A Duke by Any Other Name by Grace Burrowes Page 0,114
and Jane charged up from London, to ensure a truce. I still haven’t decided whether to disown Stephen for meddling or commend him for trying to prevent the inevitable.”
Quinn took another sip of his drink. “Lady Phoebe’s niece would be Miss Sybil Price?”
“Yes.”
He brushed a glance in Althea’s direction.
“Don’t you dare, Quinn. Miss Price is innocent of her aunt’s schemes and will likely suit Lord Ellenbrook well.” Whatever Quinn was planning where Miss Price was concerned, it would be subtle and effective.
“Althea, you’d best worry less about what I might get up to, and instead concern yourself with your own deportment.”
“I will behave,” Althea said, breathing in the fragrance of apples, cinnamon, and toffee along with the pungent scent of the spirits. “This is one more ball. I’ll get it over with, and my neighbors can all have a good gossip at my expense. Next year, somebody else’s peccadilloes will be grist for the mill, and I can hold my card parties and fêtes in peace.”
Oddly enough, she no longer had any aspiration to hold card parties or fêtes. Lady Phoebe was due for a setdown, and Althea intended to deliver it. That Lady Phoebe would cast aspersion on Althea was to be expected—half of Mayfair had and with virtually no provocation—but her ladyship was also threatening Rothhaven, and that Althea could not allow.
“You will behave,” Quinn said. “Why am I not reassured by that statement, Althea? Why am I more nervous about this ball than about any ball Jane has dragged me to?”
Althea took a considering sip of her brandy—mellow heat, a touch of oak and citrus—and was spared from making a reply by Millicent fluttering into the parlor, her complexion flushed.
“My lady, Your Grace, please do excuse me, but the duchess has asked that I fetch His Grace. She said I was not to alarm you, but I do believe Her Grace has a touch of dyspepsia.”
“Bloody bedamned hell,” Quinn muttered, tossing back the rest of his drink. “Not this again.” He stalked out, Althea in his wake, for when Quinn reverted to foul language before his womenfolk, the matter was serious indeed.
The sun was making a leisurely progress toward the western horizon, and with its fading light, Nathaniel felt a sense of his own hopes dimming. Mama and Robbie were once again in the garden, bickering good-naturedly about whether to shade some pansies with burlap, while Nathaniel watched from St. Valentine’s bench and pretended to read Treegum’s latest report.
Something about the report nagged at him, a detail not quite on the page. Focusing on the same verbiage and figures he’d seen for years had grown difficult, though.
Robbie was making plans. In his apartment, boxes had started to fill with books. He’d inquired into use of the second coach and was having it fitted with heavy shades. He’d always been one to go after a goal once he’d made up his mind, a duke who charged forth fearlessly, however misguided his objective.
Stay where I can protect you. Nathaniel could not say that, could not impede his brother’s plans in any way. The best he could do was maintain his silence and his privacy at Rothhaven Hall, and when word came that Robbie’s venture had failed, intercede once again.
“Tell him he’s wrong,” Mama said, settling onto the bench. “The pansies want shade, and this garden hasn’t much of that to offer.”
Robbie was absolutely wrong. “You designed your garden to take advantage of the sun, Your Grace.” When had Mama grown so diminutive? She’d always been a robust woman, but now her energy was the bustling, elderly variety, not the commanding consequence of a duchess.
“I wanted the sun, Nathaniel. I wanted fresh air and bright light. You should go to that ball. Dance with Lady Althea, lend her your consequence.”
“And then turn my back on her? All that will do is fuel Lady Phoebe’s gossip.” Though to waltz with Althea would be divine.
“Robbie wants to set up his own household, and that makes sense to me. One of you needs to get on with being the duke.”
A gentleman did not argue with a lady. “Duking is best undertaken by those who legitimately hold the title. If Lady Phoebe flies into the boughs over a spot of matchmaking competition, think what she’ll do when she finds out my marriage lines are invalid.” Assuming Althea was willing to marry him, which she ought not to be.
Robbie took off his hat and tossed it through the sunbeams to land at Nathaniel’s feet.