The Art of Duke Hunting (29 page)

His mother was waiting for him on the opposite railing. March was not in evidence. His heart plummeted as he approached his mother and kissed the cheek she offered.

And then her arms were wrapped around him and she would not let him go. She was crying.

He had only ever seen her like this once. The day Vincent had died. He gently guided her to the prow of the vessel for privacy. “Mother . . . I’m sorry.”

“Hush,” she said, accepting his drenched handkerchief. “You came.”

“I’m sorry for all the unhappy years. I should never have closed myself off, especially from you and Lily. I’ve been a coward—”

“Stop,” she said with such force, he did as she bade. “It is I who have been a coward,” she whispered, unable to look at him. “I promised I would never tell you. I promised him so many times. It was the only thing he demanded, and the only way he would forgive me. But I should have told you immediately after he died. It’s just that I had too much pride and worried about your opinion of me. And so I just conveniently never told you.”

He stilled. “What are you talking about?”

“Your father made me promise I would never tell you.”

He closed his eyes.

“You were not his child. He acknowledged you, of course. I am so sorry, Roman. So very, very sorry. We never will tell anyone else. But you had to know. And, and . . .”

“Who was he?” He could barely hear his own words.

She finally looked at him, tears streaming down her face. “A very great man. The man I loved with all my heart. We met the summer my parents took all my brothers and sisters and me for a tour of Italy. My father would not let me marry him. And our family returned to London immediately. But I never forgot him even when my parents arranged my marriage two months later. I had no choice, Roman. It was an alliance between two great families, as you know.”

“And?”

“I had Vincent more than a year after the wedding. But I always pined in secret no matter how hard I tried to forget.” His mother paused and then continued, her voice so low Roman had to bend closer to make out the words. “And then he came to London to find me. He had hoped I was still unmarried. And then . . . well, the unforgivable occurred, while Norwich was gone off with his friends.” She stopped, uncertainty in her sad eyes.

“Tell me,” he said gently.

“It was the greatest of sins, Roman.”

“I don’t care,” he said. “And I fully understand. Father was unbearable. We all knew it. Even Vincent could not always coax him out of his ill temper, despite the fact that my brother was our father’s favorite. And . . .” He stopped, unable to finish the sentence. He still found it nearly impossible to discuss his brother.

His mother grasped the sleeve of his coat. “I hope I have done the right thing in telling you, Roman. At least you will finally comprehend why your father was cool toward you. He even went so far as to quash the budding artistic talents you possessed at a very young age. And I felt helpless to stop him. But now you know why. Norwich even refused to love Lily. He never trusted me after you. But don’t think I was unhappy. He at least liked to travel, which I loved too. And so we went about our marriage as most do. But there was never any love between us, Roman. He was a man who did not want love. Yet, I wanted something very different for you, and Lily, and Vincent.”

Roman stared at his mother, her head bowed forward in complete embarrassment. “Who was he?” he asked quietly.

She appeared wistful. “Mendamos. Louis Mendamos. You take after him. Very much so.”

A flood of shock and uncertainty washed over him. Good God.

“The Italian sculptor?” he could barely form the words.

“Yes. I told you he was a very great man. We met while I was visiting one of the museums in Rome, where his works were exhibited.”

He couldn’t move. Couldn’t speak.

“It’s the reason I named you
Roman
.”

He tried to work past the knot in his throat. Who in hell was he? His entire life had just been wrung from him, twisted, and handed back to him in an altogether different form. He didn’t know whether he should be happy to know that the taciturn man who had acknowledged him was not his true father, or whether he should be sad that he was the product of a passionate affair of his beloved mother. Roman looked at the uncertainty and worry in his mother’s expression, and knew what to do. He took her in his arms. “Thank you for telling me. I will always love you for it.” He paused, his mind still reeling. “Is he still alive?”

