The Courtship (windham) Page 9

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.

  Acknowledgments

  This story is my first published novella, and as always when an author takes a new direction, there are thanks due. Deb Werksman, my editor, first suggested I try a shorter format. Dominique Raccah, my publisher, gave the OK to acquire the work and has been enthusiastic about its positioning. The usual suspects at Sourcebooks—Skye, Susie, Cat, and Danielle—deserve much thanks for putting up with a dynamic schedule. My thanks also go to my dear readers, who have come to hold Percival and Esther in almost as much affection as I do. Their Graces didn’t encounter entirely smooth sailing once married, but that’s another story…

  About the Author

  New York Times and USA Today bestselling author Grace Burrowes hit the bestseller lists with both her debut, The Heir, and her second book in The Duke’s Obsession trilogy, The Soldier. Both books received extensive praise and starred reviews from Publishers Weekly and Booklist. The Heir was also named a Publishers Weekly Best Book of the Year, and The Soldier was named a Publishers Weekly Best Spring Romance. Her first story in the Windham’s sisters’ series—Lady Sophie’s Christmas Wish—received the RT Book Reviews Reviewers’ Choice award for historical romance and was nominated for a RITA in the Regency category. She is hard at work on more stories for the Windham sisters and has started a trilogy of Scottish Victorian romances, the first of which, The Bridegroom Wore Plaid, will soon be on the shelves.

  Grace lives in rural Maryland and is a practicing attorney. She loves to hear from her readers and can be reached through her website at graceburrowes.com.

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