The Courtship

Four

“Do I take it you’re jaunting into Town with me to ride chaperone on any trysts I might stumble into?”

Anthony sounded put out as only a younger brother can when saddled with the unwanted company of an elder sibling. Percival tossed a coin to the coaching inn’s stable lad and swung up onto Reveille before answering.

“I have pressing errands in Town, and the last thing I want is to be a party to your amorous endeavors.”

Anthony considered him from Anthem’s back. “Are you perchance going to pay a call on the O’Donnell creature? Get the manly humors back in balance?”

The very idea had Percival aiming his horse away from the inn yard at a brisk trot. “The O’Donnell creature and I are not now nor were we ever an item of significant interest, I’ll have you know.”

Anthony’s gelding easily kept pace. “You were of interest to her, or it certainly seemed that way last month.”

“My wallet was of interest to her, until some general offered her a more lucrative arrangement. I wish her well.” He also spared a thought for the general, because the poor fellow was taking up with the most mercenary female Percival had ever made the mistake of allowing into his bed.

“I rather like Mrs. St. Just.” Anthony rather liked everybody, including attractive, friendly Dublin-born redheads of easy virtue.

“You are trying to get rid of me, Anthony, but you need not bother. I will not be your duenna for any passionate interludes you have planned with Miss Holsopple, nor will I be calling on the fair Mrs. St. Just. She departed for Ireland prior to the Heckenbaum house party, and while her charms were considerable, our liaison is at an end.”

And what an odd relief that it was so. Both Mrs. St. Just and Cecily O’Donnell were beautiful, intelligent, sexually experienced, and worldly wise—also interested only in exploiting a man’s base urges for financial gain, though the St. Just woman seemed to genuinely enjoy Percival’s company. No matter how generously Percival reimbursed them, neither lady would ever demand kissing lessons from him; they would never listen to his memories of service in Canada; they would never understand—he, himself had not understood—that for Her Grace to send sons into the cavalry had to have been particularly difficult.

“I’m going to ask Gladys to elope with me.”

Percival brought his horse back to the walk. “Why in blazes would you tell me such a thing? Am I supposed to stop you or abet you?”

“Both. Neither. I got a note from Gladys, you see, and it’s confounded complicated.”

Anthony was cheerful by nature, but this plan of his had him sounding morose.

“Are you sure she’s the one, Anthony?”

“Yes.”

Anthony was also not decisive by nature, and yet, Gladys Holsopple had his unequivocal allegiance. What was it going to be like, to know Esther Himmelfarb had granted to Percival the same, immediate, unquestioning devotion? To know she accepted it from him?

“Why not honor your Gladys with the usual approach? You ask her papa for permission to court, you ask her, you set a date, the ladies make a great fuss, you wait…”

“That waiting business can be problematic.”

Percival digested that for about a quarter mile. “How far along is she?”

Anthony heaved the sigh of unmarried prospective fathers the world over. “That’s part of the confounded problem. She isn’t sure she is, she isn’t sure she… isn’t. Not all fillies are the same, and we only had three occasions, so to speak.”

Three? “Fast work, Brother, and once is enough.”

Though if Anthony’s situation with Gladys bore any resemblance to Percival’s with Esther, once would never, ever be enough.

“She’s all up in the bows over this, and it tears at a man, to know his lady is upset and he can do nothing to comfort her.”

It tore at a man simply to be parted from his lady. “So you will comfort her now and hatch up desperate plots. I hope you do not have need of them, but I will do all in my power to aid you.” The words should not have been necessary—Tony was his brother—but the relief on Tony’s face suggested the assurances were appreciated.

“And you too, Perce. If you and the Himmelfarb girl need reinforcements, we’re here for you, Gladys and myself.”

“My thanks.”

Except Gladys was under her mother’s watchful eye in Town, an elopement would see both parties haring off to Scotland, and winning the Himmelfarb girl’s heart was an uncertain undertaking, regardless of how passionately she’d shared her body.

“You look as tired as I feel.” Michael tugged on Esther’s sleeve and led her to a dusty little room full of guns, game bags, and other hunting accoutrements. “Are you getting any rest at all?”

Esther glanced around, her gaze landing on a stag’s head mounted on the opposite wall. The animal’s glass eyes stared at a preserved hare crouching on a set of quarter shelves in a corner.

“House parties are fatiguing,” Esther said. “In your case, I’d say they’re impoverishing as well.”

Michael’s gaze narrowed as he pushed the door closed with a booted foot. “I’m trying to express concern for you, and your response is to nag? Even a cousin finds that tiresome behavior in a female.”

Was he concerned? Esther gave herself leave to doubt that. “Lady Morrisette remarked last night after dinner that she will make it a point to oppose you at whist, because she’s sure to increase her pin money that way.”

