The Truth About Dukes Page 6

  “You needn’t be gallant with me, Your Grace. I will be more than content to sit out here and sketch.”

  Robert leaned closer, as if old Saint Valentine might overhear. “I am not being gallant with you. I am sparing myself the torment of keeping company with the happy couple. They have lost all pretensions to decorum. The staff is in transports, and I alone am left to uphold the dignity of the house—of all the limitless ironies. The irises are coming in early this year, and I’m particularly impressed with some varieties I ordered from Antwerp last autumn.”

  Lady Constance watched him as if he were speaking in a foreign language familiar to her and getting every fourth word wrong. He wondered if perhaps he’d had one of his spells, though usually when they struck, he could hear and see everything about him, he simply could not reply or move for a time.

  “I am sure the irises are spectacular,” Lady Constance said, falling in step beside him. “So was my ire, when I beheld Rothhaven’s front drive. Such neglect will not do, Your Grace, unless you are determined to return to your reclusive eccentricities.”

  “You were angry at a few weeds?”

  “Weeds, ruts, the clogged drainage ditch, the flagstones cracking on the terrace. I understand your brother sought to guard you from an unkind world, but why not simply put a gate across the foot of the drive? You deserve a pleasant home, a place of refuge and repose, not some mausoleum for living ghosts.”

  “You are annoyed on my behalf?” He had to ask, because his dealings with women had been limited, his dealings with women of rank non-existent.

  “Of course I was annoyed on your behalf. A gate isn’t that expensive, but instead Lord Nathaniel, light of Althea’s soul and gentleman without compare, decided to make a wreck of your ancestral seat. Stephen has a similar flair for drama. I suppose you can handle the grounds as you please now, but I do hope repairing the drive is near the top of your list.”

  Repairing the drive hadn’t been on his list, mostly because he hadn’t got ’round to making a list. “You inspire me to rethink my plan.” They’d reached the irises, which had the most delicate fragrance, hardly a fragrance at all. Simply a sweet note on the air. Robert took out his penknife and sliced off a deep purple bloom about a foot below the flower. “Mind the petals don’t bleed on your dress.”

  “Thank you.” Constance took off her gloves and accepted the flower. “I would like to put this in water so I can—”

  “—sketch it,” he said, cutting another four stems. “We’ll find water and a vase in the library.”

  “What plan did you refer to, Your Grace?”

  “My plan for appearing mentally competent for as long as possible.” He added three yellow tulips to the bouquet.

  “You are mentally competent.”

  “At times, I can be. Come.” He led her to the experimental bed and knelt to cut off one last stem. “Now your sketch will be a little more interesting.” He rose and presented her a tulip with variegated petals of pink and white.

  “I have never seen a tulip like this before except in Dutch paintings.”

  “Some people think the bulb has been tainted with a hereditary flaw, others think the color comes from crossing strains. The color reproduces, though, so I lean toward the first explanation.”

  She took the final bloom. “Having more individuality than other flowers is not a flaw. You should plant these on the front drive for the whole world to see, not hoard them here for your private delectation.”

  “You scold me?”

  “I give you something to think about. Nathaniel likely tiptoed past your every whim and sniffle. These flowers need water.”

  And I need you. Robert came to that conclusion as if he’d been working through a geometric theorem. The answer sat at the bottom of the proof, patiently awaiting the student’s deductions.

  But was it the correct answer, or merely a relic of a young man’s fondness for an even younger female?

  “This way,” he said, turning back toward the house. “I would normally take you through the French doors, but love is in the air. For all I know, love is in the library, taking shocking liberties on the desk, so we will use the corridor and knock loudly.”

  “Are you jealous?”

  “What a question.” What an insightful question. “Are you?”

  “I am, and I’m not. Althea has always wanted a family, a home of her own where she can take care of others and be taken care of. She will have her heart’s desire, and I do envy her that.”

  “Have you a similar long-cherished dream?”

  Lady Constance paused on the garden steps, the bouquet held before her. The picture she made was lovely—also lonely.

