The Truth About Dukes Read online

  “You are eager to become my duchess?” He sounded so normal, so in control of himself, while Constance was drunk with affection and a complicated variety of relief.

  “I am not particularly eager to become your duchess. We will be an eccentric couple, entertaining little, traveling even less. Most of our efforts will be absorbed with putting the Hall to rights. I am very eager to become your wife, though.”

  He kissed her ear. “And I am eager to become your husband, Constance Wentworth. You don’t mention the effort we will expend finding your Artemis. Ensuring that your daughter thrives is more important to me than designing a damned gatehouse or completing an inventory of the library. Are you cold?”

  “No.” She was warm, for the first time in years. “You?”

  “Not in the least, but if we remain in this state of delightful dishabille, I will soon be again comporting myself like a beast in rut. One doesn’t want to impose.”

  Constance shifted about under his jacket, then straddled him, the jacket over her shoulders. “Yes, one does. One wants to impose if one’s lover is willing.”

  He smiled not at her, but at her breasts, which he caressed in slow, considering strokes. “I learned not to notice desire. I taught myself to regard self-satisfaction as simply another aspect of personal hygiene, like brushing my teeth, until I could ignore the urge altogether.”

  He was already aroused, which made joining her body to his an easy, rocking slide of her hips.

  “Ignore my urges at your peril, Robert,” Constance said, setting up a rhythm.

  “I suspect—I fear—I will be a demanding husband, Constance. Perhaps a bit obsessed at first.”

  “Good.” She increased the tempo minutely, for already desire was routing self-discipline. “For I intend to be a very demanding wife.”

  He curled up off the blanket and seized her in an embrace that only ended when they were both limp, panting, and spent, he flat on his back, she sprawled on his chest, riding the rise and fall of his breathing like a happy little seabird on a sunny, joyous tide.

  “We will be married here,” Rothhaven said, making lazy patterns on Constance’s back. “Vicar Sorenson can preside on short notice so that the weather will not thwart our plans. I want the staff in attendance, if you don’t mind.”

  She loved the feel of his voice, loved the calm in all he said. Loved the scent of his skin, loved that he wanted to be married where they’d consummated their engagement.

  “Right now, Your Grace, I mind the prospect of putting on my clothes. I mind that I must move. I mind that I must open my eyes, but at least if I make that great effort, I will behold my beloved.”

  “You will also behold a picnic basket that includes servings of Monsieur Henri’s pear torte.”

  Constance opened her eyes. “I suppose we should keep up our strength. It wouldn’t do to expire of bliss prior to speaking our vows.”

  He patted her bum. “I am marrying a practical sort of duchess. Good to know.”

  Being a duchess didn’t sound so awful if it meant Robert would pat her bottom like that.

  They took their time getting dressed, with kisses, laughter, and even some truly inane tickling making the process more protracted. They fed each other sandwiches and torte, and drank from the same flask of lemonade.

  “You probably prefer yours sweeter than this,” Robert said, sitting cross-legged opposite Constance on the blanket. “I avoid consuming too many sweets, just as I avoid strong spirits. I’ve found that both are correlated with a greater frequency of seizures.”

  They had much to learn about one another, and seizures were only part of it. “I did not avoid strong spirits,” Constance said. “Even though gin ruined my father and eventually killed him, I have still been tempted by the oblivion to be found in a bottle. Althea has an occasional nip, but I don’t gather drink is a problem for her.”

  Robert took the flask and jammed the cork in the top. “Is drink a problem for you?”

  Nothing Constance could say in reply would drive him away, which gave her the courage to be honest.

  “Drink could be a problem. I hope it never will be, but Jack Wentworth was my father. He was a vile, lazy, violent man, and ultimately, he was self-destructive.”

  “What could be more mentally unsound than a man in good health, one blessed with precious children, seeking to destroy his own life?” Robert murmured. “And yet I did contemplate that very course myself. Then you came along.” His expression was alight with wonderment, with a bemused tenderness Constance had done nothing to earn.