“Women’s gossip. She opposes me at whist so she might make free with her hands on my person under the table, while our partners likely do the same across the table.”

Esther thought back to the previous evening, when Sir Jasper and Charlotte Pankhurst had completed the foursome at Michael’s table.

“You might well be right, but, Michael, I am worried for you. These people are above our strata. We’re tolerated here to make up the numbers, and they are not our friends. Your folly would provoke their amused scorn, not their sympathy.”

He crossed his arms while his expression became superior. “And what of you, Esther Himmelfarb? Lurking in gardens with a ducal spare? That’s more than a bit ambitious, I’d say, even for an earl’s granddaughter.”

An arrangement of silver hunting flasks sat on the quarter shelf below the hare. The flasks were going a bit tarnished, but they’d make satisfying missiles fired at Michael’s head.

“Were you spying on me, Michael?”

“I was taking a bit of air, Cousin, and heard voices on the other side of the garden wall. Percival St. Stephens Joachim Windham was getting quite friendly with you.”

He’d forgotten a name—Tiberius. Thank God the wall had been high and solid.

“I can visit with whom I please, Michael, and regardless of how I’m spending what little spare time I have here, you are supposed to be courting the ladies, not financial ruin.”

Michael apparently decided on a tactical retreat. “What can you tell me about Herodia Bellamy?”

And this was likely the point of Michael’s “concern.” He was losing badly at cards, and instead of browsing the available brides himself, he expected Esther to do his scouting for him.

“Marriage is intended to resolve a lack of companionship, Michael, not a lack of coin.”

His smile was quick and genuine. “You sound exactly like Uncle Jacob. Marriage can solve both. The best families have known this for generations and prosper as a result. Tell me about the Bellamy girl.”

There was no reason not to, though Esther eyed the flasks with longing. They would make such a loud, satisfying crash pitched against the old speckled mirror above the mantel.

“Herodia is a trifle too smart for her own good. She’s bored silly but knows better than to get tangled up in anything truly disgraceful. Engage her mind, and she’ll notice you.”

“I’d rather engage her mind than spend my days complimenting hair bows.” Michael looked thoughtful. “I’m also hoping I might make progress with the Needmore heiress now that the Windhams have gone larking into Town.”

Esther barely refrained from clutching her cousin’s arm to wring further details from him, though she manufactured an indifferent expression rather than pique Michael’s curiosity. “I wasn’t aware they’d departed from the gathering And her name is Needham.”

Michael began a perambulation of the room, inspecting the hunting paraphernalia and trophies as he wandered. “Lord Percy is partial to mistresses with flaming red hair and lush proportions; at last report he had at least two of that description meeting his needs in Town. Lord Tony probably went along for similar entertainments, or perhaps they share—though I ought not to offer such speculation in your company. Where do you suppose Lord Morrisette killed this thing?”

A man would do that—leap in conversation from mistresses to hunting trophies and be oblivious to the non sequitur, or maybe not even grasp that there might be one. “It’s a skunk. Perhaps he purchased it from somebody who’s hunted in the New World.”

The animal was probably very pretty when alive. Lush black and white fur ended in a graceful plume of a tail, and yet in death, the beast’s eyes bore the same blank stare as every other prize in the room.

“Well, I’m off to hunt a bride or perhaps some sport more entertaining than dodging Lady Morrisette’s overtures.” He paused by the door and regarded Esther for a moment. “You’re too decent for a gathering like this. I’m surprised Aunt and Uncle let you attend.”

“I’m nominally under Lady Pott’s wing, when she’s awake. You’d best be going lest somebody remark our tête-à-tête, but I truly wish you’d limit yourself to farthing points.” Esther wished as well she could tell her numbskull cousin she’d been “permitted” to attend mostly to keep an eye on him.

Michael pursed his lips in a sulky pout. “Schoolboys play for farthing points.”

When the door clicked softly closed behind him, Esther informed the hare, the skunk, the stag’s head, and a four-foot-long silver-and-black snake twined around a limb above the mantel, “Even schoolboys know their debts of honor must be paid.”

And Esther knew that Lady Morrisette had endless tasks waiting, and yet, this dusty, ghoulish closet-shrine to idle masculinity was probably the closest thing to a refuge Esther might find. She took a seat on a worn leather hassock and tried to absorb that Percy Windham had made passionate love with her, tucked her up in bed—left her there—and gone off a few hours later to disport with not one but two beautiful mistresses.

Her parents’ marriage had been a love match, but Esther knew such unions were unusual in the better families—the titled families.

The world certainly expected her to be celibate, but what right had she to expect Percival would be celibate?