She looked away. “I don’t know. I did not follow his whereabouts after he begged me to go away with him and I refused. I could not leave Vincent behind. I just could not. I did not go to museums afterwards on purpose. Nor did I hold on to any hope. Norwich forgave me in his own way. I owe him for it. And after he died, it was only right to honor his memory by not seeking out Louis. It was a long time ago, Roman. I only want peace now. I am grateful, however, to Esme for allowing me to relive the joy I found in seeing great art.”

At the mention of her name, Roman’s heart swelled. “Mother, I must go to her. See her straightaway.”

“Of course. And you must tell her what I just told you. I trust her without question and I know she will not think less of me for it. She is the one for you, Roman. I only wish you had met her a decade ago.” His mother went on tiptoe and kissed first one cheek and then the other. “She is waiting for you in her cabin. You know which one. You chose it for her. And I forced her to go below when you were coming up the rope ladder.” His mother smiled. “Don’t look so worried. I shouldn’t tell you, but it was all I could do to restrain her from jumping overboard when she saw your approach. She knows nothing about playing the reserved, cool-as-you-please game of most ladies I know.”

“That is precisely why I love her,” he returned.

Chapter 20

T
he newest Duchess of Norwich paced the small cabin, hope alternating with impatience. It was absurd. Why was he here?

It could not be bad news. No, Caroline would have immediately come below to tell her. So, what could it mean? Why was he here? And why was everyone taking so long to come to her?

He could not be here for her. Esme refused to allow hope to blossom more than a small sprout.

And then there was a light tap, and he entered without waiting for her answer. He took up so much space, and now he was crowding toward her, his blue, blue eyes tracking her every movement.

“March?”

It was so unfair. Just the sound of the deep rumble of his voice sent shivers up her spine. “Yes?”

“A change is in order.”

“It is?”

“Yes.”

“But first I have something to tell you.”

“You do?” She breathed. “Tell me.”

“The night before last, you said you got to decide if I was the man for you.”

“I did.”

“But you did not give me the same choice,” he said. “Esme
Montagu
?”

“Yes?”

“You are the woman for me.”

Oh, her heart was pounding, and she was furious that her eyes were stinging. She refused to cry. “I am?”

“Yes. You are not only the woman for me, you are the one and only woman with whom I was meant to spend a lifetime. If you will still have me, we will live it together. Through the good times and through the bad times. We can always seek solitude when needed for your painting and my work, but we will also have happiness shared, if you choose to have me. Will you? Still have me?”

She burst into tears. “Oh, I’m so sorry,” she said, desperately trying to regain her composure. “I am just so surprised. I mean, of course, I will have you. I am already yours and you know it.”

He finally reached for her and she ran into his arms.

She began, “Montagu . . . I lo—”

He interrupted her. “No, my love. You must allow me to play the besotted husband.” He stared into her eyes. “I love you,” he said simply. “And I shall always love you. You may depend upon it.”

The balm of his words made her heart feel light for the first time in many weeks. And her head felt just right cradled in the crook of his shoulder as he gathered her closer.

“I also have other news,” he said, and kissed her head.

“I have something I must tell you, too,” she murmured. She very much feared he would take back all he had just promised as soon as she told him. But she knew why she had not. She had not wanted him to stay with her via a misguided reason or effort. Esme had dreamed that he might one day love her for herself alone.

He looked at her quizzically after the long silence. “What is it?” His expression was so serious.

“You go first,” she said, hoping he could not detect the fear in her voice.

“All right. I actually have two pieces of news.”

“Yes?”

“Yes. The first is that I finished the project. It is waiting for Prinny’s return along with a very long list of suggestions to see to before construction can begin.”

“Oh, but then you must return to—”

“No, you did not understand,” he stopped her. “We are not returning. We are going to Vienna for you to paint. The most important part of my work is done. Prinny must arrange the political maneuvering for the monies. We will return for the construction, but only after your commission is fulfilled. March?”

“Yes?”

“I cannot bear the idea of spending a night away from you ever again, my love.”

