Three years ago, he would have fought to the last move, teasing and taunting her, vowing retribution behind closed doors for wives presuming to trounce their husbands on the field of battle.
Three years ago, she had fought hard to provoke such nonsense.
“You’re going to lose in about eight moves. I won’t be offended if you’d rather we retire.”
He knocked over the black king with one finger. “I married a woman who can be gracious in victory. It shall be my privilege to escort that woman upstairs.”
In fact, he escorted her to the nursery, taking the second rocking chair when she sent Valentine off to sleep with his final snack of the day. The way her husband watched this bedtime ritual—his expression wistful to the point of tenderness—sent unease curling up from Esther’s middle.
When Percival had tucked “his favorite little tyrant” in for night and Esther herself was abed beside her husband, she reached for his hand. “Percival, I would not want to intrude into spheres beyond what is proper, but is something troubling you?”
His sigh in the darkness was answer enough, and when he rolled over and spooned himself around her, Esther’s unease spiked higher. “I received another communication from Peter today.”
She’d been expecting him to put her off, or worse, explain to her that it was time their marriage took a more dignified turn. The little girl in the park came to mind, the one with the pretty features and the horrid mother.
Though at one time, Percival had apparently thought the mother the very opposite of horrid.
“This letter troubles you?”
“Exceedingly.” Percival’s hand traced along Esther’s arm, a caress that let her know, for all his quiet, her husband was mentally galloping about at a great rate. She did not allow her mind to wander into thickets such as: Did my dear husband touch Mrs. Donnelly like this? Did he lie beside her and tell her his worries when the candles were doused?
Esther felt a brush of warm lips against her shoulder, and then Percival went on speaking, his mouth against her skin. “I have been telling myself that surely, Peter and Arabella will be blessed with a son. Their affection for each other is beyond doubt.”
“Far beyond doubt. One has only to see how Peter watches Arabella from across the room.”
“Or how she watches him.” Another silence, another kiss, then, “Peter sent a substantial bank draft.”
Esther’s first reaction was that they were badly in need of a substantial bank draft. Then another reality sank in: “This saddens you.” She could hear it in his voice. Hear the grief and the dread.
“He’s getting his affairs in order. He said as much in the letter, as if Peter’s affairs could ever be anything else. He’s preparing documents for the duke that will do likewise, and His Grace will sign those documents if Peter is the one asking him to.”
The post came in the morning, and all day, the entire day, Percival had been carrying this burden alone. Esther rolled over and wrapped her arms around her husband. “Peter may yet rally. His Grace still has good days.”
Percival submitted to Esther’s embrace like the inherently affectionate man he was, also like a man who had too few safe havens. “Peter assured me there was no possibility Arabella could conceive.”
Esther stroked a hand from Percival’s forehead to his nape. Early in the marriage, she’d realized this particular touch soothed them both. “Peter and Arabella haven’t enjoyed marital intimacy for at least two years. Her sense is that he’s unable. Whatever ails him, it affects him in that regard as well.”
She felt Percival’s eyes close with the sweep of his lashes against the slope of her breast. “For two years?”
“I did not want to add to your burdens.” Though in hindsight, she wished she hadn’t kept this intelligence from her husband. “Bartholomew truly is going to be a duke.”
“He’ll make a fine duke—you will see to it, if nothing else. It isn’t Bart I’m worried about.”
Esther continued stroking her husband’s hair, taking some comfort from the idea that as reluctant as she was to contemplate becoming a duchess, her husband was equally reluctant to become a duke.
“You already are the duke, you know.”
He shifted up and nuzzled her breast. “I am no such thing. I’m only the spare by an unfortunate act of providence.”
Just as Esther did not ponder at any length whether her husband was resuming relations with a dashing mistress, Percival apparently did not want to examine too closely the prospect of a strawberry-leaf coronet.
“You are Moreland, Percival. You’re tending to matters of state, you’re running the estates, and you’ve secured the succession. For all relevant purposes, you are the duke—and you’re making a fine job of it.”
The conversation was intimate in a way that felt different from their previous intimacies. This was intimacy of the body, of course, but it was also intimacy of the woes and worries, and it bred desire as well.
If she initiated lovemaking with her weary, unhappy spouse, would he reciprocate, or would he withdraw, leaving Esther physically and emotionally empty?
She settled for taking his hand and resting it over her breast, then kissing his temple. Her last thought as she succumbed to slumber was a question: Would Percival use some of Peter’s largesse to set up a mistress? For a duke was entitled to his comforts.
He probably would, and tell himself he was being considerate of his wife when he did.
“He’s a good man, your papa. An important man.”
Devlin did not meet his mother’s gaze as they walked along. She was pleading with him somehow, and he didn’t like it. He also didn’t like this neighborhood, where the streets were wide and the walkways all swept and he didn’t know the way home.
“Devlin, he was in the cavalry.”
Devlin forgot about the list of things he didn’t like.
“I’m going to be in the cavalry. I’m going to have my own horse, and I’m going to protect everybody for the king.”
Now Mama stopped walking, and right there with people hurrying by, crouched before Devlin. “Your papa can make that dream come true, Devlin. I cannot.”
Which was why they were going to his papa’s house, he supposed. They’d been to visit other men’s houses. Mama would wait in the stables and mews, and Devlin liked that just fine. Those places smelled of horses, and the grooms were usually friendly to a small boy who thought horses were God’s best creation.
“Will you talk to him in the stables?”
Mama kissed the top of his head—he hated when she did that—and rose, taking his hand again. “If I have to.” Her tone was grim, determined. She said Devlin got his determination from her.
She talked to men in the stables lately, sometimes telling Devlin to be good when she went into the saddle rooms or carriage houses with them. She was never gone long, and they could always get some food on the way home when she’d had one of her visits with the men.
Then too, stables were warm, and they smelled good. Home was not warm these days.
You could tell a lot about a man from his stables. Sir Richard Harrowsham was a friendly man who laughed a lot. His horses were content and well fed, his stables clean without being spotless.
Mr. Pelham’s horses were nervous, the grooms always rushing about, and the aisles never swept until somebody stepped in something that ought to have been pitched on the muckheap as soon as it hit the ground. Mama had been crying when she’d come back from her little meeting with Mr. Pelham.
Devlin’s papa’s stables were large. There were riding horses, coach horses, and even a draft team, which was unusual in Town for the nobs, though not for the brewers and such.
Devlin did not think his papa was a brewer. The grooms were friendly, the tack was spotless and tidy, and the horses… Devlin peered down the aisle at the equine heads hanging over half doors.
The horses were magical. They were huge, glossy, and glorious even in their winter coats. Their expressions were alert and confident, somehow regal. If horses could be generals and colonels, then these horses would be.