“Every right,” she assured the skunk. For the duration of one brief house party, he might have at least limited his attentions to her. She remained on her hassock, mentally lecturing herself for treasuring memories that clearly were of no moment to her lover.

The feel of his hands in her hair.

The sound of his voice in the darkness.

The feel of his body joined carefully and intimately with hers…

“Miss Himmelfarb.” Sir Jasper had opened the door so quietly, he was inside the room and had the door closed again before Esther noticed him standing under the stag. “Of all the ladies to find being private with the impecunious Mr. Adelman.”

Esther remained seated. If the only rank she could assert was that of lady, then assert it, she would. “Is he impecunious, or unlucky in his choice of games?”

“Touché, my lady.” He slouched closer, the dusty light making his face powder appear another artifact of zoological preservation. “Though it appears I’m the one in luck at the moment. I don’t hear Lady Zephora whining for her tea, and the word at breakfast was that the Lords Windham had gone off to revive themselves with some sophisticated sport in Town. Quimbey is out shooting hares, and here you are”—he came to a halt beside Esther’s hassock, which had the disagreeable result of putting his falls at her nose level—“all by yourself, at your leisure at last.”

His fingers brushed her chin, a hint of threat in his touch. Esther tried hard not to move, not to flinch. He wasn’t hurting her; he wasn’t even groping her.

But he was insulting her. For all Percival Windham might at that very moment be bathing with both of his mistresses, Lord Percy had not offered Esther insult, nor had he taken liberties beyond what she’d willingly shared.

Esther batted Sir Jasper’s hand aside so stoutly, she had the gratification of seeing surprise on his face as she rose, brushed past him, and left him to the company of creatures already dead, stuffed, mounted, and gathering dust.

Five years of making war on colonials had impressed upon Sir Jasper several important lessons—lessons not taught on the hallowed playing fields of Eton.

First, what counted was neither who had better form, nor who charmed the spectators, nor who looked better on a horse. What counted in any contest was who won.

Second, marching about in straight lines, forming up into squares, and keeping a bright red uniform spotless was so much lunacy when the enemy soldiers respected no rules, could melt into the woods like wraiths, and used any weapon at hand to advance their cause.

Third, a baronet’s succession was as important to the baronet as a duke’s might be to the duke.

With those verities in mind, Sir Jasper waited in the conservatory at teatime, knowing it to be Mr. Michael Adelman’s favorite place to avoid company.

“Are you considering a career in botany, Mr. Adelman?”

The younger fellow startled as Sir Jasper emerged from behind a thriving stand of some enormous cane plant.

“Sir Jasper. I enjoy the quiet here. I assume you do as well, so I’ll leave you to it.”

Not so fast, pup. “Before you scamper off to the charms of our fair companions, might I enquire as to when you’ll be redeeming your vowels?”

Mr. Adelman was dark haired, handsome by any standard, and smooth cheeked. Not a scar to be seen on his physiognomy, which Sir Jasper told himself he did not hold against the fellow. That such a one should be welcome to share closets and whispered confidences with Esther Windham, however, was not to be borne.

Adelman drew himself up, though he was no taller than Sir Jasper. “One doesn’t typically carry large sums about to social gatherings, sir.”

“Precisely.” Sir Jasper withdrew a gold watch and flipped it open. “But when said entertainments are of several weeks duration, one can certainly send to his man of business for a bank draft.” He glanced up from the watch, flicking it shut and dropping it back into his pocket. “You do have a man of business?”

Adelman positively flushed with indignation. “Had I known you were so precipitous in collecting social debts, I would have already notified him.” Adelman brushed back the skirt of his coat and hooked a thumb in his waistcoat pocket, a lovely pose—casual, cocky, and designed to flaunt excellent tailoring. “Do you rule out the possibility that I will regain my losses?”

“Indeed, I do.” Sir Jasper offered his snuffbox, an elegant accessory of gold and onyx. “The play to be had in such genteel surrounds has palled. Name a date, Mr. Adelman, and I’ll have my man of business attend yours at the location of your choice.”

Adelman had no natural talent for dissembling. This was what made him a bad card player, but also what caused Sir Jasper an unwanted stirring of pity. Dueling was good sport when a man was a crack shot, but Adelman was only a couple of years down from university, a plain mister, and apparently of some value to Esther Himmelfarb.

While resistance from a worthy female was all part of the game, her outright antipathy would be a nuisance under intimate circumstances.

“I will offer you a compromise, Mr. Adelman. Either produce the coin you owe me by the first of the week, or I will appropriate from you something I consider to be of equal or greater value.”

Sir Jasper whiffed a pinch of snuff into his left nostril, while Adelman looked away.

“The first of the week is too soon.”

