A Duke by Any Other Name by Grace Burrowes Page 0,76
could be was grateful.
Very, very grateful, and at peace.
He held her as their bodies cooled, his hand finding the discarded dressing gown and using it as a blanket over them both. Althea quieted, and Nathaniel, with no conscious thought, matched his breathing to hers.
The moment was perfect. He was replete in ways he hadn’t been, ever. To hold Althea thus, skin to skin, no pretenses or secrets between them, was more intimate even than what had gone before, and Nathaniel was certain he would miss both equally—the passion and the sweet contentment that followed it.
He’d not known either previously, and that had been a backhanded mercy. What a man did not know, he could not long for—or beg for—but throughout the rest of his days, Nathaniel would long for Althea Wentworth and the joy of intimate union with her.
“What do you think you’re doing?” Milly asked.
Stephen could barely recall his mother, but he’d heard Jane take that tone with his little nieces. He set the wicker panniers on the sideboard in Lynley Vale’s foyer, ceramic jars clanking gently.
“I’m on my way to aid a neighbor beset by illness. Althea didn’t have time to pack ginger when she decamped on the same mission, and if she intends to bide at Rothhaven any longer, she needs a change of clothes.”
Milly folded her arms. “Then Rothhaven should send for those items.”
“I promised them I’d bring the ginger. I keep my word.”
“You are meddling.”
“Then what are you doing, darling Milly?” He’d passed the open door of Althea’s private sitting room and seen Milly at the desk, scratching away at some list or other.
Her response was to look away and drop her arms. “I am planning a ball.”
Not a reply Stephen could have anticipated. “I beg your pardon?” He propped himself against the sideboard—God bless all homes liberally stuffed with sturdy furniture—and prepared to hear a confession.
“I’ve been thinking,” Milly said. “Her ladyship is the ranking female title biding in the shire. Now you are here to be the host if she would like to entertain. She has one of the most elegant ballrooms in all of Yorkshire, and anybody who hasn’t gone south for the Season would eagerly make the effort to attend an affair at Lynley Vale.”
“I hate balls.” Hated watching all those graceful, athletic glissades and chassés, hated sitting among the wallflowers and pretending he wasn’t more envious of the dancers than were the chaperones and spinsters.
Milly fixed him with a hard stare. “Well, that settles it. Lord Stephen Wentworth has spoken. We must outlaw the waltz and all its kin. Put them to the horn. Never let it be said that the wishes of one as selfless and wise as he were held in anything but highest regard. Let me fetch my stone tablets, for such a proclamation merits no less dignity than to be graven eternally beside the Commandments themselves.”
“You are a terror.” Stephen set his hat on his head and adjusted the angle. “Did you know that?”
“While you are a brat. That you are bright and reasonably good-looking only renders the offense more disappointing.”
“You should marry me,” Stephen said, taking up the panniers. “Take me in hand, give me what for. Spank me when I’m naughty.”
The teasing had the desired effect, making Milly smile. “My hand would tire before the punishment had any effect. I’d rather focus on her ladyship’s dilemma. Althea has done as any infantry unit knows to do when facing larger and better armed forces. She’s fallen back to regroup here in Yorkshire, but that doesn’t mean she should surrender. We have bachelors here of suitable station. Even Vicar Sorenson has a baronet or two somewhere on his family tree.”
“A duke’s sister does not marry a baronet’s less-than-wealthy great-nephew.” And yet, Milly had a point. Althea wanted what any reasonable adult wanted: a friend to go through life with, some babies to cluck and fuss over. Not too much to ask, regardless of a woman’s station—or a man’s. She wouldn’t find that fellow if all she did was sit in the garden and wait for him to trot up on his white charger.
“Althea won’t allow any balls, Milly. The idea has merit, the premises could easily accommodate such an entertainment, and I’ve no doubt the gawkers would love to come swill her punch and hop about on the dance floor, but she won’t put herself forward that way.”
“She will if you ask her to. You are the heir to a dukedom, and the succession, last I