  “When I was younger,” she said, “I told myself that as soon as I had pin money, I could find my daughter. Then I began the search, and Artemis was nowhere to be found. The drink helped me cope with that. The drink and the painting. I could be alone for hours, nothing but a canvas and my colors, and for a time, I could forget that a piece of my heart was missing.”

  “Tell me more about this missing piece of your heart,” Robert said, passing Constance a sandwich. “What do we know of her early situation, what direction is your inquiry agent pursuing now?”

  “The couple who took her in had no children of their own. They were clergy, both from large families. When Artemis was about seven years old, an influenza epidemic hit the town where her adoptive father was vicar. Both husband and wife died, and I wasted years pursuing the adoptive father’s side of the family, only to learn that the wife’s side took Artemis in. Her adoptive mother was one of eleven. My efforts have focused on finding the other ten siblings, in hopes that Artemis yet bides among them.”

  “If means and determination can find her, Constance, she will be found. Do we alert your family the ongoing progress of this quest, or wait to inform them when we have results?”

  Constance hadn’t thought that far, hadn’t considered repercussions. “I am bringing scandal down on my family if I try to take a place in my daughter’s life. I avoided involving Quinn in my search precisely because I did not want my scandal to touch him any more than it already had.”

  Robert took a bite of his sandwich. “If your sister should offer us her cook’s services as a wedding present, we will accept. As far as scandal goes, I will inevitably fall to pieces at some social event. Half the neighbors or what passes for good society in these surrounds will see me again disoriented, disheveled, fumbling for words, and unable to control my movements. If I do not create that degree of spectacle, I will have a staring spell at a formal dinner or in the churchyard. More lemonade?”

  “No, thank you. You are saying that a by-blow will pale in comparison to your disability?”

  He went rummaging in the wicker hamper. “I have two half sisters, courtesy of my father’s philandering. You may have met the one, Miss Sybil Price. Her parentage is probably an open secret—she looks nothing like the man who married her late mother. Nathaniel tells me some viscount or other is about to offer for her, and her irregular origins are no hindrance to that match whatsoever. This pear torte even smells divine. We ought not to let the last piece go to waste.”

  “Your smile is divine—also devilish.”

  He withdrew the torte and let the lid to the hamper fall closed. “So there’s Miss Price, marrying a viscount, and her papa was an adulterous, dishonest duke. You could easily present Artemis as my offspring and not a soul would question that story.”

  “But that would be a falsehood bruited about to spare me from shame.”

  Robert kissed her, holding the pear torte aside. “The purpose of the falsehood would be to spare the child the worst repercussions regarding her origins, and to spare your family the admission that they’d failed to keep you safe. Your brother might appreciate the gesture, because his banks are built in part on his good name.”

  “I have been all too aware of the impact my past could have on my brother’s business, which is most of the reason I’ve limited my search to very discreet inquires. This will grow complicated.” More complicated than Constance had realized.

  “For others, perhaps, but not for us,” Robert said, holding up the slice of pear torte for Constance to take a bite. “We will offer the child whatever resources will ease her way in the world, on whatever terms you and she choose.”

  “She may not want anything from me, may not know I exist, or may hate the thought of me. She’s still a minor. She will have family through the couple who took her in, and be very attached to them.”

  “Then she will acquire more family when we find her.”

  He was so confident, so unruffled in the face of complications, that some of Constance’s anxiety where Artemis was concerned abated. She would find a way to discuss the situation with Quinn—eventually—and they would do what was best for the girl.

  Constance spent most of the afternoon in the orchard with Robert, eating and drinking, talking and kissing, and sometimes falling silent to lie by his side and contemplate the glory of Yorkshire in spring. When they left to wander down the hill hand in hand, Constance knew that whether she ever found her daughter, she’d found the man she was meant to love for all time, and the sooner she married him, the better.

  “Nobody would blame you if you declined to attend services henceforth,” His Grace of Walden said, “though your gawking neighbors would doubtless miss the spectacle your convulsions provide.”

