sitting beside Percival Windham, not touching him but wondering how—how on earth—she would describe the kisses that just passed between them.
Esther had regrets. She regretted not packing more of her best gowns; she regretted her family’s assumption that she could be any kind of aid to Michael in his marital machinations and any kind of check on his wagering impulses. She regretted bitterly that there hadn’t been time to devise some other plan for rescuing Lord Percival from Charlotte Pankhurst’s infernal schemes.
More than any of that, Esther regretted that she’d asked Percival Windham only for mere kissing lessons.
“He didn’t even blink,” she informed an enormous white cat curled at the foot of her bed. “Desperate spinsters must importune him for kissing lessons the livelong day.”
The cat squeezed its eyes closed, eyes that sported the same startling, lovely, rosemary-in-bloom blue boasted by Percival Windham’s eyes.
Esther paced the confines of her small chamber. “I have been accosted, you see. I have been groped and slobbered over, I have been propositioned, and I have even been proposed to.”
She shuddered at the memory of Baron Bagshot’s proposal. She’d had to help him up from his genuflection, and given the baron’s fondness for his victuals and the unreliability of his septuagenarian knees, the undertaking had been ungainly.
And he’d been so unabashedly
“I was supposed to consider myself fortunate, for he assured me I’d quickly be a widow and well fixed. What sort of bride wishes her husband into the grave?”
The cat rearranged itself to a sitting position.
“Percival isn’t the least bit conceited.” Esther regarded the cat, a creature born with a full complement of conceit. “He’s easy to talk to, and he smells good, and when he lifts one from a horse, one feels… dainty.”
Dainty was a novelty and precious. No other man had conjured this feeling in Esther’s breast, as if she might shelter in his arms, lean upon him, and enjoy conversing with his chin instead of enduring his conversation with the tops of her breasts.
“He has a determined chin, nothing retiring about it. I am in a sad case when I am besotted with a man’s chin… The way he uses his hands is equally enchanting, firm and… firm.”
Esther sat on the bed and picked up the cat, who had commenced to groom itself and looked none too pleased to be interrupted.
“My mama still berates us in wonderfully precise German when we transgress. She’s very practical, and I know exactly what is meant when a man and woman become lovers, cat.”
Because Esther was scratching the nape of the beast’s neck, a comforting vibration began to rumble forth from her confidante.
Esther whispered, her lips close to the cat’s elegant fur. “I should have asked him to become my lover. This is a house party, we’re sophisticated people, and even a poor relation in training is entitled to a few lovely memories.”
The cat began to knead Esther’s shoulder through her nightclothes.
“Naughty kitty.” She cuddled the cat closer, mentally assuring herself, for the thousandth time, that asking Lord Percival for his kisses had not been foolish and she would not regret it.
She would, however, regret not asking him for more.
The Marquess of Pembroke was a blond, shambling giant with genial features and a heartwarming devotion to his wife and daughters. As his father studied him, Pembroke sat by a mullioned window and pretended to read some thick tome, though no doubt a pamphlet on grafting roses or distilling perfumes lay between the pages of Pembroke’s book.
Pembroke pushed his glasses up his nose then rubbed the heel of his right hand absently against his sternum. The gesture belonged on an old man, but in recent years had become alarmingly characteristic of the Moreland heir.
His Grace launched himself into the room, lest he be found spying on his oldest surviving son. “Is your indigestion acting up?”
Pembroke blinked, set the book aside, and rose slowly. “Not particularly. Good day, Your Grace.”
“And the same to you. I trust your lady fares well?”
Bella had been present for last night’s meal, it being Her Grace’s decree that the family dine together in the evening, though formality had always characterized His Grace’s dealings with his sons.
“She’s out riding with the girls. It’s a fine day for a hack. Was there something I might do for you, Your Grace?”
His Grace did not remark the infrequency of Pembroke’s own ventures on horseback. As a younger man, Peter, like his brothers, had ridden like a demon—when his mother would not get wind of it—but marriage, or that ache in the man’s chest, had sobered the marquess considerably.
His Grace gestured to the settee. “May I sit?”
“Of course. Shall I ring for tea?”
His Grace flipped out the tails of his coat and appropriated the middle of the sofa while Pembroke subsided into his reading chair. “Tea won’t be necessary. Her Grace would like us to attend the last week of the Morrisette house party. The children needn’t come, of course, though I’m sure Lady Morrisette will make accommodation if you insist.”
He rather hoped the children would come, for both of his granddaughters were delightful young ladies who liked for their grandpapa to read to them and tell them tales of life at court.
Pembroke took off his glasses and fished a handkerchief out of his pocket, no doubt mentally fashioning a response while polishing spotless lenses.
“You never refer to her as my mother, as our mother. Did you know that?” Pembroke’s tone was not accusing, it was merely curious, perhaps carefully curious.
From parody to farce—or tragedy? “The duchess is rather attached to the privileges of her station. Is there a point you would make, Pembroke?”
“I love my wife.” Pembroke’s chin came up a bit as he said this.
“Your sentiments do you credit.” The duke’s answer was swift and sincere.
Also, apparently, surprising to them both.
Pembroke rose and stood facing the window, which looked out over the stables and nearer paddocks. “I have wondered how my parents contrived to have four children, given what I know of my progenitors now. She’s set the dogs on Percy and Tony.”
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.
