A Duke by Any Other Name by Grace Burrowes Page 0,24
to raise the walls around the orchard by another three feet at least as well.”
To ensure privacy. Always, always to ensure privacy. “We can take it in stages. First add on to our existing garden, then complete the work on the orchard as time allows.”
“Have you a mason among your employees?”
This pleasant, unremarkable conversation was familiar terrain on a battleground Nathaniel had been fighting over for years. He used plural pronouns to discuss projects such as this—we, us, our—and Robbie returned fire with the ammunition of the second person singular—you, your, yours.
Nathaniel sat at the head of the table even when dining alone with his brother, and if Robbie was feeling particularly unhappy, he used proper address—Your Grace, Rothhaven, His Grace.
“We surely have somebody whose skills are adequate for building a wall.” Nathaniel set down his toast, only a single bite taken from one corner. The marmalade was bitter, but then, marmalade at Rothhaven was always bitter.
“Is there any more of that delightful cheese?” Robbie asked, pouring himself a cup of tea. “I would not want to suggest that Cook’s efforts are in any way lacking, but an omelet might be a nice addition to the breakfast buffet.”
Coming from Robbie, that was tantamount to open rebellion. He never criticized the staff, never suggested change of any kind. He believed that rigid routine helped minimize his incidents, and who was Nathaniel to argue with that logic?
“We haven’t any more of that cheese,” Nathaniel said, “though Lady Althea might be willing to send some our way. What exactly are you getting up to in the garden?”
Robbie went off on a flight about arranging colors in a pattern consistent with the rainbow—red, orange, yellow, green, blue, violet—which would never in eighteen eternities have occurred to Nathaniel. Robbie had of necessity become a genius at defeating boredom, while Nathaniel…
His problem was worse than boredom, and it had dogged him without pity since last night. He’d sat at a card table for less than two hours and conversed with another adult about politics, brandy, books, and music. Even more than the warmth in Lady Althea’s sitting room, even more than her most excellent libation, the sheer companionability of the evening spent with her had swaddled Nathaniel in comfort and ease.
If his problem had been simple sexual frustration, he was acquainted with ladies in York who were amenable to a casual encounter with a fellow they knew only as Mr. Nathaniel Debenham, a wealthy squire from west of Durham.
Nathaniel hadn’t been to York in months, because those encounters didn’t help with what ailed him. In fact, they made his affliction worse, and the time spent with Lady Althea had rendered him nearly sick with his malady.
He was lonely. The word had taken years to emerge from between lists of duties, worries, and hopes, but having admitted itself to the broad light of awareness, it refused to resume a life in the shadows.
Robbie kept up a stout wall between himself and all of life beyond Rothhaven Hall, and most especially between himself and the ducal role. That meant Nathaniel was also kept at arm’s length. The servants had learned to maintain a distance as well—proper respect, they called it—and they worked hard enough without the burden of befriending eccentric aristocrats. Sorenson never presumed past cordial games of chess, but then, he had an entire parish to befriend.
And then there was Lady Althea, full of intensity and purpose, bright as a new penny, and ferocious as a mother cat.
Also damnably kissable. “I could easily make an ass of myself.”
Robbie paused, the marmalade knife in his hand. “I beg your pardon?”
“Just thinking out loud. I’m off to confer with Elgin about the state of our broodmares. Foaling will soon be upon us, and Elgin must boast of the accommodations he’s prepared for the new arrivals and their mamas.”
Would the Rothmere family ever again welcome a brand-new arrival? A ducal heir? An equally precious sister or cousin to that little boy? Nathaniel could see no way to accomplish that feat, not as long as Robbie refused to venture beyond the garden walls.
“I will see you at dinner,” Robbie replied, slathering preserves on his toast.
“Not luncheon?”
“The garden calls, Rothhaven, and rain will soon be upon us. I must do what I can when I can.”
That was a subtle scold, and Nathaniel was in no mood to be scolded. He left the breakfast parlor and stopped by the library, thinking to shuffle through the morning post before dealing with Elgin.