The Truth About Dukes Read online

“You fell silent. The lapse was momentary, not half a minute. We were discussing our earlier association, at the asylum.”

  He enfolded her in an embrace that invited her to hide her face in the crook of his neck.

  “You will be angry with me,” he said. “All those years ago, I notified your brother of your whereabouts. I saw his advertisement asking for information regarding a dear relation gone missing from York. You fit the description. I sent word to him anonymously—Alexander risked much to abet that effort—that a young lady matching the particulars had taken up employment at a facility familiar to me. Your brother replied within a week.”

  Constance took in his words, knowing that in all material regards, Rothhaven was honest to his bones.

  “You alerted Quinn to my whereabouts?”

  “I did. While I was prohibited from sending mail, Alexander had limited correspondence privileges. He was happy to do me that favor. I did not feel I had the right to impose on him again when it came to answering your note to me some weeks later. Nothing could have come from a correspondence between us in any case. You may explode now if you like. I won’t blame you.”

  Constance did not want to explode, exactly. She wanted to understand. “When you contacted Quinn, you took a risk with my welfare. You assumed my family would be kind to me, that they were not the reason I was on my own.”

  Rothhaven stepped back and took her by the wrist, leading her into the orchard, then closing the gate behind them.

  “I assumed your family was part of the reason you sought a position in service in a corner of the world the Almighty Himself preferred to forget. But we are not at our most rational when aggrieved at the age of fifteen, and the ad had been appearing in every paper I read for weeks. I demanded assurances from your brother that you would be well received, without recrimination or punishment. He provided those assurances by return post. You admitted to missing your family, to regretting that you’d caused them worry.”

  Rothhaven walked off a little way and slanted a look at her over his shoulder. “How I envied you a family who worried about you. I concluded that if I raised the topic of your brother’s search with you, you might well disappear again, perhaps even take ship. Surely the care of a concerned family was preferable to that outcome? As I said, I can understand if you are in a temper with me over this revelation, but I did not want a lie by omission between us.”

  “We are in accord in that regard. Is there anything else I need to know?” How different this discussion was from the passionate kisses they’d shared in the garden, and yet, both were intimate. Both required trust and courage.

  “Yes, in fact.” Rothhaven brought a branch heavy with pink blossoms to his nose, sniffed, then let it go. “I sent Miss Abbott a letter this morning apologizing for missing yesterday’s appointment and explaining that I became abruptly unwell. I informed her that regardless of any further developments in my situation with you, I was prepared to stand any expense involved in locating your daughter. Any expense, any effort. The search is to proceed with all due haste to a happy conclusion, whether you and I wed or not. I have meddled in your personal affairs. I believe that brings to three the total justifications you have at present for exploding.”

  Any expense, any effort. Constance heard those words, heard the absolute determination in them, and had to focus on the fading blooms overhead lest she turn into a watering pot.

  “You sent that letter?”

  “By express courier. I am determined on two objectives, Constance Wentworth. The first is becoming the best husband I can be to you. The sooner we speak our vows, the better, if you’ll have me. My second objective is to find your daughter so that you may be assured of her well-being, and decide on the best course going forward.”

  “Artemis is a by-blow. I don’t expect to be able to acknowledge her openly.”

  Rothhaven approached, his green eyes lit with some emotion Constance could not fathom. “Peers have by-blows as regularly as King George has fevers. If the child is happily situated, and you are content to dote on her from afar, so be it. If her circumstances lend themselves to her joining our household, then she will join our household. If you aren’t comfortable claiming her as a by-blow, I happily will. I prefer that option, actually, as it will lend the girl more consequence, but you are her mother, and your wishes must be controlling.”

  You are her mother. You are her mother. Said with such conviction, such certainty. “I am her mother.” Constance threw herself against Rothhaven, her heart exploding. “I am her mother, and I will be your duchess, and the very best wife I can be to you. This, I vow.”

  Chapter Eleven

  A man in love was willing to endure many hardships for the sake of his beloved. Witness, Nathaniel was enduring this chess match with Althea.

  “I love flowers,” she said, gaze on the bouquet Nathaniel had arranged on the windowsill of his sitting room. A lone tulip nestled among the last of the irises, the best he could do on short notice. “They make me sad too, though. Their beauty fades so quickly. A whole year goes by before they bloom again, assuming they can withstand our winters.”

  Nathaniel moved his rook. “Would we appreciate them as much if they were ever-blooming? I think half of what gets Robert through the winter is planning his flower beds, inspecting the ground to see if the bulbs are coming up, and fretting that they’ll come up too soon. Our siblings have left the garden.”

  The last time Nathaniel had looked out the window, Robert and Constance had been in a shocking embrace at Saint Valentine’s feet, which left a younger brother torn between relief—Robert was long overdue for some shocking embraces—and concern.

  “You aren’t attending the game,” Althea said, shifting a bishop halfway across the board. “Check.”

  Nathaniel had no interest in chess whatsoever. Althea was suffering the female indisposition. She’d announced this before he had bowed over her hand. That she’d share that information so baldly, and with such a disgruntled air, presaged an intimate and interesting marriage.

  Though how was a doting fiancé to receive such news? “You have me,” he said, knocking over his king with one finger. “Where do you suppose Robert and Constance got off to?”

  Althea caught him by that finger. “They are of age, courting, and sensible. I hope they are admiring the wonders of the potting shed.”

