, and Abshire would meddle in his affairs.

He couldn’t go to London or Cornwall, and so he did the next best thing. It was an excellent idea, actually. He had places to go, and mills, and waterfalls, and dams, and reservoirs to observe. He would lead a goddamned purposeful life, even if it killed him. And he would do it alone, damn it. He could not be depended upon. He would fail other people every time. His brother Vincent was proof enough of that.

Roman urged his horse down the lane away from Derby Manor, and headed east. He didn’t need to glance at the compass she had given him to verify the direction, but he did it nonetheless because it was the only reminder he had of her.

Chapter 15

A
fter the first day, it had not been as hard as Esme had imagined it would be.

But the day he left had been unbearable. And to make it even more difficult, Verity had come to call.

“But, I don’t understand,” Verity said far too many times during her visit.

Esme had prayed for her cousin to finish her third cup of tea for if there was one protocol Verity always followed, it was that one had overstayed if one accepted a fourth dish of scandalbroth.

“There is nothing to understand,” Esme said with a sigh. “He is gone. He has many things that occupy his time.”

“But Abshire told me that the Prince Regent had ordered him not to return to London.”

“He is not on his way to Town,” Esme replied, swallowing her sigh this time.

“Then where did he go?”

“As I told you, I do not know precisely.”

“But you are married to him, even if it is a marriage of convenience, one would think it the proper thing to do to at least inform the other where one was going just in case something of importance occurred and one needed to impart the news.” Verity’s words tumbled out of her mouth like a babbling brook.

Esme wanted nothing more than to impart absolutely no news to her cousin. “I’m certain he sent a missive to the Prince Regent, his steward, and his family before he left.”

Verity pouted. “But you
are
his family.”

“No,” Esme ground out, “I am his wife. His not-so-very-real wife, in a farce of a marriage.” She put up her hand when Verity made a noise to interrupt. “If you ask me one more question, then I shall be forced to demand that you tell me what has happened between you and Abshire.”

Verity stared at her.

“And by the by, I like him very much. Did you know he was kind enough to pay a call when I hurt my ankle? Now are you going to tell me what precisely happened that night in London—or of your conversations since?”

Verity drained her third cup of tea and placed it carefully in the saucer. She stood up and smoothed the wrinkles from her gown. “Do come to Boxwood for supper Thursday next, Esme. Your mother has already consented and William Topher will be very disappointed if you do not come too.”