Children died in foundries, died and were burned horribly. How could Dodd not know his own offspring were just as fragile?

“How old is Anselm’s heir?” Esther asked.

Percival raised and lowered his tiny daughter and cradled her against his chest, because Esther’s question was pertinent. He wasn’t sure how, but it was very pertinent.

“He has a daughter, and a boy in leading strings. His lady believes in spacing her confinements, which imposition he reports to all and sundry before his third bottle of a night.”

“Not every couple is as blessed as we are, Your Grace. Who else would you consider to be susceptible to a change in vote?”

The Duke of Moreland left off flirting with his infant daughter and offered his duchess a slow, wicked smile. “My love, you are scheming. I adore it when you scheme.”

He suspected Esther rather enjoyed it too, though she no doubt fretted that somewhere there was a silly rule about duchesses eschewing scheming. What duchess could fail to aid her duke, though, when it made him so happy to have her assistance—and was such fun?

“A lying-in party, I think,” Esther said, smoothing a hand over Louisa’s hair. “I will have their ladies to tea, ask after the children, and mention your little bill.”

“You won’t mention it. You’ll gently bludgeon them with it. They’ll leave here weeping into their handkerchiefs.” And God help their husbands when the ladies arrived home.

“We’ll follow up with dinner,” Esther said, her tone suggesting she was already at work on the seating arrangements. “We’ll invite Anselm one night, and Dodd the next, and you can drag them up to the nursery to admire the children before we sit down.”

“We have very handsome children.” Percival ran a finger down Louisa’s tiny nose. “And I have a brilliant wife. It could work, Esther.”

“Divide and conquer. Pull Dodd aside one night, tell him your wife is haranguing you about this bill, and she’s recently delivered of another child. He’ll sympathize with you as a husband and papa like he’d never bow down to you as a duke.”

When a man should not be capable of holding any more happiness, Percival felt yet another increment of delight in his duchess. “Because Dodd’s naught but a viscount, and they are a troublesome lot. I’ll do the same thing with Anselm the next night and imply Dodd would capitulate, except he feared losing face with his fellows. My love, you are a marvel.” He turned to kiss her then drew back. “A tired marvel. I see a flaw in your plan, though.”

She cradled his cheek against her palm, looking tired—also pleased with her husband. “One anticipates most plans will benefit from your thoughts, Your Grace.”

He kissed her—a businesslike kiss that nonetheless nurtured his soul. “You will be lying-in. No political dinners for you for at least a month.”

She’d eschewed the old tradition of a forty-day lying-in several babies ago. Inactivity was not in the Duchess of Moreland’s nature.

“Two weeks ought to be sufficient, Percival. This was not a difficult birthing, and as that lady married to the fellow approximately sixty-seventh in line for the throne, I’ve decided I need practice making royal decrees.”

What she needed was a nap. Percival didn’t dare suggest that.

“Planning is one of your strengths, Esther. Though I do worry about your health. With each child, the worry does not abate, it grows worse. What proclamation are you contemplating?”

She kissed his wrist. “You need not fret, Husband. Every duchess has a carnivorous streak if she knows what’s good for her. I’ll soon be on the mend, or you’ll be slaying hapless bovines to make it so. Now attend me.”

“I am helpless to do otherwise, as well you should know.”

“The government will topple without you, I know that, your king knows it, and I suspect all of Parliament—when sober—understands your value, but I saw you first.”

She was tired, she was pleased with the night’s work—very pleased, and well she should be—but Percival also saw that his wife was working up to something, something important to her that must therefore also be important to him, even on Thursdays.

“Esther, I love you, and I will always love you. You need not issue a proclamation. You need only ask.”

“Then I am asking for my Thursdays back.”

“I wasn’t aware Thursdays had been taken from you, Your Grace.” And yet they had—they’d been taken from him, too, and given to the ungrateful wretches in the Lords.

“Percival, I recall that trip we took up to Town only a few years ago, when Devlin and Maggie came to join our household. I was so worried then, for us and for our children, and one of the ways I knew my worry was not silly was that you’d forgotten our Thursdays. I’m not worried now, but I think we need our Thursdays back.”

Something warm turned over in Percival’s heart. He loved his wife, but it was wonderful to know he was still in love with her too—more than ever.

“Parliament can go hang,” Percival said, stroking a hand over his duchess’s golden hair. “We shall have our Thursdays back, and no one and nothing shall take them from us, or from our children.”

The duchess’s proclamation stood throughout shifts in government, the arrival of more babies, the maturation of those babies into ladies and gentlemen, and even through the arrival of grandbabies and great-grandbabies—though given the nature of large, busy, families, Thursday occasionally fell on Tuesday or sometimes came twice a week.

Whether Thursday fell on some other day or in its traditional position, Esther knew she would always have her husband’s Thursdays, and his heart—and he would forever have hers.

Acknowledgments

My editor, Deb Werksman, is responsible for inspiring this novella. She read The Courtship and liked it, but told me I’d left half of Their Graces’ early story untold—the more interesting half.

The fact that I had not one clue what that more interesting story might be was of no moment to Madam Editor. She has faith in my abilities, you see. Such high regard provides a powerful boost to the imagination, and the result is the story you’ve just read.

So please add Deb as an honorary member of the Windham family, for I certainly do, and I’m sure Their Graces do too.

About the Author

New York Times and USA Today bestselling author Grace Burrowes hit the bestseller lists with both her debut, The Heir, and her second book in The Duke’s Obsession trilogy, The Soldier. Both books received extensive praise and starred reviews from Publishers Weekly and Booklist. The Heir was also named a Publishers Weekly Best Book of 2010, and The Soldier was named a Publishers Weekly Best Spring Romance of 2011. Her first story in the Windham’s sisters’ series—Lady Sophie’s Christmas Wish—received the RT Book Reviews Reviewers’ Choice award for historical romance, was nominated for a RITA in the Regency category and also made the New York Times list. She is hard at work on a stunning new series beginning with Darius, more stories for the Windham sisters, and has started a trilogy of Scottish Victorian romances, the first of which, The Bridegroom Wore Plaid, was a Publishers Weekly Best Book of 2012.

Grace lives in rural Maryland and is a practicing attorney. She loves to hear from her readers and can be reached through her website at graceburrowes.com.