“The first of the week is three days from now. You have all the time in the world to procure the means. I would, however, advise you to avoid the gambling offered by our hostess.”

“I am not unlucky—” Adelman puffed up like a peacock.

“No, you are unaware, which can be remedied. The ladies cheat, you see, and the gentlemen—your charming self included—overimbibe, and thus the odds are not at all what you think they are. I bid you a pleasant day and will expect remuneration within seventy-two hours.”

Sir Jasper sauntered off, content with the exchange. Watching Adelman fidget away the next two days, then hare away at the crack of dawn three mornings hence, would be entertaining—and God knew entertainment was in short supply at this gathering—and it would leave Esther Himmelfarb without her preferred swain.

All in all, a productive little chat.

His Grace the Duke of Quimbey was tall, rangy, had kind blue eyes, a nice laugh, and was not one for standing on ceremony. That he was twice Charlotte’s age was of no moment. No unmarried duke was too old, too stout, too much given to the company of opera dancers, or even too impoverished for an ambitious, well-dowered girl to discount as a marital prospect.

As Charlotte let herself into the small chamber under the eaves, she assured herself Quimbey was also not too enamored of Esther Himmelfarb. His Grace had attached himself to the lady’s side since the Windham menfolk had departed the day before, and no amount of flirting, teasing, or scheming had dislodged him.

“But one well-placed billet-doux ought to shine a very different light on the perfect Miss Esther Himmelfarb.”

At the very least, such a note, when made public, would get the girl sent home in disgrace, leaving her betters with a clearer field upon which to pursue and divide up the marital spoils in the final week of the house party. Since appropriating the note from its intended means of delivery, Charlotte had spent a day weighing options and making plans, and those plans, oddly enough, brought her to a chamber so unprepossessing as to rouse a niggling sense of guilt regarding her schemes.

Esther Himmelfarb’s room was plain to the point of insult. The mirror over the vanity had a small crack near the base, the carpet was frayed where it met the bed skirt, and the single small window was clouded with age and grime. The only point of elegance was a white cat, enthroned on a chair upholstered in faded pink brocade.

The cat took one look at Charlotte and quit the premises, leaving Charlotte to consider where a letter might lie in plain sight without being immediately noticed—a delicate decision.

“Why, Miss Pankhurst, what a delight.”

Sir Jasper lounged in the doorway, for once free of wig and powder. His blue eyes traveled over her figure, up, down, pause, down farther. The expression in them as he sauntered into the room was not kind.

That expression gave Charlotte a salacious little thrill, truth be known. Sir Jasper’s bearing had the casual elegance of the career soldier, his manners were exquisite, he did not suffer fools, and neither did he cheat at cards or make life difficult for those who did.

He also had wonderfully muscular thighs.

“Sir Jasper.”

He came closer, his gaze thoughtful. “Am I to believe that my good fortune in finding you here results from your desire to spend time with your dear friend, Miss Himmelfarb? When last I saw her, she was instructing Quimbey on the proper approach to fouling another’s ball at croquet. His Grace was listening attentively.”

Sir Jasper had prowled closer, bringing a faint whiff of roses to Charlotte’s nose. Too late, she realized that she was alone in a bedroom with a single male, and the door barely open behind him.

“I suppose I’d best go join Miss Himmelfarb at the croquet game.”

He snatched the letter from Charlotte’s hand so quickly, indignation took a moment to battle its way through her surprise. “Give that back, sir.”

Sir Jasper stepped away, unfolded the note, and took it over to the little window.

“‘My dearest and most precious Esther—’ a sincere if unimaginative beginning. ‘After such pleasure as I have known in your company, any parting from you is torture. Rest assured I will return to your tender embrace as soon as I am able. Until we kiss again, my love, you will remain ever uppermost in my thoughts, and I shall remain exclusively and eternally, yours. Percival.’”

Sir Jasper refolded the note but did not return it, even when Charlotte held out her hand for it. “The signature is not in the same hand, it isn’t even in the same ink.”

Drat all men with keen eyesight. “It’s close enough.”

“Windham would not have been stupid enough to sign such a note. No one will believe it’s from him.” Sir Jasper didn’t believe it was from Percy Windham; that much was obvious.

Charlotte crossed the room and plopped down on the bed. “Some fellow left that note on her sidesaddle. A groom found it and gave it to my maid to leave in Miss Himmelfarb’s room. I chose to assign authorship to Lord Percival, because he’s highborn enough that the scandal won’t matter to him, and enough of a rascal that everyone will believe he’d dally like this. Quimbey is so decent he’d just marry her, and that entirely defeats the point of the exercise.”

