The Duke and His Duchess - By Grace Burrowes Page 0,22

aged well.”

“Will I go with you?”

“You’ll go back to Morelands.” Leaving Percival’s flank unprotected but guarding the home front.

“Did you breed Comet overmuch this autumn?”

Percival stared at his brother. “I did not. Why?”

“He hardly noticed there was a female present, not in the sense a swain notices a damsel.”

“Neither did I.” Which, thank a merciful deity, was nothing less than the complete truth.

***

“Did you enjoy your meal, Esther?”

Esther paused in setting up the white pieces on the chessboard—Percival insisted she have the opening advantage—and regarded her husband. “We’re having rather a lot of beef lately. Cook must have misplaced the menus I gave her.”

Percival regarded one of her exquisitely carved ivory knights then passed it across to her. “Perhaps Cook is trying to turn the butcher’s boy up sweet. The shires can do with one or two fewer cows.”

Several fewer cows. Percival had taken to passing her at least half his beefsteak at breakfast with a muttered, “Finish it for me? Mustn’t let good food go to waste.”

A kiss to her cheek, and he’d be off for his morning hack or to a levee or one of his “never-ending, blighted, bedamned committee meetings.”

In moments, they had the pieces arranged on the chessboard between them. Percival sat back and passed her his brandy. “A toast to a well-fought match.”

He was up to something—still, yet, again. Esther took a sip and passed the drink back. “To a well-fought match.”

She regarded the board with a relish she hadn’t felt since… “Percival, when was the last time we played chess?”

His frown probably matched her own. “Not since… you were carrying Victor? Or was it Gayle?”

They measured their lives in pregnancies and births, which had an intimacy to it. “Gayle. We played a lot of chess when I carried Gayle. You said the child would be professorial as a result, and he is.”

“Then perhaps we should get into the habit of laughing, in the event you’re carrying again. A merry little girl would liven up Morelands considerably.”

How was a woman to concentrate on chess when her husband came out with such observations? Did he want to try for a daughter, or was he saying Morelands lacked cheerful females?

“My love, I am atremble in anticipation of your opening salvo.”

Teasing, then. She was inclined to give as good as she got. “You should be atremble to contemplate your sons as grown men. If the mother’s behavior in gestation influences the child’s disposition, we’re likely to see a number of grandchildren at an early age.”

Percival’s smile was sweet and naughty. “I suppose we are at that.”

Esther opened with a feint toward the King’s Gambit, but whatever was distracting her husband of late, he was not completely oblivious to the pieces in play. She settled into a thoughtful game, sensing after about two dozen moves that Percival’s lack of focus would cost him the game.

“Percival, you are not putting up enough of a fight.” And the chessboard was practically the only place Esther could challenge him and enjoy it.

“I do apologize. More brandy?” He held up his drink, which he’d replenished at some point.

“A sip. Maybe you are trying to addle my wits.”

“Spirits fortify the blood. It’s my wits that are wanting. Shall I concede?”

Three years ago, he would have fought to the last move, teasing and taunting her, vowing retribution behind closed doors for wives presuming to trounce their husbands on the field of battle.

Three years ago, she had fought hard to provoke such nonsense.

“You’re going to lose in about eight moves. I won’t be offended if you’d rather we retire.”

He knocked over the black king with one finger. “I married a woman who can be gracious in victory. It shall be my privilege to escort that woman upstairs.”

In fact, he escorted her to the nursery, taking the second rocking chair when she sent Valentine off to sleep with his final snack of the day. The way her husband watched this bedtime ritual—his expression wistful to the point of tenderness—sent unease curling up from Esther’s middle.

When Percival had tucked “his favorite little tyrant” in for night and Esther herself was abed beside her husband, she reached for his hand. “Percival, I would not want to intrude into spheres beyond what is proper, but is something troubling you?”

His sigh in the darkness was answer enough, and when he rolled over and spooned himself around her, Esther’s unease spiked higher. “I received another communication from Peter today.”

She’d been expecting him to put her off, or worse, explain to her that