The Art of Duke Hunting (11 page)

“Of course, my dear. Our dear Mr. King fancies himself the keeper of the moral code in Christendom. And . . .” He studied her with hooded eyes.

“And?” she urged.

Roman took over the topic. “And Mr. King will tell the world that we had a liaison and that he saw us touching hands and worse on that bridge on Wight.”

“But we did nothing scandalous there. What did he suggest exactly?”

“He said we were carrying on in an infamous fashion, as he put it—despite His Majesty’s threats and . . .” He looked at his sovereign.

“Oh, might as well tell her. Even my bribes these heat-riddled days appear to be far less enticing than in the past. When one is out of favor with the populous, one is truly out of favor. And that idiot of a man is poised to tell everyone and their dog about your, ahem, affair. Not that I would dream to suggest that either of you engaged in—in . . .” The prince looked at first one then the other of them.

Esme prayed that her face would not give her away. She tried to imagine herself as stone. The prince leaned forward and peered closer.

She blinked.

“
Well
.” The Prince Regent shook his head slowly. “That is certainly a letdown. So you must look at it this way, my dear—while your last husband’s reputation was in shreds by the time he died, yours is unblemished. In fact I am not sure I have ever heard of you before now, if you will forgive me for saying.”

Would anyone ever remember her except for Mr. King?

“You will both make a splendid match. The people of London will rejoice on the day I impart the good news. And I, for one, could not be more delighted. The thing of it is this. While Mr. King has promised not to say a word, I am willing to wager he will be able to glue his fleshy lips together for only so long. Maybe six weeks at the utmost?”

“How ridiculous,” she muttered. “Please . . . please help me. I was planning on departing the country for at least a year in any case. This really isn’t necessary. If you do not want me to depart, Your Majesty, I could instead take a carriage to my former residence, the Earl of Derby’s manor in Derbyshire. I could remain there for a decade. Or two. And what should I care for what is said of me in London? But, surely there is no need to—”

“Oh surely there is, my dear,” the prince repeated. “Now you, Lady Derby, are to follow Madame Cooper, a delightful émigré, who is waiting for you right outside these chambers. She will see to you and dress you properly. You shall adore her, I assure you.”

“Pardon me?” She could not understand what the prince was saying.

Roman cut in. “He wants us to be married by the bishop”—he nodded to the thin man standing slightly behind him—“within the hour.”

“But I couldn’t possibly—”

“Oh you can and you will, my dear,” the Prince Regent interrupted in a mollifying tone. “Indeed, I
command
it. Think of it this way. You will be doing me a favor. And I reward those who do me favors. And there is also the fact that you, ahem, made your own bed.”

She pinned Montagu with a glare, which he returned balefully.

She could not think of a single argument. But she could run. Yes. She would smile, agree to anything and everything and then she would run. All the way to Prague and Vienna if needed. She was not the sort to be told what to do.

She curtsied without a word and backed out of her sovereign’s chambers. Unfortunately, there were so many royal footmen lining the hallways she had not one chance for escape.

“I do not like to be kept waiting, Lady Derby,” the prince called out to her. “I expect you to return within a half hour’s time.”

Esme choked on a retort. And she dragged her heels every moment to avoid the inevitable. The lady’s maid assigned to her had other ideas. In an astonishingly short period of time Esme was stuffed, trussed, and plucked. She rubbed a spot between her eyes. “Why are you doing that?”

“It is attractive to have fewer hairs between your eyebrows, my lady,” Jacqueline Cooper insisted.

“I don’t care if there is a jungle growing between my brows. Stop that.”

The royal lady’s maid ignored her and kept plucking. And that was the least painful part of the skilled torturer’s plans to transform her in twenty-odd minutes. The lady was ruthless. She tore out the rags in her locks and brushed her hair until it crackled. The maid said two or three little French curses while she curled Esme’s light brown hair into a style that added twice as much volume as Esme had ever seen on her head. Her hair was actually the only feature she had that she liked. It now looked . . . quite beautiful.

