The Courtship (4 page)

She was being dismissed. Esther stepped back—did not curtsy—and left him standing in the garden, bathed in cool, silvery moonlight and solitude.

“Moreland! You will attend me! Hippolyta Morrisette has sent news!”

Her Grace’s trajectory into the breakfast parlor was checked by the need to turn sideways to fit her panniers through the doorway, though this did nothing to stop her prattling. “Not four days into the house party, and both boys are already much admired by several young ladies.”

George, His Grace, the Duke of Moreland, rose from his place at the table. “Good morning, Your Grace. I trust you slept well?” He tossed a meaningful glance at old Thomas standing at attention by the sideboard.

Her Grace’s lips thinned as she allowed her husband to seat her. “I slept abominably, though I find this morning there is cause for cautious optimism.”

She would not be silenced, not by the presence of a servant, not by the open door, not by anything less than the hand of Almighty God slapped over her mouth, and even then she’d give the Deity a struggle for form’s sake. Her Grace was a determined woman and always had been.

His Grace flicked a glance at one of his oldest retainers. “Thomas, if you’ll excuse us?”

The barest hint of commiseration showed in the old man’s eyes before he bowed once to the duke, again to the duchess, and withdrew, closing the door behind him.

“His knees creak, Moreland. You should pension him before he keels over in his livery.”

And
lose
one
of
few
allies
under
the
ducal
roof?
“Thomas serves loyally, Your Grace, and has some good years left in him. May I fix you a plate?”

Her Grace fluffed her skirts just so. “Please. I’ll have eggs, toast, ham, a portion of apple tart, and half a scone with butter and strawberry jam.”

Determination apparently built up an appetite, and yet the woman still had a fine figure—from what His Grace could gather. They’d had separate apartments for more than twenty years, and what happened in the early hours of the day behind the closed door of Her Grace’s dressing room remained a mystery.

As well it should.

His Grace needed two plates to hold the food his wife had requested. He set the plates down before her and took his place at the opposite end of the table. “What news have you had from Lady Morrisette?”

The duchess tucked into her breakfast, gesturing with her fork for the teapot. “I don’t know as I can trust Hippolyta Morrisette’s veracity, but she claims both Tony and Percy are quite as sought after as Quimbey himself.”

Then
the
boys
were
to
be
pitied.
“Is that so?”

“You will not take that tone with me, Moreland. We need grandsons, and it’s my duty to ensure we get them. Criticize me for many things, but I am dutiful.” She glowered at him for a moment for emphasis—unnecessary emphasis—before returning to her meal.

They hadn’t started out sniping at each other. They’d started out two young, lusty people who’d hoped and prayed their parents had found them a suitable mate. And for a time…

And then little Eustace had fallen from his pony, and it had become clear that they’d buried marital happiness along with their firstborn son. Thank a merciful God the accoucheur had told the duchess that Tony was the last child she could safely carry. Ten years of Her Grace’s grim focus on marital duty had about given His Grace’s interest in procreation a permanent tendency to wilt.

Shrugging that thought aside, the duke tried for a tone that was conciliatory without being condescending. “You have become determined on grandchildren only since Twombly took a child bride, Your Grace. He should be shot for mistreating your sensibilities, but you’ll soon be surrounded by other gallants. Did Lady Morrisette mention any young ladies in particular?”

Her Grace stirred sugar into her tea with vengeance. “Twombly deserves his fate, marrying a mere girl. She’ll be the death of him, mark me on this, Moreland. And of course I will have other gallants, but Twombly was a fine dancer.”

Twombly was an aging hanger-on, not worthy of Agatha Venetia Drysdale Windham’s notice, though it was none of His Grace’s affair where or with whom his wife spent her time. Still, a husband was entitled to the occasional protective gesture.

“Shall I call him out for you when he’s back from his wedding journey?”

The duchess shifted on her seat. “Wouldn’t that be a fine thing if he prevailed, leaving me a dowager duchess with no grandsons? No, thank you, Moreland. And yes, Hippolyta says Lady Zephora Needham is spending as much time as possible with Percy and Tony, and Charlotte Pankhurst is pitching for whichever son is not escorting the Needham girl. Needham is an earl, but Pankhurst is in line for a marquessate, and those are not to be sneezed at. Pass the cream.”