  “Doubtless,” Robert replied. He occupied the forward-facing seat in his own coach, Constance beside him. He recalled leaving his coach to take his place in the family pew, recalled indifferent singing, and then Sorenson reading the banns for Miss Sybil Price and William, Viscount Somebody.

  Then, more swiftly than it had in York some two weeks past, the damnable peculiar feeling had risen up as Robert had reached for Nathaniel, who was goggling in Lady Althea’s direction. The next thing Robert remembered was Walden and Nathaniel helping him to his feet and assisting him back into his coach.

  His Grace of Walden sat on the opposite bench looking peevish and severe. He thumped the roof once, far harder than necessary to signal the coachy to quit the churchyard.

  “Quinn,” Constance said, “you are not helping matters. My intended is not a spectacle.”

  “He might well have been making a point with that public display of infirmity,” Walden said, regarding Robert with a brooding sort of curiosity.

  Robert forced himself to sit up straight. “I do not appreciate being spoken of in the third person.” Getting out that sentence had taken effort, enunciating, stringing the words into the proper order, adding the note of hauteur…no small feat this soon after a shaking fit, and still he’d come off sounding a bit drunk.

  Walden held out his flask, perhaps a gesture of apology.

  Robert shook his head. “Ill advised. Give me a quarter hour. I’ll be fine.”

  “You won’t ever be fine,” Walden muttered.

  “And you,” Constance shot back, “will never acquire tact. Rothhaven has been honest about his malady. You’re simply upset because you were for once unable to control matters, and you deal poorly with feeling helpless. Rothhaven, by contrast, has the strength of character to endure the same challenge without pouting or fuming.”

  Walden looked like he’d been kicked in the balls, poor sod.

  “I’m feeling better already,” Robert said, “and in a sense, it’s best to get the churchyard debacle behind me. They’ve all seen me twitching and jerking, seen me dazed and undignified. They can have a good gossip, assure one another they will pray for my health, and get on with their impersonations of Christians.”

  Walden drank from his flask, an elegant silver vessel with a coat of arms embossed on both sides. “Does that mean we can anticipate a dinner party seizure? A Venetian breakfast seizure? A few seizures at the next summer fête?”

  “Stop it,” Constance snapped. “The falling sickness is a sickness, Quinn. It strikes where and when it pleases to.”

  Robert squeezed her fingers, though he could not recall taking her hand. “Be easy, my dear. Your brother is trying to understand a disability that has baffled mankind for eons.”

  “It sure as hell baffles me,” Walden said. “I have heard of the falling sickness, but the reality surpasses the description. You could have hit your head on the bloody pew.”

  “I have hit my head, my knees, my elbows, my hips…The seizures are relatively painless, though the illness is not.”

  Walden took another draw from his flask. “Does your head hurt? Your brother said you have headaches.”

  Exactly when had Nathaniel said that, and why? “Mild headaches occasionally follow the convulsions, as does fatigue and some mental sluggishness. Are we not returning to Rothhaven Hall?”

  Having the shades up allowed Robert to see where the coach was going, and passing the turnoff to the Hall engendered near-panic.

  “We’re going to Lynley Vale,” Walden replied. “Constance will doubtless want to fuss at you, as will my duchess. You will bear up manfully under this display of tender concern lest I have to shoot you for being difficult with Her Grace.”

  Constance nipped the flask from her brother’s hand. “When Quinn threatens to shoot you, it means he’s worried for you. An allusion to fisticuffs is an expression of friendly affection.” She tipped the flask to her mouth and passed it back. “He’s actually a decent fellow, if somewhat indelicate about expressing his tender sentiments.”

  Walden capped the flask. “To quote a man who appears to have earned your esteem, Sister, I do not appreciate being spoken of in the third person.”

  Constance stuck her tongue out at her brother, Walden became fascinated at perhaps the millionth sheep-dotted pasture he’d seen, and Robert allowed himself a smile.