Sir Jasper considered the note again and set it on the vanity. He joined Charlotte on the bed, making the mattress dip to the extent that she fetched up against him, hip to hip. “You are a naughty woman, Miss Pankhurst. I may, to a minor degree, have underestimated you—or possibly your determination in matrimonial matters.”

He sounded not exactly admiring, but neither was he criticizing her.

“Miss Himmelfarb has to be got rid of,” Charlotte said, in case the idea was too subtle for the baronet’s masculine brain. “She’s ruining all of our chances, at Quimbey, at Lord Tony, Lord Percival, at you.” The last was an afterthought added at the prodding of feminine intuition.

Sir Jasper took the bait—he also took Charlotte’s hand. “I do not flatter myself a mere baronet would be worthy of one of your station, my lady, but with a small exercise in forgery—the signature really should match the body of the note, my dear—there’s a way I might be of service to you.”

His hand was surprisingly warm, his grasp firm. A baronet was no prize, of course, but that didn’t mean a lady couldn’t enjoy spending some time with him.

“Close the door, Sir Jasper. If we’re to discuss forgery, then privacy is in order.”

“Why a fellow has to racket about Town for two days, and then hop on his destrier in the teeming rain, ruin his boots, his lungs, and his disposition in a headlong dash for the hinterlands is beyond my feeble powers of divination.” Tony emphasized his harangue with a cough.

Percival handed off cape and gloves—both sopping wet—to a footman. “Our boots will dry out. I could not leave Miss Himmelfarb here undefended save for Quimbey’s dubious protection any longer than necessary.”

“Necessary is a relative term.”

Tony was entitled to grumble. Thrashing their way back to the Morrisette estate on the muddy tracks that passed for the king’s highways had been an ordeal; waiting another day to rejoin his intended would have been torture.

“Why, my lords!” Hippolyta Morrisette paused in the entrance to the high-ceilinged foyer to join her hands at her breastbone. “Riding about in this weather will give you an ague, and then your dear mother will ring a peal over my head for a certainty—not that we aren’t glad to see you again!”

There was something sly in her greeting, for all its effusiveness. Percy bowed without taking her hand. “My lady, greetings. If I might be so bold as to ask the whereabouts of Miss Himmelfarb?”

The gleam in Lady Morrisette’s eye became calculating. “Surely you don’t intend to greet a young lady in all your dirt, my lord?”

“Yes,” Tony said, an edge to his tone, “he most certainly does. He about killed the horses for that very purpose. Best oblige him, my lady.”

She glanced from one young lord to the other, and apparently decided to heed Tony’s advice.

“This way.” She swept toward the back of the house, and Percival followed, Tony bringing up the rear with boots squeaking and squishing.

The guests were assembled in the largest informal parlor, which was fortunate. It meant as he wound his way through the east wing, Percival had a few moments to organize his thoughts despite the screaming need to see Esther again, to make sure she’d weathered his absence without mischief befalling her.

The same instincts that had warned Percival when his superiors had sent him off on doomed errands were urging him to shove Lady Morrisette aside and ransack the house, bellowing Esther’s name until she was again in his arms.

Which would not do. Her Grace would have an apoplexy if word of such behavior reached her.

Lady Morrisette paused while a footman opened the parlor doors, and too late, Percival understood the ambush he’d charged into: Her Grace and His Grace sat reading a newspaper at the same table by the window where Esther Himmelfarb had been playing cards more than two weeks ago.

“Possible hostiles near the window,” Tony muttered, coming up on Percy’s shoulder.

Nothing possible about it, and yet, there was Esther, embroidering in a corner on a settee, Quimbey sitting beside her and looking entirely too content, while the rest of the room looked askance at the recent arrivals.

“Look who I found in the foyer!” Lady Morrisette’s cheerful announcement had all heads turning, but where Percival had expected to see welcome in Esther’s eyes, he saw guardedness.

She said something to Quimbey, who smiled like a man besotted, then went back to her embroidery.

Percy could not take his eyes off Esther—though she was ignoring him. “My apologies to the company for the state of my attire, but my errands in Town were urgent.”

The Pankhurst girl rose, as if she’d leave the room or say something, but her gaze went swiveling from Percy to Esther and back to Percy.

“Percival, what can you be about?” His mother’s tone was dry as dust. “Disgracing yourself and tracking mud all over Lady Morrisette’s carpets. Take your brother and see to your wardrobe.”

She turned a page of the newspaper laid out before her, paying no more heed to her sons than if they had been footmen caught in an indecorous exchange. His Grace neither followed up with a ducal rebuke nor interceded for his sons—of course.

“I beg your pardon, Your Grace.” Percival bowed to his mother. “Before I take my leave, I would address Miss Himmelfarb in private.”

