A Duke by Any Other Name by Grace Burrowes Page 0,12

up roots or burrow under the orchard walls, and Treegum swore the orchard would be healthier for having entertained callers.

Nathaniel tossed his queen into the box with her court. “Her ladyship apologized for her errant sows. Sent over a wheel of cheese the like of which I would pay handsomely to keep in my larders.”

“With the dill? Delicious stuff. She’s an interesting woman.”

Another lure. Nathaniel told himself to stand up, shake Vicar’s hand, and ride back to the Hall. The same instant he would have risen, Vicar uncorked the brandy bottle and poured them both another two fingers.

“This is an excellent vintage,” Nathaniel said. “Shall we drink to good harvests and brilliant sermons?”

“Why not, and to shorter evenings in which to brood and ponder away the hours. She offered to put a new roof on the vicarage, you know.”

So much for changing the subject. “Her ladyship?”

“Of course, her ladyship. The Wentworth family doesn’t have mere pots of filthy lucre, they have lakes and rivers of the stuff. She could put Rothhaven Hall to rights with her pin money.”

“The Hall is sound enough. If you need a new roof, you will apply to me, sir. I thought her ladyship went south for the Season?”

Rothhaven Hall was being allowed to deteriorate insofar as appearances were concerned. The old pile was built to last through the ages, but Nathaniel purposely neglected anything that would give the place an inviting air.

And Sorenson well knew why.

The vicar nosed his brandy. “Lady Althea and her sister, Lady Constance, have gone south in spring for the past several years. My curate is a cousin to her butler, though, and Strensall says Lady Althea intends to enjoy springtime in Yorkshire this year.”

Well, damn. Nathaniel had hoped his neighbor would remove to London, where a well-rehearsed cut direct would serve her in good stead. He sipped his brandy—delightful stuff—and told himself to bring up the benefits of running pigs through orchards.

“Polite society is brutal to her.” Nathaniel set down his drink, clearly having imbibed more than he’d realized.

“New money and lots of it can bring out the worst in those with older pedigrees. Her ladyship is better off rusticating with us up here in Yorkshire, where we treasure our eccentrics and treat them with the respect they are due.”

Sorenson winked and saluted with his glass. He was a man approaching mid-life but had the sort of vigor that would see him into an active old age. Like many in the area, he was blond, blue-eyed, and rangy, and his sense of humor was never far from the surface.

“Her ladyship plays chess,” Nathaniel said. “Also cribbage and backgammon. You might consider calling upon her from time to time. Take your curate and he can visit with his cousin while you enjoy a game with her ladyship.”

Sorenson began putting the white army away. “And how does the Dread Duke know such interesting details about a woman who can’t be bothered to make small talk? I’ve tried charming her in the churchyard more times than I can count, and while she’s never quite rude, she never engages in friendly chatter.”

She doesn’t know how. “Does she attend the assemblies?”

“Maybe one or two a few years ago. Not lately.”

Because she had no escort, very likely. What was wrong with her family that they all but banished her to the moors and dales?

“Perhaps you ought to invite her, Sorenson. You’re the vicar, the professional good Samaritan.”

“Oh, right. Then I’d be seen singling out an unattached lady for special attention. The pastoral committee would soon be taking wagers on my marital status. In theory, I could offer for such a woman, being nominally a gentleman, but the match would be considered a mésalliance, and besides, Lady Althea isn’t at all drawn to me. Why don’t you court her?”

The question was offered half jokingly, so Nathaniel dredged up a smile. “Take a wife? A dread duke rather loses his cachet if he’s been snabbled by a duchess, don’t you think? If ever I give up my freedom, I’ll need far more inducement than a wheel of cheese.”

Sorenson paused in his tidying up, the white army still half on the field.

“Is it freedom to limit Your Grace’s company to the retainers who’ve known you since boyhood? Is it freedom to seldom leave the grounds of your estate by day, and always at a dead gallop? Is it freedom to deny yourself an occasional jaunt down to London, where you might speak for Yorkshire in the Lords? How long