Esme was so stunned at the vision staring back at her in the looking glass that she couldn’t find the words to stop the woman from applying rouge to her cheeks and lips followed by some sort of charcoal to her lashes.

My God.

She looked like a
tart
.

Well, perhaps not exactly like a tart. Maybe more like a well-preserved pie. She giggled once. It was the absurdity of the entire hellish nightmare. Here she was at a quarter to four o’clock in the morning at Carleton House preparing to wed one of the most famous dukes in England.

It was going to be a disaster. And all her dreams of travel? Of painting in cities all across Europe? Of following through with all the plans arranged during the last year? Well . . .

As the maid corseted her with a force that rivaled a prizefighter, Esme remembered one thing. Important ton unions were very unlike the marriage she had had. They were like two countries forming an alliance but with distinct and separate borders, and completely independent of one another. Who said she could not follow through with her original ideas?

She would just have a word or two with Mon—

After an insistent knock, two footman appeared and in their impatience, nearly dragged her back to Prinny’s chambers. When she re-entered, the future monarch was snoring on his throne. All the servants removed.

Roman started when he saw her.

“Don’t you dare say a word,” she hissed. “If you tell me I look pretty it will only confirm that you found me plain until now—something I am very well aware of, I assure you.”

He raised the level of his chin. “I was simply going to say that I liked you better in your night rail.”

“Oh, stop it,” she ground out. “And by the by, I want your solemn promise that this will change nothing between us. I will marry you because I have to but that does not mean I will alter my plans to travel and paint.”

“Look, March, you could at least act as if you are charmed by the idea of snagging a duke. Most ladies would.”

“Well, I am not most ladies.”

The bishop cleared his throat.

“Not yet,” they both said to the poor man at the same time.

“Do I have your vow, Montagu?” Esme insisted.

“Do I have your vow that you will leave me in peace to do as I please? Not to insist I accompany you on your trips?”

She paused, discomforted by what had to be said. “You will never embarrass me by rubbing mistresses in my face, will you?”

He appeared very offended.

She parted her rouged lips to apologize but he cut her off.

“I shall only ask in return that you never bear another man’s child during our union.”

She felt the heat of a blush at her low neckline as she nodded in agreement. She was so hurt, she could not stop herself from declaring something she did not want—a passionless marriage. “Our union will be in name only.”

He appeared relieved. “Good.”

And now she had only regret for allowing her pride to have its say.

He nodded curtly and cast his gaze upon the bishop. “We’re ready.”

The wisp of a man examined his fingernails, looked as if he wanted to sermonize and then thought the better of it. “We’re waiting for the witnesses.”

“Witnesses?” She addressed the bishop.

He did not answer. Roman replied, “Candover and Abshire.”

She widened her eyes. “My cousin is here?”

Roman started but before he could speak the prince awoke.

“Oh, I say”—Prinny glanced in her direction—“you’re very fetching, Lady Derby. Are you certain we have never conversed before tonight? No, no, don’t answer. And where are the others?”

“In the adjoining chamber, Your Majesty,” the bishop indicated with a wave of his hand.

“Well, bring them in. Let’s see if they are both still alive, shall we? I, myself, would not wager on it.”

The bishop did as he was bade and the two dukes, Abshire followed by Candover, entered, the first with a derisive mocking smile, and the other, Esme’s lofty cousin, looking at the former with more disdain and scorn than Esme thought it possible to exhibit on his otherwise handsome face.

Her cousin, the premier duke, immediately crossed the royal chamber to greet Norwich with a hint of a smile. It was the most teeth Esme had ever seen her cousin show.

Candover turned to her and embraced her in a rare show of affection. Over his shoulder, she saw Norwich’s shocked expression. He obviously had not known they were related. It only proved once again how he had never bothered to notice her in all the years they attended the same ton events.

Candover pulled away to address her. “My dear cousin, I cannot tell you how relieved I was to receive Derby’s note that you were returned to us. That storm took the lives of all those aboard a ship that sailed not two hours before
The
Drake
.”

“I’m so sorry to have worried everyone.”

“Esme?” That low rasping baritone quivered up one side of her and rolled off the other like a warm wave of danger.