His Grace obliged, and then—knowing it was folly—gave his wife the benefit of his thinking regarding the entire campaign to see the younger sons wed.

“You know, Pembroke may yet have more children. We needn’t be hasty with Percival and Tony, and might regret forcing their hands.”

Her Grace paused in mid-chew and raised her head, like a grazing animal scenting an intruder in its grassy paddock. “That useless twit Pembroke married will produce nothing but girls, Moreland. What use are girls, tell me?”

You
were
a
girl
once. I had rather more use for you then, and you for me.

“Girls provide the Crown an opportunity to modify the letters patent, to entertain the notion of special remainders, the viscountcy—”

“The Morefield viscountcy can be preserved through the female line, but why, why on earth, should this family revert to a lesser title when, for nearly two hundred years, a dukedom has been ours to command?”

Oh, woe to the duke who provoked Her Grace on the subject of “our” dukedom. While her eggs grew cold and His Grace’s digestion became tentative, Her Grace prosed on for a good five minutes about duty, chits, twits, and sons who ought to accept the guidance of a mother devoted—
dee-voted, I tell you!
—to nothing but their lifelong happiness.

“So,” she concluded with a stab of the butter knife toward her husband, “I’d prefer the Pankhurst girl, though the Needham heiress as a contingency plan will do nicely.”

A concerned father had to ask, regardless of the risks involved. “And what about Tony? Is he to have the contingency plan for his bride if Percy can win the Pankhurst girl?”

“Of course not.” Her Grace tore off a bite of scone and eyed it like a hawk might eye a lame mouse. “Gladys Holsopple has had two seasons, she has eight strapping brothers, and her mama assures me the girl is a very high stickler and well dowered too. She’ll do for Tony, though convincing him to take on a young lady so enamored of propriety will involve effort. I expect your support in this, Moreland.”

She popped the bite of scone into her maw and started chewing like a squirrel.

His Grace did not by word or deed give away certain information brought to his ears privately by loyal staff. “Somehow, my dear, I will convince Tony that a woman of unimpeachable character holds his best hope for marital happiness.”

“See that you do, and pass the butter, if you please.”

His Grace sent up yet one more prayer for the happiness of his younger sons and passed his duchess the butter.

***

A week in purgatory was a very long time, particularly when Michael was more enamored of the card room than any of the young ladies present. Esther told herself he was biding his time, waiting for the allure of Quimbey, Lord Tony, and Lord Percival to fade.

Which ought to occur in no less than three decades at the latest, provided each man developed a tendency to flatulence.

“Lady Zephora believes her bellpull is not working correctly.” Esther put as much apology into her tone as she could when she addressed the Morrisette butler. “I’m on my way to the kitchen to bring up another tea tray, for the young ladies have assembled in her drawing room this morning.”

Hayes did not roll his eyes. He smiled beneficently, maybe even consolingly. “These things do happen, Miss Himmelfarb. I’ll see to it and have a tea tray sent along posthaste.”

The bellpull was not broken, and they both knew it.

“I wouldn’t want to trouble the kitchen staff unnecessarily, Mr. Hayes. I’m on my way there, as it happens, and will cheerfully retrieve a tray for Lady Zephora.”

The smile lurking in his eyes disappeared, because now they both knew the object of Zephora’s complaint had been not only to criticize the house staff for a slow response to incessant demands, but also to force Esther to fetch and carry like a servant.

“If you say so, miss.” He gave her a deliberate formal bow and let her hustle along the corridor. Was it lying if the other party knew the falsehood for what it was? Esther hoped not, because another day—another hour—in purgatory would have her…

What had Lord Percival said? Howling like a wolf and wearing his wig backward.

She brushed aside the memory while she waited for the scullery maid—Patricia—to put together the tea tray. Percival Windham hadn’t so much as smiled at her in the past three days. He’d smiled at everyone else—servants, horses, dogs, debutantes, they all merited his smiles—while Esther had earned only a few brooding glances.