  “To study art in Paris and Rome, I suppose. In a few years, I’ll be able to talk Quinn and Jane into allowing that. Stephen might be willing to share a household with me, at least for a time.”

  “You suppose? This is your heart’s desire and you only suppose?” Robert supposed his guest was dissembling, giving him an acceptable answer rather than an honest one.

  She preceded him into the house. “When one has nightmares, one avoids dreaming altogether. I would enjoy a year in Paris. What of you, Your Grace? What is your heart’s desire?”

  “To see Nathaniel happy. He has suffered much on my account, and he deserves to be free of the burdens I’ve placed on him.”

  “I understand fraternal loyalty, but what about you? What is your dream for yourself?”

  Robert rapped loudly on the library door. “That is my dream.”

  “Then you need more dreams, Rothhaven. You need dreams that include you in them, rather than painting a lovely picture full of other people.” She smote him gently on the chest with the flowers. “More dreams, happier dreams. Selfish, wild dreams. You’re a bright man with a fine imagination. Come up with something besides good wishes for a devoted sibling.”

  The door abruptly opened and Nathaniel, looking a tad disheveled, stood on the other side. “Yes?”

  A flushed and rosy Althea sat at the desk, not a book or a letter to be seen on the blotter.

  “We need water for my flowers,” Constance said. “Have you no other place to disport than a public room, you two? What if we had come in the French doors? You are as bad as Quinn and Jane.” She flounced past a sheepish-looking Nathaniel and continued on to the sideboard.

  “Perhaps,” Robert said, “Lady Althea would like a turn about the garden before luncheon. You could check on the seedlings in the potting shed.”

  Nathaniel ran his hand through his hair. “The potting shed?”

  “The one with the lock on the door.” Robert held open the French door. “We’ll see you when the kitchen bell rings.”

  Althea rose from the desk and took Nathaniel by the hand. The happy couple scampered from the library without another word, and within two seconds, Constance was snickering, then giggling, then overcome with hilarity.

  “The potting shed,” she managed, some minutes later. “The one with the l-locking door. My next niece or nephew will be named for a p-potting shed. Sprout, perhaps. Seedling Rothmere. You are very naughty, Your Grace. Very naughty indeed.”

  “Nathaniel is carrying on in my library with your sister and you say I am naughty?”

  She dabbed at her eyes with a handkerchief and beamed at him. No careful, ladylike smile, but rather, a mischievous grin that did odd things to Robert’s insides.

  “Nathaniel is very lucky to have you as a brother, Your Grace. My brothers would have barged in without knocking and enjoyed themselves thoroughly at my expense.”

  “I did enjoy myself.” Robert was still enjoying himself, and that peculiar fact captured his attention.

  He had realized in the past few days that Lady Constance Wentworth had trod a path he had yet to travel. She had traversed the difficult terrain between absolute social obscurity and general acceptance by good company. She had left her employment at the asylum, and years later, she was an unremarkable fixture during the London Season, while Robert dreaded travel by coach, and felt uncomfortable under open skies.

  He needed to know what she knew, needed her insights and skills, her instincts and wisdom, as he attempted to take his proper place in the world. He hadn’t figured out how to entice her into sharing those challenges with him, but he was nothing if not tenacious with mental puzzles.

  Hearing her fill his library with laughter, though, watching her scold Nathaniel within an inch of his handsome pride, seeing her arranging the flowers on the sideboard, Robert came to another conclusion:

  He needed her, if he was to make a convincing adjustment into the role of duke.

  More than that, though—and this astounded a man who’d parted ways with astonishment years ago—he desired her. He still desired her.

  Chapter Five

  For Constance, paying attention to her surroundings had originated not from artistic curiosity or a romantic fascination with nature, but rather, from the sheer compulsion to stay alive. Jack Wentworth had been both the sole beacon of safety in his children’s lives and the greatest threat to their well-being.

