A Duke by Any Other Name by Grace Burrowes Page 0,127

Constance had contented herself with sketching his hands. Given the opportunity, she would not make that mistake again.

She inclined her head, for it would not do to snub a duke, much less one who held sizeable acreage in the neighborhood. That he’d completely misrepresented himself to her, that he’d at one time been a friend, that he was hale and whole and not five yards away made her steps as she wove through the crowd more urgent.

Which is why she nearly ploughed into him, though his reflexes, as always, were uncannily quick.

“Lady Constance.” He bowed correctly.

With the whole ballroom watching, Constance could only curtsy in return. “Your Grace.”

“You are looking well.” No emotion colored that observation, and Constance was looking well compared to when he’d known her previously. She had made it a point to look well and dress well since then, but not too well.

“Thank you, and Your Grace appears to be in good health too.” When she’d first met him, he’d been a wraith, pale, mute, watchful, and bitter.

“I have my dear brother to thank for my improved health. Shall we enjoy the evening air?”

He offered his arm and Constance had no choice but to take it. Her very own sister, Lady Althea Wentworth, was the hostess at this gathering. Her brothers, Quinn and Stephen, were on hand, and as far as the family knew, Constance and Rothhaven were strangers.

Would that it were so.

The goggling crowd that hadn’t allowed Constance to pass only a moment before parted like sheep for Rothhaven. His pace was leisurely, and he rested a gloved hand over hers, as if he knew she struggled not to flee.

“The quartet is in good form,” he said. “I do fancy Mozart done well.”

“Do you still play the violin?”

“Rarely. Do you still paint?”

“Every chance I get.” He’d taught her to paint, though all he’d had at the time were oils, which ladies were dissuaded from attempting.

“I rejoice to know that something of lasting value came from our association, my lady.”

They reached the doorway to the back terrace. “May I slap you now, Your Grace?”

“Best not. Your sister as hostess deserves to command all attention this evening. Then too, your brother might take a notion to remedy any insult done to you, making me a very dead duke.”

“Again.”

“Let’s step outside, shall we?”

Constance allowed that, because she loved to look at the night sky. Rather than lead her to the balustrade overlooking the garden, His Grace escorted her to a bench along the outside wall of the house. Music and conversation spilled through open windows, and torches flickered in the evening breeze. The terrace, though, was blessedly deserted.

“How are you?” Rothhaven asked, taking the place beside her. He sat a bit too close for propriety, but his proximity meant Constance could speak quietly.

“I am well. I paint, I attend the gatherings I’m told to attend. I dance, I drop French phrases into my conversation, I read but not too much. I have become a portrait of a lady. And what of you?”

“The tale is complicated, and I will happily regale you with it at another time. For the present, might we agree to behave as if we are two cordial people acquiring a family connection through our siblings?”

“We are acquiring a family connection through our siblings, more’s the pity. Your brother and my sister are clearly in the advanced stages of besottedness.” How had that happened, when Althea had given up on polite society, and Nathaniel Rothmere had famously shunned company of every description? That he even had an older brother sharing Rothhaven Hall with him was quite the revelation.

“Can we manage the cordial part?” Rothhaven asked. “I would like to try.”

He sounded sincere. He had always sounded sincere. “I don’t know what I can manage where you are concerned.”

“Honest, as ever. Your forthright nature is one of your most appealing qualities.”

“As if I give a hearty heigh-ho for your good opinion of me or of anybody else.” Constance rose, abruptly at the limit of her patience. “I wish you a pleasant evening.”

Before she’d taken a single step, Rothhaven had risen and manacled her wrist in a firm grip. He did not hurt her—he was the last person to inflict physical harm on another, she trusted him that much—but neither could she leave.

“You must not abandon me to the darkness, my lady.”

“Why not? You are a duke, of sound mind, in good health, and the worst that can befall you on this terrace is that one of the Weatherby sisters will try to get herself compromised with you.”

He changed his hold, so his fingers interlaced with Constance’s. “You must not leave me alone out here because I am generally terrified of the out of doors.”

Constance’s first inclination was to laugh, scornfully, because Rothhaven’s comment was a pathetic attempt at flirtation, but the quality of his grip on her hand stopped her.

“You are serious.”

“I am entirely in earnest. If you would assist me to return to the ballroom, I would be much obliged. I should never have assumed I was up to the challenge of wandering about an unwalled terrace under an open sky, even at night.”

Constance had been angry with this man for half of her life, but that tirade could keep for another time. He was entitled to his fears, and she liked the notion of having Rothhaven obligated to her. She took his arm and rejoined the crowd in the ballroom, and before her thinking mind could stop her, she agreed to partner His Grace through the ordeal of the supper buffet as well.