  “As do I, but it’s an adjustment, to go from worrying every waking minute about my brother, and knowing he’s somewhere within a very narrow range of possibilities, to being dismissed by him as if I’m a nosy footman.”

  Althea came around the card table to perch on Nathaniel’s knees. “I worry about my siblings. They aren’t eccentric to the same degree Robert is, but they have vulnerabilities. He’s making great strides, though, and Constance will be a ferocious ally.”

  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.” One wanted 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.”

  Robert said a silent prayer that Constance would always discuss her daughter with him so casually, so trustingly. That she would discuss everything with him so easily. Nathaniel all too often tiptoed through a conversation for fear of upsetting the invalid.

  A younger brother could have worse failings. Far worse.

  “I guessed at your appetites,” Robert said, “and having sampled Monsieur’s efforts, I thought you might enjoy them al fresco.”

  The luncheon bread was made from dough pressed flat and covered with chopped ham, cheese, and spices, then rolled up, baked, and sliced. Monsieur had been apprenticed to a cook in the army and had concocted that bread as a meal for men on the march.

  Constance set aside the bread and crawled around the basket. “There’s something else I’d enjoy al fresco.” She kissed Robert’s cheek and remained near enough that he caught the scent of her soap—orange blossoms with notes of clove and cinnamon. Warm, sweet fragrances apparent only in intimate proximity.

  “You are feeling frisky today, my lady.” And God help him, so was he. Robert was always aware of Constance as a woman, aware of her in ways he didn’t permit himself with any other female. He’d greeted her today prepared to be set aside as a bridegroom, and all that he’d lose if she cried off had been painfully clear.

  Mostly, he would have lost her—lost her companionship, her lively mind, her humor, her energy. But he would have lost as well the hope of a degree of intimacy that went beyond bodily urges. He’d never experienced that blessing and longed desperately to share it with her.

  Only with her, always with her.

  “I am feeling more than frisky, Rothhaven,” she said, starting on the knot of his cravat. “If there’s something I need to know about an epileptic man’s intimate needs or limitations, tell me now before I become too…”

  “Aroused?”

  “Eager. Is a mathematical all your valet can manage?” She drew off his cravat and began on the buttons of his shirt.

  “I don’t use a valet. The first footman tends to my clothing. I tend to me. To answer your question, I am unaware of any limitations on my ability to please a lover, at least as a function of my illness.”

  “You aren’t just saying that?” She ran her fingers inside the collar of his open shirt. “I can handle disappointment, you know.”

  “You are also adept at handling me.” By virtue of a loose hug, he started undoing the hooks at the back of her dress. “Some believe that sexual congress or onanism invites seizures. My experience of the former is limited, but based on my exhaustive familiarity with the latter, I can confidently refute that theory.”

  She rested her forehead on his shoulder. “Even your naughty talk is ducal. We will be so happy.”

  Because she believed that, he could believe it too. He could hope for happiness, not mere contentment, and even hope for joy. The magnitude of that gift, a future unlimited by infirmity or secrets, made his kisses luxurious, his hands cherishing.

  “I seem to have misplaced my clothing,” Constance said, some minutes later. Her smile assured Robert the errant articles were not much missed.

  “Shall you remove your shift?” Robert was down to his breeches and hoped to part with them momentarily.

  “I leave that up to you,” she said, lying back on the blankets. “I have always loved the scent of plum blossoms, and now I will have precious memories to go with their fragrance. Thank you for that. I knew I could find a man willing to overlook my origins—I am the sister of a duke and my settlements are generous—but I never thought I could find a man who could accept…” Her smile faded as she reached for him.

  “Not merely accept,” Robert said, coming down over her. “God spare us from the paltry consolation of mere acceptance. I love you, Constance Wentworth, madly, forever. Love you especially for who you were, and love you with equal devotion for who you always will be. You love with your whole heart, and with you I am helpless to do anything save follow your example.”

  Constance loved Robert with her whole body too, wrapped her arms and legs around him, explored his every muscle and sinew. Her touch awakened him from a long, lonely sleep into a blazing rapture, and when he joined his body to hers, the pleasure nearly overcame him.

  But not quite. He clung to the last shred of his self-restraint long enough to bring her with him into that place of transcendent joy. She matched him passion for passion, then demanded more, until he was wrung out, a man done in by glorious satisfaction.

  “You are a wonderment.” He whispered that, probably incoherently, as he slipped from her body.

  Some bright soul who was not the Duke of Rothhaven had thought to put her handkerchief on top of the wicker basket. Passing that handkerchief to Constance taxed the limit of Robert’s strength. He rolled to his back and Constance snuggled against his side, her contented sigh breezing across his shoulder.

  She kissed his biceps. “We might have a large family.”

  “Yes, love.” The notion of having children terrified Robert, for childbed was a dangerous place, but Constance was not afraid. She apparently wasn’t afraid that their children would have the falling sickness either, and for that Robert would have loved her even more, except he already loved her to the limit of his soul.

  He opened his eyes to see a mosaic of pink blossoms against a perfectly blue, sunny sky, and all the beauty and peace that sky could hold flowed into him. She had done this, given him back the sun, the sky, and his own heart.

  Whatever Constance needed of him, whatever he could do for her in return, he would do, and do joyously. He drifted off into the sweetest, most contented rest he’d ever known, while Constance slept at his side.