Grace Burrowes - The Courtship

She being Her Grace, of course, and the implied criticism being that His Grace had done nothing to stop her matchmaking—which he had not.

“Percival and Anthony are of an age to be taking spouses. You were younger, and your union has been blessed.”

Pembroke shot a look over his shoulder. “I believe you mean that.”

“I most assuredly do, and with your brothers married, perhaps you and your marchioness will finally have some peace. Ten years is long enough to bear the entire brunt of ducal expectations.”

Blond brows rose, as if Pembroke’s circumstances could not possibly have figured into the duke’s thinking where Percival and Tony were concerned.

“I’ll tell Bella we’re to join the house party.”

A change of subject, but in Pembroke’s tone, the duke divined the truth: Pembroke would ask Arabella if she would mind very much spending just a few days placating Her Grace with a social outing. Bella would turn up stubborn, convinced if she agreed and they attended, then Pembroke would be even more miserable than she. Much fuming and many portentous looks would be served up with dinner for the remainder of the week.

And in the end, they’d both go, and both hate it. Perhaps they’d even slide a hair closer to hating Her Grace.

Managing a large and prosperous duchy was simple compared to dealing with one small, relatively civil family. His Grace rose to stand beside his son.

“Anthony is in clandestine pursuit of the Holsopple heiress, who is not trying very hard to elude capture. She’s had several seasons to lark about, and refused any number of offers. Her Grace is making overtures to the girl’s mother, and thus the entire idea will be Her— your mother’s invention, provided Anthony and his love do not elope first, and provided I can manage to communicate as much to your baby brother.”

Pembroke folded his glasses and stuffed them into a pocket. “And Percy?”

“Percival is acquitting himself cordially to all and sundry. I predict that when he falls, he’ll fall hard and without respect to where Her—your mother would like him to fall. Do I take it you are not inclined to join the house party?”

“Bella despises those gatherings.”

“As do I.”

This bit of honesty proved too much for Pembroke’s reserve. The marquess aimed a rare, sympathetic smile at his father. “Is it time for your lungs to act up?”

“My lungs—? Oh, I think not. Twombly has defected from his post as Her Grace’s favorite gallant, and I am afforded a rare opportunity to escort my wife. I will make your excuses to her regarding your attendance, yours and Lady Bella’s.”

“My thanks, Your Grace.” The relief in his son’s eyes was hard to look on.

“For God’s sake, Pembroke, Her Grace behaves as she does only because she cannot abide the idea that any of her children should be unhappy. She’s neither evil nor unreasonable, just very determined.”

“If you say so, sir.”

His Grace took his leave, and Pembroke’s nose was back in the book before the duke had left the parlor. The duchess was determined, mortally determined, but her ends were perfectly justified. Nonetheless, it was Pembroke’s lady wife who’d carried the burden of the duchess’s disappointment for nigh a decade. The duke held his daughter-in-law in great affection, and enough was enough.

As His Grace sought the duchess to relay word that Pembroke and his marchioness would not be joining the house party, an uncomfortable thought occurred to him:

Unlike Pembroke, Percival would not have needed his papa to serve as a go-between with the duchess. Percival would have told his mother he wasn’t inclined to attend, and no matter how Her Grace fumed, pouted, and twisted the thumbscrews of maternal guilt, Percival would not have yielded.

Given the way Pembroke rubbed at his chest and kept company with books and rosebushes, the day might come when the dukedom fell into Percival’s hands.

And that would not be an entirely bad thing—for the dukedom.

“My full name is Percival St. Stephens Tiberius Joachim Windham. I am very thankful His Grace could contain my mother’s excesses and limit her to four names for each child. Quimbey has eight baptismal names of at least three syllables each. What about you?”

Esther gave herself a moment to memorize his lordship’s entire name—Percival St. Stephens Tiberius Joachim Windham. “I am Esther Louise Himmelfarb, plain and simple.”

“You have told two falsehoods, my dear. You are neither plain nor simple. When is your natal day?”

Esther answered that question, just as she’d answered so many others, and all during his lordship’s polite interrogation she was aware of a chorus of crickets chirping in the moon-shadowed garden. She was aware of Percival Windham sitting so close to her, the heat of his muscular thigh along hers was evident through the fabric of her nightgown and wrapper. She was aware of his scent and aware of the way his voice in the darkness felt like an aural caress.

Most of all, though, she was aware that two days after promising to teach her how to kiss—and two long, restless nights—he most assuredly had not kissed her again.

“I have a question for you, your lordship.”

“Percy will do, madam. You are quite forgetful about my request that you abandon the formalities.”

He sounded amused, while Esther wanted to grind her teeth. “I named a boon to you when we visited your family plot, and you agreed to grant it. Do you consider the obligation discharged, or have you forgotten my request?”

Without any change in his lordship’s posture, the quality of his presence beside her shifted, as did the nature of the darkness surrounding them. The moon was a thin crescent in the sky, and the night was mild. From beyond the walls of the kitchen garden, an owl hooted, making Esther think of all the mama mice grateful their children were safe in bed.

Bed, where she ought to be.

Though not alone. For once in her sensible, lonely, pragmatic existence, Esther Himmelfarb did not want to go to bed alone. This realization had come to her as she’d sat in Lady Pott’s tiny dressing room, mending a hem at Zephora Needham’s request. Lady Pott had been snoring off her brandied tea in the next room, and the billowing ball gowns on their respective hooks had felt like so many cobwebs clinging to Esther’s life.

Percival’s fingers, strong and warm, closed over Esther’s hand. “If you think for one instant I could forget either kissing you or the prospect of kissing you again, Esther Louise, you are much mistaken.”

I want to see you naked, but for this glorious, silky hair, Esther, and a smile of welcome for me. She recalled his words, and they made her brave—or reckless.

“I want to see you naked, sir.”

He went still beside her then drew her to her feet. “Not here.”

If not here, then somewhere—anywhere. She did not care, provided he granted her this wish, because a man in want of his clothing was often a man in want of his wits—her grandmother had told her that, and with a wink and a laugh too.

“Where are we going?”

He tugged her along a path that led away from the house. “Somewhere private, safe from prying eyes and gossiping tongues. If you’re to make free with my person—and I with yours—I want there to be no hurry about it.”

And yet, he was hurrying. Hurrying Esther toward the dark expanse of the home wood, a tangled, overgrown place she’d ridden through with Lord Tony just yesterday. A nightingale started caroling, or maybe Esther was simply noticing the birdsong as they traveled into deeper shadows.

“How can you possibly see where we’re going?”