The Duke and His Duchess - By Grace Burrowes Page 0,38
body and changed everything in the blink of an eye.
Changed everything again.
There were two of them. Two small children who’d not known their father’s love or protection. His knees threatened to buckle, and still he did not know what to say.
“Percival?”
Esther spoke his name in dread, which he could not abide. He held out a hand to her. “Esther, please listen. Please, please listen.”
She aimed a puzzled frown at his outstretched hand, as if she did not comprehend what she beheld.
“Esther, you must listen to me.” Or he’d shoot Cecily Donnelly before witnesses then shoot himself. “I did not want for you to be hurt. You must believe that.”
Bart’s voice pierced the cold around them. “We’ve got her! Blast, you let her go!” The coach horses shifted in their harnesses and still, Esther merely regarded him.
“I think it possible I am not hurt after all. Who is the little red-haired girl, Percival?”
“My daughter and Cecily O’Donnell’s—may God have mercy upon me. I became aware of the child—I met her—only a few days past. Her name is Maggie, and she’s very bright.”
Perhaps he shouldn’t have added that last. Percival let his hand fall to his side, and yet still, he held out hope that Esther might eventually forgive him. He knew from her expression that she was thinking, and that had to be encouraging.
She worried her lower lip while Percival uttered prayers more fervent than any he’d offered up in the Canadian wilderness.
“You know Devlin is your son?”
“I do now. His mother said nothing to me.”
“She said a great deal to me, most of which I had to agree with.”
From the barn, a girl’s voice called out, “She’s coming around the saddle room! Run, you lot!”
“Esther, may we continue this discussion where we have a measure of privacy?”
“Yes.” She strode across the alley and took his arm. “We had best. Come sit with me in the garden.”
His first thought was that a garden in winter was a depressing place, all dead flowers and bare trees. When Esther had him situated on a cold, hard bench, it occurred to Percival that here, while his marriage died a painful, civilized death, helpful servants would not intrude to ask if he wanted a bloody tray of perishing tea.
Esther took his hand. “Tell me about Mrs. O’Donnell, Percival, but be warned, I am not prepared to be reasonable where she is concerned.”
Where to start? “First, you must know I loathe the woman. Second, you should also know I went to the theater with her last night.”
Esther slipped her fingers free of his. Percival grabbed her hand right back and held it shamelessly tight.
“Husband, I do not understand you. You sport about before all of Polite Society with a woman you loathe, while the wife you profess to love is sent out into the countryside. You are generally very direct, Percival. You will have to explain this apparent contradiction to me.”
In her exaggerated civility, Percival realized that Esther was nowhere near as composed as she wanted him to think—a fortifying thought.
“Mrs. O’Donnell threatened the girl, threatened to make a bad situation worse. If I lent the woman my escort, she would spare the child and allow matters to go forth as if we maintained a cordial liaison. If I refused her my attentions, she’d stir the scandal broth at every turn and ensure the child—my own daughter—had no chance at a decent life. I needed time to make provisions for Maggie and placated that woman accordingly.”
Esther was silent for long moments, but she at least let Percival keep possession of her hand. “Vile woman. You must teach me some curses so I might better express my sentiments toward her when I am private with you.”
His wife contemplated being private with him. The reprieve of that revelation was vast. Even so, Percival did not relax his grip on her hand. “I’ll teach you every curse I know. Tell me about the boy.”
This question seemed to relieve Percival’s wife. She smoothed her skirts with her free hand, relaxing in a way that communicated itself mostly where they held hands. “He has your love of horses, very pretty manners, and he does not know he won’t see his mother for some time. I thought you would be wroth with me for not consulting you, but I can see you had your hands full with other matters.”
Percival brought her knuckles to his lips, and again did not know what to say. When he’d been busy skirmishing with the enemy and