  Constance had learned to notice differences in Jack’s tread outside the door—was he tired, drunk, seething, jaunty, or—most dangerous condition of all—sober? Did he come home bearing a whiff of cheap perfume, or did the brisk approach of his steps signal a new scheme afoot, a run of good luck with the cards?

  She had paid attention to Jack for the same reason a sailor took note of the wind and a farmer studied the sky. Life and death had turned on Jack’s moods. More than once, she’d wakened Althea and Stephen to hustle them out the window as Jack fumbled at the door. By the tone and vileness of his curses, she’d known he was determined to once again take gambling losses out on those unable to defend themselves.

  Now she paid attention to Robert, Duke of Rothhaven, who had created a spectacular garden at the very edge of the bleakest moors, and who had made her laugh until her sides ached.

  “You are easily amused,” he said. “In life, that quality has to be an asset. We have a portrait gallery in the duchess’s wing, if you’d like to see it while we’re waiting for our meal.”

  “Perhaps another time. I’m tempted to spy on your potting shed instead.”

  “You are being kind. Let’s take a stroll on the drive, shall we?” He headed for the door, opened it, and waited for her.

  “I thought you didn’t care for the out-of-doors.”

  “My relationship with the natural world is complicated. As a boy, I wanted nothing so much as to be outside, away from my tutors and very especially away from my father. He watched me as if he knew I was about to disappoint him, as if sooner or later, I would stumble or give an incorrect answer. Then I realized he wanted me to disappoint him so that he could correct and rebuke me. Calculating how short of perfection I needed to fall and how often became my consuming burden. The only time I felt free was when Nathaniel and I were truant.”

  Rothhaven Hall could be a pretty home, in Constance’s opinion, but it wanted fresh air. A breeze stirring the curtains. The sound of birdsong piping through an open window. The place was clean enough for an enormous dwelling with an aging staff, but the house was not alive.

  “So you escaped to the out-of-doors as a boy,” Constance said as they approached the foyer. “What about now?”

  “Now…” His Grace peered out the window at a beautiful sunny day, his expression suggesting he beheld torrents of sleet. “It’s difficult. When I was sent away, Dr. Soames realized that if I was to be made amenable to his various regimens and experiments, he needed to manipulate the things I longed for most. He withheld from me the privileges of the yard, and after a time…”

  “The yard came to symbolize his power, not your freedom. What a hideous man, to pervert your joy into fear and rage. I knew I detested him for good reason. So why are we going outside now?”

  Rothhaven was no longer studying the sky, but rather, regarding Constance. “Because it is time I reclaimed my joy, or at least put the rage and fear into the past. You are dangerously perceptive, my lady.”

  “Dr. Soames was a dictator, as was your father. Dictators teach those beneath them to be alert.” She marched onto the terrace and waited for the duke to join her. He again glanced up, then scanned the front drive and the overgrown park on either side of it.

  Constance beckoned to her host. “I have yet to see any giant birds swooping through the Yorkshire sky, ready to devour unsuspecting dukes. Nor have any French patrols been spotted in the environs. Come along, sir. We must make a list.”

  He stepped outside and pulled the door closed behind him. “Perhaps we should have spied on the potting shed instead. My driveway is not a very cheering prospect, is it?”

  “If your efforts in the walled garden are any indication, you have a capacity for establishing order that will soon address the neglect I see here. The drainage ditch would be my first priority.”

  To Constance’s delight, Rothhaven made an actual list—took pencil and paper from an inside pocket and jotted down notes as she strolled with him to the foot of the drive and back. At some point between bickering over the need for a gatehouse and arguing over the best place to install a ladies’ mounting block, Constance began enjoying herself.

  Organizing a painting was all well and good. An image full of accurate renditions and appealing colors could still fail as a work of art for lack of sound composition. Organizing the approach to a stately home was a more compelling challenge. One couldn’t simply scrape away the paint and start over. The project had to be thought through down to every detail first.

  “What about goats?” Rothhaven said, scowling at the weeds separating the parallel ruts of his driveway. “If I run goats through here for a few weeks, the groundsmen will have much less work to do scything the verges and breaking sod for the plantings.”

