Page 47 of The Truth About Dukes
The feel of Althea in Nathaniel’s lap was already familiar and comfortable. She curled up like a large, contented cat, and some of Nathaniel’s anxiety ebbed.
“Constance was ready to plant Neville Philpot a facer,” he said. “Cranmouth was lucky she didn’t draw his cork.” The sight of somebody else ready to do battle on behalf of Nathaniel’s afflicted brother had been heartening and disconcerting. Even Althea’s participation in that drama had been an adjustment.
“And yet,” she said, “neither solicitor truly yielded Constance any authority over the situation, did they? When you showed up, matters began to sort themselves out.” Althea traced Nathaniel’s features with her index finger, her touch as soothing as birdsong on a summer morning.
“You are worried about Philpot?” Nathaniel asked. Lady Phoebe Philpot had taken Althea into extreme dislike, mostly because Lady Phoebe was perpetually bitter, and the daughter of an earl had to yield socially to the sister of a duke. Such a pity, that.
“I am worried because you are worried,” Althea said, “and because Philpot and Cranmouth looked thick as thieves as the coach horses trotted ’round the corner. Constance and I—our whole family—will do what we can for His Grace, but Rothhaven will always need you too.”
“And I will always worry that I’m inadequate to defend my brother’s interests.” Which could not be helped. Nathaniel kissed his intended, for courage, for luck, for the sheer pleasure of kissing her, and because speculating about what mischief Philpot might get up to was depressing in the extreme. “When can we be married?”
Althea had brought the wonderful news that the king was being reasonable regarding the confusion over the title.
“Constance says that I am the older sister and thus I must speak my vows first. I think she likes the idea of being courted by a duke.”
Althea gently bit Nathaniel’s ear, and he resigned himself to temporary, unrequited arousal, a lovely problem to have.
“I didn’t think Constance set much store by titles.”
“She doesn’t, but she very much enjoys watching Quinn and Stephen at a loss. You and Rothhaven are their equals, socially, intellectually, and otherwise. Consternation on the part of the Wentworth menfolk is too delicious not to be savored. My lord, I do believe you will soon be in a state.”
“I will be perpetually in a state married to you. I’m looking forward to it.” Nathaniel was not looking forward to another blasted game of chess.
Althea began setting up the pieces in their starting positions. “I love chess, but you really must try harder, Nathaniel. No gentlemanly scruples about seizing my queen, if you please.”
He set his king back in position. “If you say so, my lady. Perhaps you’d like to be white this time?”
“That would be splendid.”
She turned the board around, her hand brushing his, and Nathaniel resisted—barely—the urge to throw the board against the wall and howl.
Robert held his intended, loving the sturdy feminine curves of her body, the robust energy of her mind, and the ferocious passion of her heart. How on earth, how on God’s beautiful, green, lovely earth, had no other man caught Constance Wentworth’s fancy in all the time she’d been apart from him?
But then, he knew how. Artemis Ivy Wentworth accompanied her mother everywhere, waking and sleeping, a living presence carried in the heart by love, worry, and determination.
“Shall we return to the house?” Constance asked. “I don’t want to overtax you.”
Robert rested his chin against her crown—her hat had gone tumbling to the grass. “It’s not like that. I had a seizure yesterday, then I napped thoroughly. By the time I handed you down from the coach, I was myself again. That seizure could have been a week ago for all it affects me today, and I might not have another incident for a month.”
She stepped back. “Or you might have one twenty minutes from now. This affliction is diabolical. What is that?” She kept hold of his hand and led him around a row of plum trees. “You arranged a picnic?For me?”
“I hoped to share a meal with you, even if in parting. One wants pleasant memories.”Onewanted so much more than that, with a hunger that made Robert’s heart ache. The pain was sharp and sweet, like a soldier’s longing for home. To hurt like this was to be fully human, inviting life to roll forward in all its messy glory.
Truly, spring had arrived to Yorkshire and to Rothhaven Hall in the person of Lady Constance Wentworth.
“One wants a midday meal too.” She dropped to her knees on the blankets. “Althea put me off my breakfast. I suggested she speak her vows before I do, mostly so she won’t big-sister me all the way to the altar. I hope that plan is acceptable to you. What a lovely effort you went to.”
“The kitchen went to. I took the liberty of consulting Monsieur Henri.”
“Althea’s cook is a marvel.”
Rothhaven knelt on the blankets with her, a large wicker hamper between them. “Do you ever draw self-portraits?”
Constance paused, a corked flask of lemonade in her hand. “I do, not often lately because I have other, more interesting subjects to work on. Why?”
“If I were a better artist, I’d sketch you as you are now, midday sun bringing out the red highlights in your hair, your curiosity and vitality in equal evidence.”I love you.He tried those words out mentally, knowing them to be true.
She set aside the lemonade and went diving for treasure again. “I wonder if Artemis kept her red hair. She got that from her father, but a baby’s hair can change. Her eyes were blue. I’m told with babies, eye color can change too. Within a year, green or brown hues can emerge. Oh, this is Monsieur’s luncheon bread.”
