Page 86 of The Truth About Dukes
Althea and Nathaniel’s nuptials were held on Friday morning in the Lynley Vale formal parlor. Stephen had been summoned back from Fendle Bridge, and it was agreed by some process to which Constance was not privy that a council of war would gather after the wedding breakfast.
“You aren’t eating,” Rothhaven said. “One must keep up one’s strength, I’m told.”
Constance fiddled with her wineglass, though for the first time in her memory, the siren call of alcohol had gone silent.
“One must rest too, sir. I find that activity best pursued when you and I share a bed.”
At the end of the table, Jane raised an eyebrow at that remark, the gesture so subtle that Vicar Sorenson, seated at her elbow, likely hadn’t noticed.
“And I,” Rothhaven said very softly, “sleep better under the same circumstances. Patience, my love. The settlements have been signed, Cranmouth has been dispatched to research the legalities, and today is an occasion for joy.”
Rothhaven’s thoughts reminded Constance of a cabinet with many drawers, and when he closed the drawer markedConstruction of the Gatehouseand opened the drawer labeledLegal Incompetency Claim, the gatehouse might as well be on an estate owned by some other duke in some other county.
Perhaps that was another legacy of time in Dr. Soames’s care. “I wrote to Ivy again,” Constance said. “Not knowing if she’s receiving my letters is driving me barmy.”Wrong word. Wrong, wrong word.
“Write to her anyway. Mrs. Hodges struck me as an individual blessed with a strong practical streak. If she can see a way to get your letters to the girl, she will. Keep copies.”
“Because if the original never reaches Ivy, someday, the copy might.” What a bilious notion. “Althea and Nathaniel look besotted.”
“Are you as happy for Althea as I am for Nathaniel?”
Rothhaven’s gaze as he beheld his brother—who at the moment was kissing the back of Althea’s bare hand—was an expression Constance would have to paint to understand. Tender, wistful, proud, perhaps loving was the best way to describe it, but also a touch sad.
“For Althea, I am overjoyed. She and Nathaniel suit, and she was resigned to never suiting anybody, to settling. I am glad she didn’t settle.”
“Did you settle, Constance?”
Quinn heard that remark. He and Stephen were engaged in a lively discussion about exporting birds’ nests to China, but a slight pause between Stephen’s question and Quinn’s reply suggested no privacy was to be had among family. Ever.
“Yes,” Constance said, spooning up a bite of pear compote in cinnamon and clove sauce. “Yes, I did compromise. When I chose to believe Ivy’s father’s flattery and refused to tell Quinn the varlet’s name. When I fled the protection of my family, when I took up the most menial and obscure occupation I could find. I compromised, and the result would have been tragic, had I not met you.”
Rothhaven took her hand, and that gesture fortified Constance sufficiently that she could finish her declaration, even though the table had gone silent, and Jane looked quite severe.
“I compromised,” Constance went on, “when I allowed Quinn to arrange for Ivy to be raised by the Wilsons. I most assuredly compromised when I sat like an agreeable statue in one Mayfair ballroom after another. I compromised and compromised and compromised, but no more. No more compromising, Rothhaven. I will have my duke, I will be the duchess who happily paints away her seasons on the Yorkshire moors, and I refuse to compromise.”
God in heaven. Constance’s entire family, plus Nathaniel and the vicar, were looking at her as if she’d sprouted horns and a tail. She put down her spoonful of compote and wanted to slither under the table. An apology tried to muddle forth, something about not meaning to air sad linen on such a happy occasion. She looked up and happened to catch Quinn’s eye.
He was smiling, and Quinn smiled so seldom that Constance had forgotten the breathtaking warmth he could display. His daughters and his duchess were the usual recipients of his rare smiles, but he aimed the full-on version at Constance now.
He lifted his glass. “To not compromising on important matters, and if Rothhaven is to blame for your newfound sense of resolve, then I suppose we must thank him and welcome him—himtoo—to the family.”
Heat stole up Constance’s cheeks, even as a measure of joy pushed aside the worries plaguing her so sorely. Quinn had started the toasts that invariably accompanied any wedding breakfast, and as Jane stood to offer felicitations to the newlyweds, Quinn rose to fetch a fresh bottle of wine from the sideboard.
He passed behind Constance’s chair and bent low enough to whisper in her ear, “Welcome home, my lady,” then sidled on by with all the savoir-faire to which a bank nabob turned duke was entitled.
“What did he say?” Rothhaven asked.
“He said he loves me.” Said he’d always loved her, and said he blamed himself for the whole sad business all those years ago. Silly man. Silly, dear, dear man. “You were right, Rothhaven.” Constance took a taste of an exquisite dessert.
“I am frequently right. To which occasion do you now refer?”
“You said today is a joyous occasion.”
“When I am with you, the occasion is always joyous.”
And that was not flattery, that was Rothhaven speaking the truth, as he invariably did. Constance finished her sweet as the toasting and laughter rose around her, and a trickle of worry managed to wash back over her joy.
She was not being entirely honest with Rothhaven. She absolutely did intend to spend the rest of her life as his duchess, painting away the seasons, running his household, and raising his children—and also, God willing, her daughter—but she did not trust Cranmouth to adequately defend that future.