  The longer they talked, the less His Grace glanced at the sky, the more his stride had relaxed. He’d fairly jogged up the steps of the terrace, and he stood outside the front door, hands on hips as he surveyed marble steps besieged by weeds, lichens encroaching on his balustrade, and flagstones heaving as a result of winter frosts.

  “Althea uses sheep to keep her lawns in trim,” Constance replied, as Rothhaven made another note and tucked the pencil and paper back into his pocket. “Goats would do a more thorough job.”

  “Would goats be an eccentric choice, though?”

  Constance was framing a response along the lines of efficiency being more important than appearances when a coach-and-four trotted over the hill a half mile from the foot of the drive. She turned to Rothhaven to inquire whose carriage that might be and found herself standing quite alone on the sunny front stoop.

  “I scarpered,” Robert said, regarding the fool in the mirror. “Dodged straight in the front door and closed it behind me. Lady Constance will never call here again.”

  Beside him, Nathaniel was still lathering his hands over the breakfast parlor’s washstand. “You decided you’d had enough of a pretty spring day and took yourself back inside?”

  Robert pulled a yellow leaf from Nathaniel’s sleeve. “I ran. I heard the wheels of a heavy coach off in the distance and bolted like a cat dodging under the porch when a dog trots across the yard. I am not ready for this. Not ready for callers, not ready to wander around out of doors, casual as you please, making a complete, utter, absolute, hopeless jackass of myself.”

  “So why did you do it? Why make the attempt?” Nathaniel batted at his hair, which a trip to the potting shed had put in even worse disarray.

  “Carry a damned comb,” Robert said, passing over his. “Potting sheds can leave a man looking tumbled.” He buried his face in a damp length of toweling and considered Nathaniel’s question. “I went outside because I needed to inspect the drive if I’m to take it in hand. Rothhaven Hall must acquire the appearance of a ducal residence. I thought having Lady Constance at my side would distract me from…things.” From the anxious weight of a wide blue sky, from the feeling of being watched from all directions, from a worry that had no source and no solution.

  And she had been a distraction. Her ladyship had a way of cocking her head, like a sharpshooter closing one eye to sight on a target, before she delivered her pithy conclusions. She smelled of goodness—roses and sun-warmed linen—and she could follow a conversation that leapt about from the gatehouse to the dry fountain to the best way to discourage lichens from defacing an ancestral pile.

  “What about an approaching coach unnerved you?” Nathaniel asked.

  “The sound of the wheels.”

  “Why?”

  Nathaniel was simply curious, simply trying to be helpful, but thank the angels who took pity on lunatic dukes, the ladies arrived at that moment, both of them looking cheery, tidy, and in charity with the world.

  “I have worked up an appetite,” Lady Althea said, beaming at her intended.

  “If you don’t cut line,” Lady Constance muttered, “I will take my meal with His Grace in the garden, and you two can dine in the potting shed.”

  “A picnic sounds lovely.” Lady Althea serenely took the seat Nathaniel held for her. “I do adore a friendly meal al fresco.”

  Lady Constance sent Robert a glance that communicated both humor and long-suffering. Nothing about her demeanor suggested he’d disappeared from her side not ten minutes before, without warning, explanation, or excuse.

  “His Grace may ask to borrow some goats from Lynley Vale,” Lady Constance said. “The Rothhaven drive is to be reclaimed from the wilderness. I will pass on the soup. Lentils do not agree with me.”

  The conversation at lunch was about Crofton Ford, this year’s crop of spring lambs, and the looming ordeal-cum-celebration of shearing. Robert listened with half an ear, then caught Nathaniel watching him with the guarded expression that suggested Robert had missed part of the conversation.

  “I beg the pardon of the ladies, I was woolgathering.” Trying to fashion an apology for a reaction that had no rational explanation. Why had he run from the sound of coach wheels? Robert needed to understand that moment if he was to prevent himself from repeating it.