Hunters

“Zora,” Lecia breathed. She was beside herself with amazement and adoration. In her lap, not even removed from the box it had been wrapped in, was a small portrait of man a Duchess recognized painted by a familiar hand.

“It’s truly quite happenstance that I realized what it was,” her sister said, beaming. “For some reason it caught my eye as we were travelling through a shop, and once I knew, I could not have left it there.”

Tentatively, Lecia traced a fingertip over the curve of Chopin’s nose, and then she set the gift to the side and rushed to give her sister an affectionate hug. She truly did miss having her near all of the time. Laughing, they separated and Zora took her sister’s hands.

“I’m afraid every gift from now on will be a disappointment,” the elder giggled.

“Never,” Lecia countered. “You’re always so thoughtful. I, on the other hand, am often impersonal and, this year, entirely inconvenient.”

As a gift, Lecia had commissioned a beautiful evening gown for her sister. While the dress was well suited for Zora’s complexion and temperament, it was a neutral effort on Lecia’s part simply because the younger woman was terrible with gifts. Furthermore, the idea had been decent enough when she had asked Mr. Worth to do the work in July, but since then the Baron had passed away and it would be many more months before Zora could wear the light colored gown. Not to mention, the Duchess had never imagined that her sister would have become quite so large with child. It was debatable whether the garment would ever fit.

“Delacroix?” Vaughan asked his wife as she returned to the settee beside him. She smiled, admiring his eye, and nodded.

“Yes,” she said. “How did you know?”

“He painted my mam’s portrait. He has a distinctive stroke,” he explained, glancing at the piece and then back to Lecia.

“I didn’t know that your mother had a portrait,” she murmured so that no one else could hear. While it was an intimate gathering, they were at the Earl’s London estate, so there were additional members of her sister’s new relatives present. Namely, the nosey Countess.

“It’s in Itton,” Vaughan told her. “My grandparents’ farm is maintained as an additional source of income, so I had a small chapel built. The locals hail her as a saint, so it was only fitting they have a place of patronage.”

“Oh,” Lecia whispered. “I’d like to see it some time. Your mother’s portrait, I mean. The farm as well, I expect.”

He offered a half-hearted smile before shifting his gaze to Henry, who had risen to take a drink at the back of the room and beckoned the Duke join him. As Vaughan left her, Zora approached, baby Henry in her arms and an impish grin on her beautifully round face.

“You must hold him,” the new mother insisted.

Lecia peeked at the infant wearily and quickly took in her surroundings. Their mother was on a nearby sofa, clearly brimming with excitement. The Countess was distracted—for the moment, anyway—so at least she might not witness the impending debacle. Vaughan and Henry were engaged over scotch, which suited the baby’s aunt just fine, but before the Duchess could have even objected had she wanted to, the swaddled child was thrust into her arms with gentle urgency.

Little Henry was very small. Lecia was sure he weighed less than Harry had. She had never actually seen a baby, as they had close to no relatives and the ones the Harpers did have—Uncle Ruslan, for instance—had not started their own families. So, of course, she had never held one. It was an odd sensation, holding a person in that way. It would have been kind of her to say that he was precious to look at, but, as it was, the only adorable feature about him yet was his size. However, she could not overlook an innate affection for the boy. He was her nephew by blood; her sister had made this tiny living thing. Still, it was so fascinating to cradle in her arms the life of a child. One day, he would be a man; he would be an Earl and would have his own children, yet here he was, helpless and incapable of most things.

“Are you all right?” Zora asked, resting a hand on her sister’s arm.

“Yes,” Lecia answered, breaking the spell of captivation. She saw the truth in Zora’s eyes before she even knew herself; a tear had freed itself from her eye and tickled her cheek as it fell. “He is so precious,” she said despite herself.

“I know,” Zora agreed, holding back tears of her own. “I thought I had been full with happiness from Henry because how could there have possibly been any more room in my heart? But somehow my heart still grew with joy.” She caressed the baby’s soft cheek with the back of a finger, a natural smile playing over her lips. “There is nothing like it,” she said.

Lecia regretfully passed the infant back to his mother. Her own heart was filled with sorrows. Though she had accepted their father’s death, the appropriately monochromatic wardrobe she adorned was heavy with grief. While she and Vaughan had shared many months of comfortable companionship, there was still so much unsaid. And, although he had professed his love, lately he had withdrawn into himself and rejected her quite fervently. Most of all, she was haunted by the aches of her heart and bones to foster life into the world, yet it seemed that both nature and her husband overruled that maternal plea.

“I did not think you wished to be a mother,” Zora said softly.

