A Duke by Any Other Name by Grace Burrowes Page 0,40

it.”

Oh, that was subtle. “Did you know the duchess?”

“As it happens, I knew her quite well long ago. Our families were neighbors, back before she went off to London and snagged herself the local duke. Seemed a shame she had to go all that way just to marry a man she might have met in York. What are you doing, my lady?”

“Sketching out a few ideas for the garden. What is the Duchess of Rothhaven like?”

Milly snipped off her red thread and took out a spool of golden silk. “Our paths diverged long ago, but when I saw her after her marriage, she never appeared happy. One can’t complain about having married a duke—if memory serves, he’d been considering both Her Grace and a cousin—but I suppose marriage is often not what we expect it to be.

“Her Grace certainly didn’t drag her feet about putting an heir and spare in the nursery,” Milly went on, “but even that didn’t seem to give her much joy. She and the duke lived very separate lives, even for the times, and then there was that accident. What mother wants to see her son suffer so dreadfully?”

Althea pretended to consider her garden sketch, while mentally scolding herself for the question she was about to ask.

“What happened?”

“Nobody was quite sure. The staff at Rothhaven Hall, if they even knew, were very discreet. The oldest boy came off his horse and was never quite right after that. He did go away to public school, but at some point he expired from natural causes. Influenza or a putrid sore throat, perhaps a lung fever. The details were vague. One must pity the current duke, for losing a sibling is always a miserable way to come into a title.”

Althea felt many things for the current duke—exasperation, affection, attraction—and pity was not among them. He’d scold her into next week should she disrespect him to that extent, but what did it say about her that she’d enjoy even his scolds?

Nathaniel had given himself several days to plot and plan, to doubt himself, and to change his mind, but the fact remained that he needed to confront Robbie. He chose his moment in the quiet hour after dinner, when the staff was unlikely to venture abovestairs, and when Robbie could not retreat into his garden.

“Do you recall how to play cribbage?” Nathaniel asked, giving the fire on the library hearth a poke.

Robbie looked up from some treatise on the propagation of Holland bulbs. “Of course. Dr. Soames allowed me to play cards and chess with the other residents on occasion.”

“Might I interest you in a game now?” And why hadn’t Nathaniel thought to play cribbage with his brother previously? They had had years of quiet evenings in the library, years of winter afternoons and summer mornings.

“I suppose so.”

Nathaniel fetched the board and cards from the cupboard and set them up on the reading table, which was closer to the fire. Robbie brought his pamphlet and sat quietly while Nathaniel got out the pegs, counted the cards to ensure the deck was complete, and cast around for something to say.

Robbie was a restful companion, if a complete lack of conversation could be considered restful.

But then, a boy who’d been subjected to bloodletting, ice baths, hours of uncomfortable postures, restraints, purges, blistering, laxatives, and strange diets had learned to hold his tongue for weeks at a time.

“Shall we cut for the first deal?” Nathaniel asked, shuffling the cards.

“I forget how to do that.”

“How to shuffle the cards?”

“Yes.”

Robbie had educated himself about agricultural terms, he’d learned to describe meteorological phenomenon, including the different types of clouds. He’d studied musical forms, articles of fashion, and so much else that Nathaniel had known simply because he’d been at large in a young gentleman’s world. And still, more than five years after coming home, Robbie’s vocabulary of skills and knowledge had odd gaps and blanks, much like his ability to attend the world.

And yet, he read newspapers by the hour and handled the ducal investments more deftly than a street urchin juggled oranges.

“Shuffling is simple.” Nathaniel demonstrated a few times. The deck was old, worn, and easily riffled. Robbie watched closely—he was keenly attentive to anything novel—and soon had the knack.

He set the deck in the middle of the table. Nathaniel cut and turned up a three.

Robbie pulled an eight. “I forget whether the low card deals or the high card?”

“Usually the low card, but that varies by agreement of the players.” Another tiny gap. “I’m