And she hadn’t set one slippered toe in the kitchen garden after dark. As the full moon waned, so had the glow of that encounter with Lord Percival.

Esther picked up the tray—the blasted thing was heavy—and headed for the maid’s stairs.

“Miss.” Patricia’s voice had Esther pausing. “Not them stairs.”

The front stairs, the ones used by family on their rare sorties to the lower regions of the house, would be longer, though Esther understood Patricia’s point: the maid’s stairs were for the help.

The damned tray was heavy. Esther shook her head and started for the maid’s stairs, only to understand halfway up that Patricia’s warning hadn’t been about appearances and self-respect, or not only about those things.

“Miss Himmelfarb.” Jasper Layton lounged on the first landing, elbows propped on the banister as he gazed down at her. “What on earth could cause a proper young lady to lurk on the back stairs so early in the day?”

Noon approached, but it was early by Sir Jasper’s standards. Without paint and powder, his appearance improved somewhat, though late nights in the card room had left dark circles beneath his eyes. Regardless of his toilet, he was still inclined to have his conversations with the tops of Esther’s breasts.

“Sir Jasper. If you’ll excuse me, Lady Zephora will not want her tea cooling. I’ll wish you good day.”

He shifted, lazily, just enough to trap Esther two steps beneath the landing. The superior position clearly appealed to him, too, so Esther let him enjoy it for a moment while she dropped her gaze to the tea tray.

He stepped aside, allowing her to pass, and then she realized why. With the tray in her hands, she faced a closed door on the far side of the landing. Her choices were to wait for Sir Jasper to open the door, to try to balance the tray on her hip and open the door herself, or to set the tray on the floor, open the door, and then pick the tray up.

While Sir Jasper ogled her backside, of course.

“A small dilemma,” Sir Jasper observed from much too close behind her. “You study the dilemma, while I study the opportunities it presents.”

A male hand slid around Esther’s waist. She closed her eyes and discarded options: she could scream, which would result in her being compromised if anybody heard her; she could stomp on the blighted man’s foot, which would anger him and not solve the problem; she could dump hot tea on his falls, which was social suicide though a nice thought to contemplate; or she could endure this small detour into hell.

A second hand joined the first, easing up over Esther’s ribs. “Instead of playing chambermaid to those ninnies in hair bows, you might consider more pleasant diversions with me, you know. I can be very considerate and quite discreet.”

He could also manage a fair impression of ants crawling over Esther’s skin. While he brushed his thumbs over the tops of her breasts and pushed his hips against her backside—thank God for her bustle—Esther sighed breathily.

“Lady Zephora has no patience, sir. To delay for even a moment will guarantee her enmity.”

“I can placate Lady Zephora.” His breath, reeking of the previous night’s overindulgence, came hot against Esther’s neck.

It was time to end this.

“Lady Morrisette has asked me to join her as soon as I’ve seen to the young ladies. If you’d get the door, sir. Please.”

Esther suffused the last word with pleading, but knew a moment’s real trepidation when Sir Jasper did not immediately do as she asked. He gave her breasts as much of a squeeze as her stomacher allowed, reached around her to lift the door latch, and stepped back.

“A man’s protection would offer you a great deal more than this servile existence, Miss Himmelfarb.” He stroked his crotch twice, his gaze on Esther’s breasts. “A great deal more.”

Gracious
God
. Esther did her best rendition of the flustered schoolgirl and ducked out of the stairway, kicking the door shut behind her with a shade too much force. Sir Jasper offered not marriage but ruin, and the cursed man no doubt honestly believed a few months of his favors were preferable to a respectable life with children.

Esther set the tray down on a sideboard and paused to consider her appearance in the mirror above it. Flushed, pale,
angry
.

Sir Jasper’s offer, not the first of its kind, was not preferable to decades of respectable marriage and motherhood—but was it preferable to decades of impoverished spinsterhood? To being shuffled around her siblings’ households as the poor relation? To growing old with her parents?

“I behold a vision, though not, I think, a happy one.”

Behind her in the mirror, an unpowdered Percival Windham, golden hair loose about his shoulders, was smiling perplexedly at her reflection.