Her heart was beating very fast.

“Do you feel the same?” His eyes searched hers.

“Of course I do,” she whispered as she stroked his face. “But you must want to be in London more than anything right now to see your plans realized.” How was she going to tell him? How was she going to be able to bear the look of revulsion he was sure to sport when she told him her ancestry?

“Esme, you must tell me what
you
want.”

She could tell he was trying very hard to keep his expression blank.

He continued. “Would you prefer to be alone for several weeks or months to create this masterpiece? I have already told you my feelings, but your sensibilities are even more important to me.”

“Ummmmm . . .”

“The truth if you please.”

She forced herself to speak. “Roman, I have something very important to tell you. And then, if you still feel the same, we can take these decisions together.”

“There is nothing you can say that will alter my feelings and decision.” He smiled and he suddenly appeared years younger to her in his absolute happiness.

She swallowed and glanced at the floor. “Perhaps, but I will understand if you want to resume our prior arrangement after . . . after I tell you.”

He gazed at her with expectation, but did not hurry her. When she could not make herself open her mouth again, he finally closed the gap between them and again held her in his embrace. She drank in the warm and familiar scent of him. Oh, how she wanted and needed his arms.

“It doesn’t matter, Esme,” he insisted. “Nothing can be as bad as you think. I am here and will always be here to help you if you will allow it, darling.”

She closed her eyes. “My mother’s maiden name is Mannon.”

His arms immediately stiffened.

“I am the last direct descendant of the lady who cursed your family. My full name is Esmeralda Mannon Morgan March. I should have told you a long time ago.”

The strong, warm comfort of his body against hers disappeared and she opened her eyes to face him.

“You forgot
Montagu
,” he said with a gleam in his eye.

“Pardon me?”

“It’s your hearing again?” he suggested with a smile.

“No. But I don’t think you—”

“Esme, I don’t care who your family is or was. I just want you to be my family now. Will you?”

A tide of relief and warm happiness flowed through her. “But you’re not afraid of the curse?”

“No, and I shall tell you why. But first, I should ask if you know if the curse applies only to Norwich dukes with the first duke’s blood in their veins.”

“Why would you ask such a question?”

“Can you not guess, my love?”

She studied him. “The version of events told to me by my grandmother suggests that the first Esmeralda cursed every Norwich heir and duke who possessed Norwich I—the Duck Hunter’s—blood.”

His smile was blinding. “Excellent news, my darling. I’m delighted to inform I am probably not cursed at all.”

“That is good because I dreaded having to warn you that the captain brought his collection of duck calls on this yacht. I would stay very far away from his cabin if I were you.”

He threw back his head and laughed, his fears obviously gone far, far away. He grabbed her in his arms and swung her in a circle before he herded her onto her small bunk. “May I tell you why the curse will not plague me?”

“It only matters that you believe it, Montagu. But I should also warn you that according to my grandmother, I have no power to remove the curse. I think you know I would if I could.”

“Shhh . . .” he held a finger to her lips. “No, I won’t have you worry,” he insisted. “Let me tell you why.” And so he told her what his mother had revealed to him.

Esme swore ten times over that she had always suspected he was an artist at heart because of his designs, his mathematical genius, and the way he had expertly painted seabirds that day on the Isle of Wight. Within a quarter hour, she proposed a dizzying number of artistic endeavors the both of them could explore together.

It was a very long time before anyone on board saw the Duke and Duchess of Norwich again.

Every last person on the ship celebrated.

With the captain’s duck calls.

I
n the end, there was a small detour to their destination.

His wife had commented on the lines of worry she had spied on his face the morning after they reunited. She sat across from him at the mahogany table in the cabin, trimming a quill as he dressed.

“Who are you writing to?” He wanted nothing more than to remove the boots he had just put on, pick her up, and take her back to the small bunk.

“To my mother and to Verity,” she said, not looking up from her handiwork.