Free Duke and His Duchess by Grace Burrowes Page B

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.

Four
    “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