The Soldier by Grace Burrowes

Author:Grace Burrowes [Burrowes, Grace]
Language: eng
Format: epub, mobi
Tags: Historical romance, Fiction
ISBN: 9781402245671
Publisher: Sourcebooks Casablanca
Published: 2011-06-06T21:00:00+00:00

“Esther.” The Duke of Moreland smiled as he found his wife in their private sitting room, already dressed for the day. “I thought you were going to sleep in?”

“I thought I was, too, but Rose leaves us today, and this makes me restless.”

“Ah, but, my love.” The duke tugged his wife of three decades down to sit beside him on the settee. “Rose had a smashing good time, didn’t she?”

“She did.” The duchess smiled at him. “She got you out and about but kept you at a reasonable pace. Every fellow recovering from a heart seizure should be assigned a little granddaughter to keep him in line.”

“I am recovering,” the duke said, eyeing his wife. “Not a hundred percent yet, but I’m coming along. Morelands is good for me.”

“Morelands is lovely.”

“I don’t think Morelands is agreeing with St. Just.”

“What makes you say that?” The duchess kept her tone noncommittal, though His Grace thought she’d come to the same conclusion he had.

“I was on my way out to the rose garden to see how the white roses are coming along, and I happened to be on the other side of the privet hedge when St. Just was bidding Amery good-bye.”

“I think they’ve gotten on well.”

“St. Just was crying in the man’s arms, Esther.” The duke shook his head. “Nothing havey-cavey about it, he’s just… He’s still upset, and Amery doesn’t pull any punches, God knows.”

“Devlin cannot tolerate boredom,” the duchess said. “His demons plague him when he’s idle, and I fear we excel at idleness here at Morelands.”

“Mayhap.” The duke patted her hand, as pretty and slim as any girl’s. “I have never known what to do with that one, Esther. He’s just… he insists on holding himself aloof, and all he’s ever asked me is to buy him his colors and one decent horse. Ten years later, England is victorious, two sons are dead, and another probably wishes he were.”

“You think it’s that bad?”

“Maybe not now.” The duke stroked her hand, searching her eyes. “Val and Westhaven report his drinking has moderated, and he’s been in regular correspondence with them, his steward in Surrey, and his man of business. Maybe he and Amery just went a bit nancy on us—happens in the army, I’m told. And the women in Yorkshire all look like sheep after a certain age, anyway.”

“Percival Windham”—the duchess retrieved her hand—“you repeat that nonsense in polite company, and I will hide every tin of chocolates from which you are cadging your treats.”

“Just a thought,” the duke groused. “Something’s still amiss with the lad, and I’ll be damned if I can fathom it. Why don’t you talk to him?”

“I’m not his mother,” the duchess, said, but she couldn’t hide the pain flashing in her eyes as she repeated a refrain His Grace had heard from her often through the years. She’d loved the boy from the day he’d arrived at the age of five, bewildered, heartbroken to be cast from his mother’s side, and determined not to be intimidated by ducal grandeur; but Esther would not interfere between Percy and his firstborn.

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