Page 75 of The Truth About Dukes
“You could not. I know that.”
I warned you this would happen.Robert kept those pointless, petty words behind his teeth. “I am still sorry.”
“I met my daughter,” Constance said, emotions roiling and seething beneath her words. “For years, that was the sum of my ambitions, and had you not spurred Miss Abbott’s efforts, I might have never even seen Ivy.”
The busy green came into view, and a wave of physical fatigue washed over Robert. “You could follow her to Australia.” Those words needed to be said.
“Not without you,” Constance replied, “and I won’t ask that of you.”
I’m sorry for that too.“I see Lord Stephen, trying to look harmless and bored. Shall we have him up to our sitting room?”
“That will cause talk. I will shop for a bit and then join you upstairs soon. You should probably rest.”
Constance was being remarkably perceptive and considerate, though Robert felt dismissed. He felt, in fact, humiliated, inadequate, and unworthy.
“I do need a nap.” He risked a buss to her cheek, and she caught him by the hand.
“Ifailed, Rothhaven.Me—Lady bloody Constance, mother without portfolioordaughter. I failed to heed common sense when a young man flattered me shamelessly. I failed to speak up when Quinn assumed I would not want to raise my own daughter. I would hate myself for that, but what did I know? I was fifteen, panicked, and ashamed. I failed to find Ivy when the whole situation might have been resolved years ago. I failed to approach Whitlock Shaw appropriately and then made a bad situation worse. Your staring spell is not to blame.”
How he loved her, and how she broke his heart. “My staring spell did not help, and there will be others.”
“I knew you had staring spells, seizures, and a lovestruck brother when I agreed to be your duchess. I have not changed my mind, Rothhaven, and I shall not.”
“I will try to buy the ship Reverend Shaw has booked passage on. That might slow him downfor a short time. Passage to New South Wales isn’t arranged in a moment.”
Constance stroked his knuckles. “I adore you. You think like a Wentworth. Ivy calls the reverend Uncle Witless when she’s wroth with him.”
“We must not make the mistake of thinking him witless. I believe that is his worst fear, to be thought a fool rather than a conscientious man of God.”
“You could well be right. I will report to Stephen, and you will rest.” She kissed his cheek and strolled away, her every step conveying determination and courage.
Robert probably had another staring spell as he watched Constance’s retreat, or perhaps he’d simply become lost in thought, as the saying went. He was too tired to care, but he would most assuredly ascertain whether passage for an additional female with an appropriate companion could be booked on the ship Ivy would take in a few short weeks.
And if so, he would make those arrangements as quickly as possible, before selfish ends obliterated his more honorable inclinations.
Chapter Seventeen
Constance pretended to read Byron under the enormous oaks of the green. When she could no longer support that farce, she examined hair ribbons, particularly the bright green satins and rich brown velvets that would flatter a girl with Ivy’s coloring. When Constance had endured that torment as long as possible—Rothhaven needed quiet to rest—she wandered to the bench nearest the alewife’s stall.
Stephen hobbled over, tankard in one hand, cane in the other. He made a convincing tinker, and wearing the blue-tinted spectacles and rumpled clothing, he also managed to appear older than he was.
“I take it matters did not go well.” He remained standing, casually using the massive tree trunk for support. To any passerby, he’d be enjoying a patch of shade while perusing the market crowd. A few feet away, a lady would be doing the same on her solitary bench, while they politely ignored each other.
“Matterswent horribly,” Constance said. “Ivy is wonderful. If I try to explain the details to you now, I will end up marching back to Reverend Shaw’s house and drawing his arrogant cork.”
Stephen took a placid sip of his ale. “That’s encouraging.”
“Explain yourself.”Or I will draw your cork.The violence of Constance’s anger was both frightening—she never lost her temper—and inadequate. Ivy was bound forAustralia, and nothing Constance could do or promise would change that.
She was angry with Reverend Shaw and—for no defensible reason—with Rothhaven.
“For too long,” Stephen said, “you have been content to paint away your megrims, to have a nip or three on the bad days, and keep yourself to yourself. A daughter is worth fighting for, and that you want to plant Reverend Witless Show a facer doesn’t mean you’re a devil like Jack Wentworth. You are simply a mother frustrated beyond bearing.”
“Witless Show? Is that what they call him hereabouts?”
“The alewives are a merry lot. Would it cause too much scandal if I shared that bench with you?”
Such a question meant Stephen’s leg was paining him. “You had better not. Have you proper clothes with you or only the disreputable kind?”