  “It was only a seizure, you two, and a relatively mild one. If I’m not to hide away at Rothhaven Hall for the rest of my days, I will occasionally fall prey to my illness in public. Life goes on.”

  And that was something of a revelation. The seizure in York had been embarrassing, the seizure in the church aisle unfortunate, but what life didn’t include a bit of mortification or misfortune? Was avoiding either worth hiding away year after year?

  Maybe not. When a man could leave behind his self-imposed prison, tool about the countryside with his coach’s window shades up, contemplate marriage to the dearest woman in creation, and twit a hopelessly self-important peer, maybe the time to hide had finally passed.

  “Are we expecting guests?” Walden asked, pushing the curtain on his side of the coach all the way aside. “Whoever has come calling drives a very modest conveyance.”

  Constance sat forward, the better to peer out Robert’s side of the coach. “I’m not expecting anybody. That horse has come a distance, and on the Sabbath.”

  A gig sat at the foot of Lynley Vale’s front steps, the bay in the traces dusty, its coat matted with sweat. The beast was more sturdy than handsome, as was the vehicle. Travel on the Sabbath was reserved for emergencies, and some of Robert’s unexpected good cheer ebbed.

  “Perhaps it’s a friend of Stephen’s,” Constance said. “He has all manner of interesting associates.”

  When the coach came to a halt, Walden descended first, then handed his sister down.

  “I’ll see who it is,” she said, trotting up the steps without benefit of an escort.

  “Do you need assistance?” Walden asked, as Robert negotiated the coach’s steps more slowly than Constance had.

  “I can manage.” Though in truth Robert wasn’t quite as steady on his pins as he would have liked. “A seizure leaves me slow, mentally and physically, but the effects fade soon enough.”

  “Stephen has been training a horse for you. The beast is learning to stop and stand if the rider becomes at all tentative in the saddle. Revanche also stands on command. You tell him to halt, and he plants his hoofs as if Gainsborough were painting his portrait.”

  Walden was babbling, probably giving Robert time to get his bearings, and that was almost endearing.

  “I doubt I will have the nerve to ever again sit a horse,” Robert said, as the coach rattled off toward the carriage house, “but the thought is appreciated.”

  “With Stephen, one is often left to appreciate the thought. Why don’t you use a damned cane?”

  “I do, but some idiot forgot to bring it along when he stashed me into my coach.” The steps had a railing on one side, which was fortunate because that railing spared Robert from taking Walden’s un-proffered arm.

  Robert had no sooner gained the front terrace than Constance came barreling out of the house.

  “Robert!” She tucked into him, her arms tight about his waist. “Oh, Robert, Miss Abbott is here, and she’s brought the most wonderful, wonderful news.”

  “Tell me.”

  “We’ve found her! We’ve found my darling girl, and she’s living not thirty miles distant.”

  Robert embraced his beloved, the joy vibrating through her resonating with his own. He’d been the exile, the imperfect son banished to the shadows. To see mother and child reunited would heal that wound somehow, and make right so much that had been put wrong.

  “I’m glad,” he said, as Constance nearly squeezed the stuffing from him. “I could not be happier.”

  Walden watched this scene with a furrowed brow, then directed a groom to take Miss Abbott’s vehicle to the carriage house.

  “All over again,” Quinn said, “I am the incompetent older brother who was too busy worshipping at the altar of mammon to notice that my own baby sister was in harm’s way.”

  Stephen watched Quinn pace the length of the game room, a display of pique Stephen would never be able to indulge in. Over the Sunday meal, Quinn had been the gracious host, while Althea and Jane had shared hostess duties. Miss Abbott had joined the family at table, and for the eternity of the weekly feast, all the talk had been of the weather, the crops, and—when matters had grown desperate—the new posting inn being built on the northern end of York.

  When the meal had finally concluded, Constance and Rothhaven had closeted themselves with Miss Abbott. Jane and Althea were swilling tea or stirring a cauldron in Althea’s parlor, and the gentlemen, minus His Grace of Public Fits, had been dispatched by Her Grace to enjoy a manly game of cards.