Page 36 of The Truth About Dukes
“Yes.” Robert had given this some thought, when he was supposed to have been laying out annual beds for the drive. He and his duchess could sail from Hull to Le Havre and cut out some of the overland travel.
“You will be my wife, the woman who has forsaken all others to stand by my side. I traveled thirty-two miles by coach with Nathaniel when I was in worse health than I am now, albeit I was drugged at the time. I would need to keep the shades pulled in the carriage, and I’d rather travel at night under a waning quarter moon, but yes. I would come to Paris with you.”
“London?”
Robert considered the question as the cat batted away at the glass. They could sail almost all of that distance, and for some reason, the prospect of a coastal seascape was less intimidating than the prospect of parallel ruts undulating endlessly over the English countryside. Perhaps the sound of coach wheels was to blame.
“I will journey with you to London, if I must. As my wife, you could well risk your life in childbed. I can face the horrors of the capital to show my face at court.” That was hope speaking, uncharacteristic optimism.
“I detest London. I like you.”
I more than like you.“The sentiment is assuredly mutual in both regards, and yet, you hesitate to give me your answer.”
“I want to sketch you.” She swished through the door, across the terrace, and down the steps.
Robert followed, bemused. Constance hadn’t said no to his proposal, but she certainly hadn’t said yes. Perhaps this was a taste of married life, learning to read a sort of uxorial code.
“Will the bench do, my lady?”
“The bench will do nicely.” Constance fished a sketch pad from her reticule, stuck one pencil behind her ear, brandished another—brandished, that was the word for it—then took the far end of the bench. “Have a seat and think ducal thoughts.”
Robert had no sooner done as she’d bid him—thinking of his prospective duchess was very ducal—when Monty popped up onto the bench.
“Shameless beggar.”
Constance fell silent as Monty circled on Robert’s lap, purred, demanded to be scratched, and otherwise spoiled the moment.
She took up her pencil and made a few passes at the page. “I told Quinn that you would ask him about paying me your addresses. He was reasonable, considering he was surprised. Cat, settle or I will sketch you with horns.”
The cat walked across Robert’s lap and dug its claws into his thigh.
“Shall you have a long courtship with all the trimmings, Constance? I’m already steeling myself for the ordeal of divine services. I could flirt with you in the churchyard, share a hymnal, the usual silliness.” Though how much better if he could waltz with her at an engagement ball or even at a local assembly? How much more impressive if he could take her out driving in a fancy gig?
Maybe someday.
“I understand why a shorter engagement makes sense,” she said, “and I don’t need any silliness. What ails that cat?”
“He’s lonely, I suppose.” Or he sensed a seizure in the offing. Nothing to be done about it if that was the case. Robert picked up the cat and cradled him against his shoulder, which seemed to be what the dratted pest wanted.
“Quinn will arrange the settlements so that my portion is safe from any meddling.” Constance wrinkled her nose and squinted at her sketch.
“Prudent on your brother’s part. He should do likewise regarding Lady Althea’s funds as well. If Nathaniel should pre-decease me, God forbid, her finances and the ducal estate should be as separate as possible.” The bench was hard, the cat was hairy, and this was not how Robert had envisioned this discussion going.
“Quinn said you’d understand about that part.”
“Is there another part?”
“Yes.”
She went digging into her reticule again and came up with an eraser. “I am to tell you how I came to be a maid of all work.”
“You had a falling-out with your family.” She’d told him that years ago. Everybody condemned to Soames’s establishment had also had a falling-out of some sort with family.
“Not exactly. Keep looking at whatever you’re looking at. I was unhappy.” She glanced up as if to make sure Robert hadn’t moved. “I was wretched, in fact. I’d been raised until a certain age as Jack Wentworth’s get, good for nothing but the gutter, headed for a brothel or worse. Then Jack died, Quinn’s prospects improved, and without warning or explanation, our situation changed.”
“But did your situationimprove?”
“Not to my way of thinking. Instead of freedom to roam where I pleased, I was confined the livelong day. My feet were stuffed into pinch-y little slippers that I was forever losing. My hair was trussed up in braids and ribbons and infernally uncomfortable pins. My time was spent incarcerated in a schoolroom, where I was supposed to cram ten years of learning into two. Quinn was never home.”
