A Duke by Any Other Name by Grace Burrowes Page 0,33
caught in the axle of a post chaise. It’s almost as if, having been forced to accept Quinn and Jane, the biddies and lordlings are doubly determined not to accept me, though I know that can’t be the case.”
Very likely, that was exactly the case, and now Nathaniel ought to join the ranks of those who condescended, slighted, and subtly insulted Lady Althea Wentworth. Nothing could come of her neighborliness, not with Nathaniel, not ever.
“And your nieces?”
“They have given Quinn a reason to put up with all the nonsense, somebody to love and protect. For him, being a papa is a far more compelling challenge than being a duke. In their way, those little girls have guarded his spirit, just as Jane has guarded his heart. I want that, Rothhaven. I want that badly.”
Nathaniel did not dare admit his own thoughts on the fraught topics of family loyalty and unguarded hearts. “Wait here,” he said. “I won’t be long.”
He retrieved his walking stick from St. Valentine and left Lady Althea alone to prowl about unsupervised in his walled garden.
The walled garden was a revelation to Althea.
As an edifice, Rothhaven Hall was no more forbidding in appearance than a tipsy dowager napping off her cordial among the wallflowers. The old dear would awaken in a bad humor, not a kind word for anybody, but mostly, she’d be embarrassed to have lapsed in public.
Rothhaven Hall, from the front drive, was lapsing. Winter-dead weeds clogged what had once been flower beds, rain and snow had pitted the lane with potholes. The flagstones of the front terrace were buckling and heaving with the changing seasons, and the windows Althea had been able to see on her previous non-visits needed a thorough cleaning.
Years of neglect had turned the exterior of the house crotchety, but the walled garden told a different story.
Here, nature’s whimsy and man’s order were in gracious harmony. A bed of roses had been neatly pruned and mulched the better to snuggle through the cold months. The Holland bulbs were everywhere, tidy rows of color that bobbed this way and that in a slight breeze.
The garden had no fountain, but rather, two birdbaths, each a chubby, smiling Cupid with a giant clamshell balanced on his shoulders and wings. No lichens blighted the angels’ gleaming white stone, no chips or cracks marred their cheerful perfection.
Somebody loved this place. Somebody spent hours here, turning a rectangular patch of Yorkshire sod into a private paradise. The landscaping was more formal than Althea preferred, but later in the season, as the borders burst forth on long sunny days and tender annuals bloomed in the central beds, the look of the garden would evolve toward something more carefree.
“You did not flee.” Rothhaven stood on the terrace near a statue of some old fellow holding a crosier with one hand and an enormous quill with the other. The duke carried a tray, and such was his gravitas that he still managed to look like a duke even when doing a footman’s job. “A sensible woman would have departed.”
“Who would want to leave this place?”
Consternation flickered across Rothhaven’s features, or perhaps exasperation. “You should. But first I will offer you tea, and then you must be on your way.” He came down the steps and set the tray on Althea’s bench.
“Tea would be delightful. Do you often break your fast out here?”
“Do I start my day lazing about on damp stone benches when there’s work to be done?”
The teapot was a delicate porcelain affair wreathed in flowers and butterflies. It suited the garden, but did it suit the grouch who was pouring out?
“Do you often start your day amid peace and beauty, Your Grace?”
Rothhaven apparently recalled how Althea liked her tea. Steam curled from her cup—more pastel flowers—and His Grace put half a slice of buttered cinnamon toast on her saucer. He passed it over with an air that said “There, I’ve been gracious. Now, get ye gone,” then took a seat on the bench himself.
“Do you maintain this garden?” Althea asked.
“Not personally. What will you wear to Lady Phoebe’s gathering?”
Althea took a sip of good China black. “If you meant to disrupt the peace and beauty of my morning, you’ve succeeded admirably.” She dreaded even thinking about what to wear.
Rothhaven poured himself a cup of tea and dunked his toast in it. “You will be tempted to wear some Paris creation, complete with matching jewels. Silk and velvet, because the evenings are nippy, and pale colors will emphasize your