The Courtship

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 fiancee 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?”