A Duke by Any Other Name by Grace Burrowes Page 0,103
and pretending to have misplaced my wits. I’m happy to do an honest day’s work, but I did look forward to tellin’ those tales.”
Elf returned to the table, the pleasant scent of tobacco lightly fragranced with vanilla accompanying him. “You have us to tell your tales to, God knows.”
A fine sentiment, though growing tattered about the elbows and knees. “We’re all getting on, and Master Robbie has improved a great deal. Something has to change.”
“The duchess is coming,” Treegum said. “That’s a significant change.”
“For a visit,” Thatcher retorted. “And she won’t stay in the Hall. When a woman can’t even bide with her own boys…” Except Nathaniel and Robbie weren’t boys. Hadn’t been boys for years and years. “Everything has to change.”
Elf cradled his pipe in hands gnarled by years in the stable. “I had hoped Lady Althea might inspire some change.”
“Not meant to be,” Treegum said, his comment on nearly every injustice, frustration, and confoundment in life. “Not at this time, anyway. She’s giving a ball, you know. The whole shire will turn out in all their finery.”
“And we won’t see any of it,” Thatcher said, setting down the gravy boat. “Rothhaven Hall should be hosting balls. His Grace of Rothhaven should be opening the dancing, and somebody in this damned house should be finding a wife, or what in the bleedin’ hell is all our sneaking about for?”
“For our Master Robbie,” Elf said, tiredly. “Drink your ale and mind your silver, Billy Thatcher. We’re all doing the best we can.”
“I am no longer so sure of that,” Thatcher retorted, pushing to his feet. His left hip objected, but then, his left hip also objected to biding on a hard bench for any length of time. “I’m going to make some toast. You lot can finish with this silver, though why we polish cutlery nobody uses, I do not know.”
He made as dignified an exit as old joints and tired bones could, knowing that a tantrum would also not change anything. The Duke of Rothhaven had set his course, and nothing, not common sense, royal decrees, comely visitors, or wandering hogs, had swayed His Grace from his chosen path.
So far.
Learning to ride had been one of the last obstacles Althea had tackled on her campaign to conquer a lady’s education, and it had proved to be no obstacle at all. She approached horses with the assumption that domesticity was a compromise they made in the name of ease and safety, but a compromise subject to renegotiation at the equine’s whim.
A good system, for those with the muscle to carry it off. Her mounts had always seemed to sense her respect and return the courtesy.
As the sun neared the western horizon, she trotted her mare along the lane to the home farm, then cantered past the beekeeper’s cottage and the dairy. The horse was eager to stretch her legs, and when Althea sent her over the pasture that marched with Rothhaven land, the mare lifted into a pounding gallop.
Ye gods, the speed felt marvelous, the freedom even better. The horse cleared the stile in a foot-perfect leap and continued on until Althea’s objective came into view.
Not Rothhaven Hall, which sat in the evening sun like a shipwreck beached on a lonely shore, but rather, the smaller version of the Hall that lay behind the rise of the orchard. No carts were parked before the Rothhaven dower house, no groundskeepers pushed barrows along the drive, but a lone black horse stood tethered to the hitching post.
The gelding whinnied to Althea’s mare, who trumpeted an answer.
“So much for a surprise attack,” Althea muttered, climbing from the saddle. She loosened the girth, knotted the reins, and tied the mare to the lady’s mounting block, low enough to permit the horse to lip at the overly long grass.
She spared a pat for the black gelding, who had about as much dignity as a puppy, then strode across the front terrace. As she raised her fist to knock, the door opened, revealing a glowering Nathaniel in his signature black riding attire.
“My lady, you should not have come here.”
She swept past him. “My lord, you should not keep a guest waiting on the steps.”
He closed the door behind her, the sound echoing in the otherwise empty foyer. Maids had clearly been busy, for Althea saw neither dust nor cobwebs, and the scent of beeswax and lemon oil was strong.
“You sent out invitations to a ball,” Nathaniel said, folding his arms. “Was that wise, Althea?”