Composed now, Lecia shook her head. “I had never been particularly excited about it,” she acknowledged her defiance. “But now…” Unconsciously, her gaze drifted to Vaughan and Zora hummed her understanding.

“À chaque fou plaît sa marotte,” the elder one said. “I trust you two will agree to something. Some day.”

“Perhaps,” the Duchess resigned.



It had been many months since Lecia had been in the pleasurable company of the Dowager Duchess, and she had almost forgotten how charming the woman could be. Entertaining them in her own den, there was no chance that Drothea Cantington would suppress her vicious tongue or retreat if it came to battle.

“Your soiree was the talk of town,” the Dowager said blithely.

There had never been a chance of amiability between them. The luncheon had offered Drothea an opportunity to assert dominance one final time over Vaughan and, in turn, over her replacement. Now, however, after tremendous success and winning innumerable favors, Lecia presented a substantial threat. If neutrality had been possible, it was not any more.

“I expected as much with it being such a sensational tradition,” Lecia replied.

“Of course,” Drothea pursed her lips.

Lecia offered an easy smile and took in the disheartening sight. Sarah sat silently beside her mother, the pruning and training apparent in her rigid posture and silence. Blanche was nearby, struggling to sit still, the conflict between her childish urges and disappointing her mother plain on her sweet face. Meanwhile, Vaughan had taken William for a less feminine chat and left Lecia to fend off the frenzied lioness on her own.

“Should we expect Sarah out next season?” the young Duchess asked.

The girl perked up at the sound of her name and peeked at her mother for an answer. Clearly the Dowager and her daughter had discussed the topic before. Sarah was young—fourteen, now—but she had matured early and would likely fair quite well at the season’s events. She wouldn’t be expected to marry right away, anyhow, and her mother had undoubtedly instilled values to aid her expeditions through the monotonous garden parties and dazzling smiles.

“I think not,” the Dowager frowned. Sarah’s expression shifted quickly back to disinterest to mask disappointment. “Even you yourself were not out until just this year at eighteen.”

“That is true,” Lecia offered comfort to the young woman. “Though my father was never invested in town, and mother was content in the country. I imagine it must be very hard to remain so near to the events and yet be kept from them.”

“I hardly think your opinion on the matter is of any consequence,” Drothea snarled. “Your marriage to my step-son was quite the scandal, and your upbringing lacks all knowledge and experience of the subject.”

“I understand,” Lecia said graciously. “Do you girls ride, then?” she asked after a moment, glancing between stoic Sarah and Blanche, who was quite eager to focus on something other than discomfort.

“What manner of questioning is this?” the Dowager hissed before her children could speak.

“The polite kind, ma’am,” the Duchess said calmly. “Now, I believe I inquired with your daughters and I should like to hear their responses.”

The older woman was steaming with fury.

“Mother says…” Sarah started hesitantly, “that a lady has no place on top of a horse.”

“Does she?” Lecia sighed, taking in the crestfallen eyes of her new sisters and the delighted countenance of her not-quite mother-in-law. “I think most ladies would consent to riding aside. If the Queen may do it, who are we to find Her Majesty’s actions unsuitable?”

“Is it difficult to learn?” Blanche asked eagerly.

“Heavens no,” Lecia grinned, noticing the grim furrow of Drothea’s brow. “It’s not to everyone’s taste, but if you have a fondness for it you’ll pick it up quite easily. There’s certainly more to it than just looking pretty, though.”

“When did you learn?” Sarah asked shyly, sensing her mother’s displeasure.

“As a very young girl,” the Duchess said. “Being in town these few weeks has interrupted my daily ride just a bit, which is a great loss when it’s become as much of a daily necessity as brushing my hair.”

“Truly?” the girls gasped, eyes bright and wide.

“Most definitely,” Lecia confirmed. “You two shall have to come out to Martis next summer and I shall have your brother teach you. It will be good to get out of London, either way.”

“Oh, yes please,” Sarah begged, a sense of youth returning to her staunch appearance. “We almost always summer at Martis and I missed it so.”

Lecia frowned this time. She hadn’t immediately realized that her presence was what had kept Drothea from the palace for the ball. Rather, she had known that being the Duchess had displaced the older woman and relished it somewhat, but Lecia had not considered that the Dowager’s children would feel displaced as well. She felt guilty for it.

“You are always welcome,” she said, including Drothea in the invitation. “That is a long way off, though, so pass the time by telling me about your Christmas.”

Maybe the Dowager would not accept neutrality, but by the end of the visit Lecia felt the older woman might allow for some suspension of involvement from time to time.


"À chaque fou plaît sa marotte" is a French proverb that means: a fool is pleased with his own folly.