Sir Jasper Lay-About cleared his throat. “Perhaps Miss Himmelfarb isn’t interested in what you have to say.”

The supercilious ass offered his suggestion from a pose by the fireplace, one leg bent, an elbow propped on the mantel. In full morning finery, he was the picture of gentlemanly grace. The urge to knock the presuming idiot on his backside was nigh unbearable.

“Not now, Perce,” Tony whispered. “Get the girl; then deal with the buffoon.”

Esther was watching him, but there was no welcome in her eyes. Quimbey would not have trespassed, and Esther would never have yielded to Sir Jasper’s importuning… and yet.

As Percy watched her, unease curled more tightly in the part of a man’s gut that could save his life if he listened to it. “Then I’ll say my piece to her here.”

Like a marionette whose strings had been jerked, Charlotte Pankhurst came to life. “Esther Himmelfarb, how could I have forgotten! I have been remiss, and I do beg your pardon. I promised to give you back the correspondence you gave me for safekeeping, and it completely slipped my mind.”

As the girl withdrew a folded piece of paper from her workbasket, Esther turned to regard her. “I gave you no correspondence, Charlotte.”

“Oh, now don’t be coy!” With a flourish and an odd glance at Sir Jasper, Miss Pankhurst started to read. “It’s signed by Sir Jasper. ‘My dearest and most precious Esther.’” She paused long enough to take visual inventory of her rapt audience, while Percival’s hand went to the place at his side where his sword hilt would have been.

“Silence, woman!”

He’d bellowed indoors, an infraction guaranteed to give his mother the vapors, but over by the window, the duke had placed a hand on his duchess’s wrist.

Charlotte Pankhurst clearly had a longing for death, for she smirked at Percival. “Sir Jasper isn’t taking exception to having his billet-doux read in company. It’s just a note, my lord. Sophisticated company such as this would never take such a thing seriously.”

Esther had risen, her fists clenched at her side. “It’s not a note I ever received, Charlotte, nor would I have given you anything for safekeeping.”

She hadn’t received it?

She hadn’t received it?

For three days she’d been left wondering, alone, thinking all manner of untoward things? The very notion was…

It wasn’t to be borne.

Percival regarded the woman he loved, willing her to meet his gaze. “Then my dearest and most precious Esther, you must allow me to recite it for you—and I am remiss for not signing my love letter. In future, I will remedy the oversight, and you may be certain all my love letters will be addressed to you.” The room went silent, and for the first time, Esther’s eyes held something besides self-possession. She looked at him with hope, with a wary, wounded variety of the emotion, one that cut Percy to the heart.

He took a breath, gathering his courage, and prepared to offer his heart. “My dearest and most precious Esther, after such pleasures as I have known in your company, any parting from you is torture. Rest assured I will return to your tender embrace as soon as I am able. Until we kiss again, my love, you will remain ever uppermost in my thoughts, and I shall remain exclusively and eternally, yours.”

After an interminable beat of silence, Esther’s eyes began to sparkle. “Say it again, my lord. Please. More slowly this time, for surely if such a note had found its way to me, I would have read it a thousand times by now.”

Behind him, Tony was shifting from one squeaky boot to the other. Charlotte Pankhurst was looking like a little girl who’d forgotten her lines at the church play, while Percy’s heart starting dancing a jig.

“My dearest and most precious Esther.” He declaimed the words, hoping every servant in the corridor and every gossipmonger in the room was committing them to memory. “After such pleasures as I have known in your company—”

“Cease this nonsense at once!” Her Grace did not rise, likely because His Grace still had her by the wrist. “Percival Windham, you will not be publicly making love to a mere earl’s granddaughter. I know not what spell she has cast, nor do I care. Pack your effects, and take yourself back to Morelands.”

The joy in Esther’s gaze winked out. Without moving, she wilted where she stood, and nobody, not one person in the entire room, remonstrated with the duchess for her rudeness.

Percival crossed the room and linked his fingers with his intended, turning a glower on his mother. “I apologize for the abrupt and public manner of my declaration, but Your Grace will apologize to Miss Himmelfarb.”

“I will do no such thing. I permit you to socialize in hopes you’ll attach a suitable prospect, and this is the thanks I get? You may go back to the Canadian wilderness if you think to comport yourself thus.”

The duke cleared his throat. Tony groaned.

Percival tucked an arm around Esther’s waist. “I have resigned my commission, Your Grace. I have no doubt my intended would follow the drum cheerfully did I ask it of her, but I have no wish to subject her to such hardships.”

The duchess sniffed. “Your intended—”

“My beloved intended,” Percival shot back. “Whose father has given me permission to court her, and whose finger will soon be wearing this modest token of my esteem, if she’ll have me.”

