Page 19 of The Truth About Dukes
“If your efforts in the walled garden are any indication, you have a capacity for establishing order that will soon address the neglect I see here. The drainage ditch would be my first priority.”
To Constance’s delight, Rothhaven made an actual list—took pencil and paper from an inside pocket and jotted down notes as she strolled with him to the foot of the drive and back. At some point between bickering over the need for a gatehouse and arguing over the best place to install a ladies’ mounting block, Constance began enjoying herself.
Organizing a painting was all well and good. An image full of accurate renditions and appealing colors could still fail as a work of art for lack of sound composition. Organizing the approach to a stately home was a more compelling challenge. One couldn’t simply scrape away the paint and start over. The project had to be thought through down to every detail first.
“What about goats?” Rothhaven said, scowling at the weeds separating the parallel ruts of his driveway. “If I run goats through here for a few weeks, the groundsmen will have much less work to do scything the verges and breaking sod for the plantings.”
The longer they talked, the less His Grace glanced at the sky, the more his stride had relaxed. He’d fairly jogged up the steps of the terrace, and he stood outside the front door, hands on hips as he surveyed marble steps besieged by weeds, lichens encroaching on his balustrade, and flagstones heaving as a result of winter frosts.
“Althea uses sheep to keep her lawns in trim,” Constance replied, as Rothhaven made another note and tucked the pencil and paper back into his pocket. “Goats would do a more thorough job.”
“Would goats be an eccentric choice, though?”
Constance was framing a response along the lines of efficiency being more important than appearances when a coach-and-four trotted over the hill a half mile from the foot of the drive. She turned to Rothhaven to inquire whose carriage that might be and found herself standing quite alone on the sunny front stoop.
“I scarpered,” Robert said, regarding the fool in the mirror. “Dodged straight in the front door and closed it behind me. Lady Constance will never call here again.”
Beside him, Nathaniel was still lathering his hands over the breakfast parlor’s washstand. “You decided you’d had enough of a pretty spring day and took yourself back inside?”
Robert pulled a yellow leaf from Nathaniel’s sleeve. “I ran.I heard the wheels of a heavy coach off in the distance and bolted like a cat dodging under the porch when a dog trots across the yard. I am not ready for this. Not ready for callers, not ready to wander around out of doors, casual as you please, making a complete, utter, absolute,hopelessjackass of myself.”
“So why did you do it? Why make the attempt?” Nathaniel batted at his hair, which a trip to the potting shed had put in even worse disarray.
“Carry a damned comb,” Robert said, passing over his. “Potting sheds can leave a man looking tumbled.” He buried his face in a damp length of toweling and considered Nathaniel’s question. “I went outside because I needed to inspect the drive if I’m to take it in hand. Rothhaven Hall must acquire the appearance of a ducal residence. I thought having Lady Constance at my side would distract me from…things.” From the anxious weight of a wide blue sky, from the feeling of being watched from all directions, from a worry that had no source and no solution.
And shehadbeen a distraction. Her ladyship had a way of cocking her head, like a sharpshooter closing one eye to sight on a target, before she delivered her pithy conclusions. She smelled of goodness—roses and sun-warmed linen—and she could follow a conversation that leapt about from the gatehouse to the dry fountain to the best way to discourage lichens from defacing an ancestral pile.
“What about an approaching coach unnerved you?” Nathaniel asked.
“The sound of the wheels.”
“Why?”
Nathaniel was simply curious, simply trying to be helpful, but thank the angels who took pity on lunatic dukes, the ladies arrived at that moment, both of them looking cheery, tidy, and in charity with the world.
“I have worked up an appetite,” Lady Althea said, beaming at her intended.
“If you don’t cut line,” Lady Constance muttered, “I will take my meal with His Grace in the garden, and you two can dine in the potting shed.”
“A picnic sounds lovely.” Lady Althea serenely took the seat Nathaniel held for her. “I do adore a friendly meal al fresco.”
Lady Constance sent Robert a glance that communicated both humor and long-suffering. Nothing about her demeanor suggested he’d disappeared from her side not ten minutes before, without warning, explanation, or excuse.
“His Grace may ask to borrow some goats from Lynley Vale,” Lady Constance said. “The Rothhaven drive is to be reclaimed from the wilderness. I will pass on the soup. Lentils do not agree with me.”
The conversation at lunch was about Crofton Ford, this year’s crop of spring lambs, and the looming ordeal-cum-celebration of shearing. Robert listened with half an ear, then caught Nathaniel watching him with the guarded expression that suggested Robert had missed part of the conversation.
“I beg the pardon of the ladies, I was woolgathering.” Trying to fashion an apology for a reaction that had no rational explanation.Whyhad he run from the sound of coach wheels? Robert needed to understand that moment if he was to prevent himself from repeating it.
The meal concluded seven eternities later, with Nathaniel declaring that he wanted to show Lady Althea plans for landscaping Crofton Ford. Robert was once again thrown into the company of a woman before whom he’d committed a serious faux pas.
“I must have a tour of your walled garden,” Lady Constance said, rising. “I’d like to spend the rest of the season out there painting the joy you’ve created.”
“I will not abandon you in my flower garden, not unless you’d like to be abandoned. I am sorry.”
Nathaniel and Althea had all but sprinted down the corridor for the library, and thus Robert’s apology was made privately.
“I would like to be very abandoned in your garden,” Lady Constance replied. “With pastels, oils, watercolors, even charcoal. I could have an orgy out there with mere pencil and paper, as you’ve had an orgy with your flowers.”
