Free The Art of Duke Hunting by Sophia Nash

she had just goaded the Duke of Norwich. She should not be so forward and provoking. It bordered on impolite—something she had never been in the past. She just wasn’t sure why she couldn’t stop herself.
    Oh, she had a very good idea. It was the past. Her husband had chosen whiskey over a long life with her. And yet he had not been able to help it and so she couldn’t blame him even if she secretly did. And that irritated her more than anything for he had seen the good in her when no one else had. And he had married her when no one else would. She had been a wallflower of the first order. He had rescued her from entrenched spinsterhood, and a lifelong sentence of uncompromised virginity. And then he had taught her all about pleasure, and about love, before he had fallen into the grips of a passion stronger than his with her.
    The duke was leading her to one of the long tables, and the common folk made a space for the two of them. They sat side by side instead of across from each other. It was too bad the villagers were so in awe of him that there was not a chance of anonymity. They were surrounded by avid listeners.
    He seemed to be able to read her mind and so they ate in relative silence. He consumed more food than she had ever witnessed someone eat in her life. Chicken and cabbage, lamb pudding with raisins, and even the beef with boiled potatoes. He did, however, push aside the breast of duck.
    His table manners were flawless. He held his fork and knife as if they were artist’s tools and the food was the medium. She watched as he quickly and deftly removed the skin of a pear without once touching the fruit with his fingers. And then she remembered what those same fingers had done to her.
    Not for the first time did Esme remember what had happened between them not so very long ago—but what seemed almost a lifetime ago. He was so very handsome, like a prince—no, a king—come to life. But she was no princess. She was more the coach that turned into a pumpkin at midnight. And she was certain the events of that night would never be repeated. She wasn’t even certain she would want them to be repeated. The intensity of it had been unnerving.
    Eventually a small group of musicians gathered and began tuning their assorted instruments. “Shall we?”
    “Are you certain you want to?”
    “Why I love to dance, March. I like it almost as much as I like gambling and drinking and carousing.”
    “Of course you do.”
    He was trying to tease her.
    “And besides, March, you won’t need your spectacles to dance.” He stretched out his palm and she placed her own in his and he led her to the center of the square. The shadows of the trees and the lanterns within them created an eerie yet romantic atmosphere. Surprisingly, in this rustic setting, the musicians began a waltz.
    He grasped her waist in one hand and her fingers in the other, exerting complete control of their movements—just like he had at the end of the surreal, intimate act in the ship’s cabin. It was a minute or two before he chanced to speak.
    “So what was he really like, March?”
    “Who?”
    “Your husband of course.”
    “Why do you ask?”
    “Because I refuse to talk of the weather. And . . .”
    “And?”
    “And I refuse to talk about me.”
    “But all dukes like to talk about themselves.”
    He smiled. “Not always. I rather remember your husband now. He was a, ahem, jovial sort as you said.”
    “That is putting it kindly,” she said. “He was a desperate case.”
    “And yet, you loved him.”
    She started. “That’s a very private matter.”
    He examined her face closely and she wanted to look away. “Yes,” he continued gently, “you loved him and I suspect he loved you.”
    She swallowed. “And how would you know these things?” Her voice was a bit too high-pitched to her own ears.
    “I am good at guessing.”
    She didn’t know how to respond. She didn’t want to respond. She had not spoken of this to