Ringing declarations were all well and good, but a man ought to be judged by his actions, too. Percival withdrew a small parcel from his pocket, fished the ring out of the cloth he’d wrapped it in, and took his beloved by the hand.

“Esther Louise Himmelfarb, will you—”

She put a finger to his lips, and his heart stopped. “No, I will not.” She caressed his lip fleetingly then dropped her hand. “Not without your mother’s blessing.”

What the hell?

Across the room, His Grace finally bestirred himself to speak. “Hear your lady out, Percival, for I think she has the right of it.”

The duchess speared Moreland with a look that pronounced him daft or possessed of three heads, but she held her tongue too.

“I love you as well, Percival Windham,” Esther said. She wasn’t offering a performance for the assemblage, though, she was speaking straight to Percival’s heart. “Nothing would please me more than to be your wife and the mother of your children. You saw me when I was supposed to be invisible. You treated me like a person, not a fixture in service. Your manners were those of gentleman in the best sense of the word. You listened—”

He did not interrupt her. He let her gather her dignity, because in part she was offering a reproach worthy of a Dissenting minister to her supposed betters. “You listened to me and took my welfare seriously. Of course, I would be honored to be your wife, but your mother loves you too.”

A soft gasp from the direction of the duchess suggested Esther had scored a hit, but she went on speaking. “Her Grace is protective of those she loves, as a mother should be. I don’t give that”—Esther snapped her fingers crisply before his nose—“for permission from a duchess to wed the man I love, but I care very much for a mother’s blessing.”

Somebody sighed. Not the duchess. She sniffed again, but it wasn’t a sniff of disapproval.

Quimbey offered his handkerchief to Lady Zephora. Sir Jasper led a distraught Miss Pankhurst from the room. Tony’s boots had gone silent.

The duchess rose and opened her mouth, then shut it.

Esther turned to face the older woman, though Percival did not for an instant think of turning his most precious, dearest, most stubborn beloved loose.

“Please, Your Grace.” Esther swallowed, and it felt to Percival as if she might have tucked herself more closely to him. “Your Graces. I love your son, my affection for him is as fierce as it is sudden—and as it is surprising even to me. I know he would bring consequence, wealth, and comfort to the union, but I care not for the gifts he can give me with his hands. I seek only the gifts he promises me with his eyes.”

Another silence stretched while the duchess groped for her husband’s hand, and Percival tried to will his mother to see reason.

“But you’re not…” Her Grace’s expression went from glowering to puzzled to bewildered. “George? She’s not… She hasn’t…” Like the sails of a ship drifting into the eye of the wind, her indignation luffed, slowed, then died away. “Moreland? What are we to make of this?”

Had he not heard the words himself, Percival would not have believed. Agatha, Duchess of Moreland, had in public turned to her spouse for reassurances. The expression on Moreland’s face was far from incredulous. The duke was smiling faintly at his duchess and stroking her hand with his fingers.

“Young people today,” Moreland said in dismissive tones. “All is high drama with them, though given these passionate declarations, one can hope Percival and his lady will at least be enthusiastic about providing us grandchildren.”

His Grace emphasized the point by kissing his wife’s knuckles and keeping her hand in his.

Grandchildren. Oh, of course. Moreland had dangled before the duchess the ultimate prize, the trophy awarded on behalf of duty that would serve so wonderfully in the name of love.

“We can assure you of that,” Percival said. “If we have your blessing.”

Esther, in a gesture that boded well for their marital union, held her silence—and his hand.

The duchess drew herself up and laced her arm though the duke’s. “Come along, Moreland. If we’re to have a prayer of seeing the ceremony properly planned, there is much to be done.”

But the duke didn’t immediately lead his wife from the room. He instead tucked her hand over his arm and paused, giving her a look that was positively doting. “And if I am to have a prayer of arranging the settlements adequately, I must of course consult with my duchess. And remind me, my dear, was it the Holsopple girl you had in mind for Anthony?”

They processed from the room, dignity very much in evidence.

When the door had closed behind them, Tony squished across the room and clapped Percival soundly on the shoulder. “Well done, you lot. Madam, my lady hostess, regardless of the hour, we’ll be having your best champagne, as it appears congratulations are very much in order.”

Quimbey started the applause, Lady Pott thumped her cane repeatedly on the floor, Lady Zephora and Miss Needham wept openly in the arms of whatever swain had presented himself at the convenient moment.

While Percival kissed his ladylove.

“Come along, you.” Percival looped his arm through Esther’s, and before she could start in with the lectures Her Grace had assured her were necessary for the proper training of a prospective husband, she was being escorted down the garden path.

“Percival, you must stop kidnapping me like this.”

