Page 61 of The Soldier
“She didn’t just walk away,” he concluded.
“She retreated to a careful distance,” the duke said. “I have every confidence had she survived, she would have reestablished contact with you when your discretion could be trusted. In this regard, she was much more praiseworthy than Maggie’s mother.”
“How do you reconcile yourself to this?”
The duke shrugged. “I was young and never expecting to inherit. There was not a more useless creature on God’s earth than myself as a young man. I behaved badly and have tried to right the wrongs I’ve done. Her Grace has had her hands full with me.”
“We all have,” St. Just muttered. “You know there were times when Bart and I were up to our knees in mud, living off cattail roots and whatever we could hunt, and he would turn to me and say, ‘At least His Grace can’t lecture us about duty now.’”
The duke looked chagrined but nodded. “I made the same mistakes with Bart my grandfather made with his sons, and my father made with me. Pathetic, but there it is. So promise me, St. Just, you and your brothers will do better, hmm? I will be watching from the right hand of the Father, drinking all the brandy I please, ranting at your brothers, and waiting for Her Grace. You may depend upon it. And see that you join me there in due course, or Her Grace will be unhappy. Wonder how God will deal with that?”
“You’d best not take up that position quite yet,” St. Just warned. “Rose told me before she left she wants more than this one summer with you. You are a bruising rider, and you know the best stories. As grandpapas go, you are in every way a capital fellow.”
“And you allowed her this fiction.” The duke smiled his most charming smile. “Your sons will do the same for you one day, St. Just.”
“Assuming I have sons.”
“Her Grace has remarked that your years of command will give you an edge when you take up parenting,” the duke said.
“Because I’m used to giving orders?”
“Because you’re used to having your orders ignored. But as to that,Rosecroft, I wanted you to know I’ve had a word with those fellows at the College of Arms.”
“Regarding?”
“Your earldom, my lad.” The duke glanced over at him. “And yes, I am meddling, but I don’t think you’ll mind if the language of your patent simply allows for your oldest child of any description to inherit.”
“Are you announcing a penchant for the St. Just line to produce bastards?” St. Just asked. “Shouldn’t it be my firstborn, natural, legitimate son surviving at the time of my death?”
“Should.” The duke’s tone became a bit frosty. “Should is not always a useful word. Your brother Bart should have lived, so should my older brother and your brother Victor. I flattered myself you would see any of your progeny inherit rather than have the Crown get its hands on what you will no doubt make a profitable little estate.”
“You’re sure I’ll make the earldom prosper?” St. Just asked, knowing the damage was done in terms of legal language.
“No doubt in my mind.” The duke grinned. “You and your brothers have the knack, unlike my humble self. I wield a wealth of influence, but had Westhaven not taken up the financial reins, that’s all I’d be wielding.”
“And you’ve told him this?”
“I have. Boy about embarrassed himself. Asked if I was enjoying good health or if I’d done something to aggravate his mother. I could answer yes to both honestly.”
“As you are always doing something to aggravate Her Grace,” St. Just concluded with reluctant affection.
“Just so, lad. Just so. For example, I am now going to wheedle my eldest into sharing just one more half a tot with his dear old papa, hmm?”
***
To St. Just’s great surprise, the duchess was up and waiting for him when he rose to depart before dawn the next morning. Breakfast had been a hurried business, with Val bleary-eyed across the teapot, muttering distractedly about scores and manuscripts. St. Just took himself down to the stables, where three more geldings were being readied for the trip north. Val would ride one, St. Just the other, and the third would carry a pack.
And there, on a dusty old tack trunk, sat Esther, Her Grace, Duchess of Moreland, in a night rail and wrapper, sturdy sabots on her dainty feet.
“Your Grace?” St. Just frowned down at her in surprise. “Does His Grace know you’ve taken to drifting abouten dishabille?”
“He is snoring peacefully,” she replied, rising, “but Percy told me you’d been laboring under some misconceptions, and this is the last we will see of you for some time.”
“Shall we sit?” St. Just offered his arm and escorted her out to a stone bench flanked by flower beds. He loved this woman, but he’d be damned if he’d ever gotten the knack of deciphering her silences.
“St. Just, I am a mother,” the duchess began, “and you will recall this when I tell you your mother loved you. My heart broke for her the day she left you here, and it broke for you, as well.”
It’s still breaking for you.She didn’t say the words. They were evident to him in the earnestness of her expression.