She tilted her head to spy the Duke of Abshire. “Your Grace.” She curtsied.

“Oh, come come, Esme. You break my heart with your reserve. Never say you wish me to address my finest fishing companion as Lady Derby?”

“That was when we were in leading strings as I remember.”

He hooded his eyes. “That’s not how I remember it a’ tall, my dear.”

Candover’s expression grew very dark. “Am I to endure yet another indication of your never-ending interference with my family, Abshire?” he spat out without endeavoring to regard the man he had detested for as long as Esme could remember. No one knew the precise event that had led to their estrangement but it appeared that they had become even further strained if that was possible. Esme would even go so far as to hazard that her cousin would have bashed the other’s head into the royal hearth if he could have done it without raising the prince’s ire.

“Enough,” Prinny commanded. “I’ll not waste another moment listening to either of you. We shall get on with this so I may get my beauty sleep. I for one fear I need it.”

“Majesty,” Candover stepped forward, “may I beg a small moment alone with my cousin?”

The prince shook his head and sighed. “You are trying my patience, Candover. One moment and only one moment.”

“Don’t worry, Majesty, according to the ladies I know, he only ever takes a moment,” Abshire inserted. “What? Oh, all right. I’ll stop. Do hold him tightly, Seventeen. I’ve got better things to do than to bruise my knuckles tonight.”

Her cousin appeared ready to explode. It was to his credit that he merely narrowed his eyes, shrugged off Norwich’s grasp and offered his arm to Esme. He escorted her to a shadowed corner of the chamber. “My dear, shall I put a stop to this? I’m not certain I’d be able to actually, given the horror that has overtaken London recently. But I won’t have you unhappy again. Norwich is a decent enough fellow—one of the best truly. How came you to be in this pickle?”

“Did not the prince explain it?”

“Yes, but I could not make heads or tails of it to be honest.”

She knew he did not mean to insult her, but it was obvious no one would understand why the Duke of Norwich would have even noticed her. “I cannot make heads or tails of it either, but really I have no choice given the situation.” She attempted a smile. “Everyone will be very impressed, especially my mother. I’m coming up in the world, am I not, Cousin?”

He regarded her carefully. She wished he would fight for her—or at least not assume she would be grateful for this opportunity to wed again. And to a duke no less.

Roman approached and tilted his head toward their sovereign. “Prinny awaits.”

Candover studied first Roman and then her. And then Roman again. “While I consider you a fine enough man, Norwich, if I ever, ever I say, receive one complaint from my cousin about your conduct toward her, you will be held accountable by me.”

“I’m shaking in my boots,” Norwich stated impassively. “And if I have complaints?”

Esme finally felt a stirring of amusement in this absurd evening.

“You will keep them to yourself and still be held accountable,” Candover replied. “And no, I do not want to know what happened on Wight. There is not a single doubt in my mind that you are both blameless and that we have that contemptible Mr. King to thank for this evening’s farce of a union. I am sorry for you, Esme. Congratulations on your happy future, Seventeen. You could not have found a better bride.”

Norwich leaned in to whisper something into Candover’s ear. Esme heard something about the Duke of Kress and the fortune lost.

“What are you saying?” The Prince Regent boomed. “I’ll not have another word between you. Come along then.”

Out of the corner of her eye, Esme saw her cousin shake his head in response to Norwich’s request.

“I’m sorry, I cannot,” Candover murmured.

“You never liked Kress. You know, you must begin to try to like some people sometime.” Roman sighed.

“I like you well enough, Seventeen,” Candover ground out. “Enough to allow you to marry my cousin.”

“That’s different,” Roman replied with a grin. “You have no choice in the matter.”

“Excuse me,” Esme said with hauteur, “but in case both your eyes are failing, and in Norwich’s case there is a distinct possibility, I am standing right here. I shall always choose my own husbands, Cousin.”

“As you should, my dear. As you should,” Candover said with something resembling a smile on his lean face.

As there was no more to be said, there was nothing left to do but perform the unthinkable. And with astonishing speed they were wed.