“No, I must not. I must become accomplished at it, so that even when we are knee-deep in little Windhams, I can still steal you away on a moment’s notice.”

Esther stopped walking and tried to glower at him. “Which will only ensure the parade of little Windhams continues without ceasing.”

His smile was blissful. “Precisely. I had a letter from your cousin Michael. He finds life as a colonel in the cavalry very much to his liking.”

“Have I thanked you for that?”

“No, you have not, not as a properly grateful fiancée ought to. I will accept your thanks on our wedding night, along with any other generosities you feel inclined to bestow on me. Tony says Sir Jasper and Lady Lay-About have departed on a wedding journey to Rome. No doubt there will be war on the Continent within the sennight.”

He was incorrigible, also very passionate. Two fine qualities in a man destined to raise up a large brood of children. Esther couldn’t help but smile as they resumed walking. “Sir Jasper claimed he would have offered me marriage.”

“You would not have suffered that buffoon for an instant—would you?”

“Of course not.” Though the hint of belligerence in the question—and uncertainty behind it—was gratifying. “There’s something I’ve been meaning to ask you, Percival.”

He held back a branch of an encroaching lilac bush for her, reminding her of a spring night in the darkened wood weeks ago.

“I adore your interrogations, Esther.”

He particularly liked it when she interviewed various parts of his male anatomy, an undertaking at which she’d grown increasingly bold.

“My question is this: Have you thought of names?”

“Names? I rather enjoy it when you use the German endearments. I’ve never been anybody’s dearest handsome treasure before.” He’d dropped into a German accent, imitating Esther’s papa, with whom Percival spent many hours arguing politics.

He’d also brought Esther’s hand to his lips, there to kiss and nuzzle at her knuckles, her palm, her wrist…

“Percival, the wedding is still two weeks off, and we must exercise some restraint.”

The Moreland gardens were lovely, giving way to a landscaped park that eventually led to the home wood. For today’s outing, Percival had captured her from the duchess’s company and taken her straight through the French doors and down across the terraces, leaving Her Grace to fume and pace and ring for Lady Arabella’s soothing presence.

“Restraint, indeed. Were I not exercising restraint, Esther Louise, you’d be tossed over my shoulder.”

He could do it, too, and had on more than one occasion.

“I was not referring to endearments such as you might imagine you hear when my wits go begging. I was referring to names you might like for these little Windhams you’re so enthusiastic about.”

He fell silent, which was something Esther also loved about him. He could bluster and tease and even—when he and her papa were enjoying their after-dinner drinks—shout, but he was also capable of contemplative silence.

“What are you trying to tell me, Esther?”

“I am trying to tell you that our frequent and enthusiastic bouts of passion have led to their natural consequence. I will be lucky to fit into my wedding dress.”

He dropped her hand, subjecting Esther to an unwelcome bout of uncertainty.

“You’re sure?”

She nodded, finding the bed of red roses of interest. They had thorns, of course, but they were beautiful and hardy, and their scent was incomparable.

“When, Esther?”

His question was quiet, his expression unreadable.

“The first time, I think. I haven’t had my… I haven’t bled since that first time.”

He stepped closer and enfolded her in a gentle embrace. For a long moment he said nothing. Her bellowing, blustering, teasing, beloved fiancé said not one word.

And then, very softly, his lips at her ear. “Bartholomew, I think. Uncle Bart is Her Grace’s favorite brother, though she’d never say so. He put me on my first pony and supported my decision to buy my colors.”

“It’s a good name.” Though on a daughter, it might be a trifle awkward.

The moment didn’t call for pragmatism, though. Percival remained silent, holding her, until Esther realized—budding wifely instinct, perhaps—that he was moved beyond words. In her arms, he felt particularly warm, and there was a huskiness to his voice suggesting strong emotion.

She remained in his embrace a long while, the scent of the roses rising around them, the soft summer air stirring a lock of Percival’s unbound hair against her cheek.

“Are you all right, Esther? Carrying a child can be hard on some women.”

“I have never felt a greater sense of well-being than I have since accepting your proposal, Percival Windham.”

In the sigh that went out of him, Esther realized he’d needed to hear her say that. He would probably need to hear her say that many times in the ensuing months, years, and—God willing—decades. Fortunately, it was the simple truth.

He kissed her ear and nuzzled her temple. “I will take such good care of you, my dear, that short of the benevolent intercession of the Almighty Himself, nobody could take better care of you.”

“I know. I’ll take care of you too.”

“And of our children.”

Another sweet moment passed, and then Esther took her Percival by the hand—he seemed to have lost some of his customary boldness—and led him into the home wood. When they emerged in time for tea some hours later, not even Her Grace remarked the grass stains Percival had acquired on the knees of his breeches.