A Duke by Any Other Name by Grace Burrowes Page 0,87
contrariness.
“I have nothing against her. I wish her well, in fact, but she must learn to keep to her place. That place is not flirting with young men who ought to be currying your favor or seeking the attentions of properly reared young women.”
To emphasize the point, Phoebe reached over and pulled down the shade on Sybil’s side of the coach. The sun was no friend to an Englishwoman’s complexion, nor did it treat coach upholstery kindly.
As Phoebe sat back, a pair of figures across the pasture caught her eye. She hooked the shade closed on Sybil’s side of the coach while leaving her own shade up.
A man and a woman stood at a stile perhaps seventy yards from the road, the lady on the steps, the man standing quite close and holding her hand. While Phoebe watched, an embrace ensued, shocking not for its carnal nature—kissing on the cheek was merely kissing on the cheek—but for the intimacy conveyed. These two were lovers, or all but, and they were parting at dawn.
The woman strode away, across Lady Althea Wentworth’s fields. Phoebe knew that proud posture, knew that bold stride. The gentleman was something of a mystery. Tall, broad-shouldered, bare-headed, attired in black despite the early hour. He remained for a moment watching the woman’s retreat, and then he turned his steps in the direction of Rothhaven Hall.
“That cannot be,” Phoebe murmured.
“I beg your pardon, Aunt?”
“Nothing. Try to rest, dear. A lady must always look her finest, and the late-night entertainments can take a toll.”
Was His Grace of Rothhaven trifling with a young woman from a family of means? Lady Althea was not exactly from a good family, but she wasn’t of the lower orders, either.
Not now.
Like father, like son? Lady Phoebe sat back, mind awhirl with possibilities. Driving Althea Wentworth from the shire—from ever showing her face in polite society again—had just become child’s play. At the very least, a note to the Duchess of Rothhaven was in order. A mother ought to be kept informed regarding her son’s poor judgment, and perhaps the Duchess of Walden would appreciate a discreet note regarding Lady Althea’s rash behavior as well.
The Hall seemed a hundred miles distant as Nathaniel wandered home under the rising sun. He tarried in the orchard, recalling a blossom-scented kiss. He tarried in the garden, where he’d first taken tea with Althea.
He did not want to go inside the Hall, did not want to deal with Thatcher’s endless offers of toast, and—God forgive him—he did not want to deal with his beloved brother.
He sank onto the bench where he and Althea had shared a pot of tea, the morning sun gilding a riot of spring flowers. Reclaiming the garden had begun as the duchess’s project, her rebellion against a cheerless and lonely marriage. She’d recruited her small sons to assist her, kidnapping them from their studies and daring the old duke to deny his family a few hours of fresh air and frolic.
Robbie had learned the rudiments of painting out here, at a time when Nathaniel had been considered too young to attempt artistic graces. How he’d envied his older brother those hours of instruction.
“There you are.” Robbie, fully clothed, freshly shaved, and looking entirely well, stood on the terrace with a steaming mug in his hand. “Enjoying the sunrise?”
Not in the least. “I saw Lady Althea onto her own land before the rest of the world could remark her comings and goings. How are you?”
Robbie descended the steps and joined Nathaniel on the bench, though all Nathaniel wanted in that moment was solitude—and Althea Wentworth.
“I am…restless, I suppose. How soon can we extend this garden to the orchard?”
“That project, with available resources, will take the summer at least. Old men do not wrestle stone so easily. I could hire more laborers from the village, but that would mean strangers working close to the Hall. In the alternative, the quarry could deliver the stone here instead of to the home farm, but again, that brings strangers into proximity with the Hall.”
Robbie took a sip of his tea. “You are angry.”
“Frustrated. You encountered a stranger by the river, Robbie, and thank God you did. You are the better for having met Lady Althea, admit it.”
“I would have recovered with or without her—”
“We had no supplies,” Nathaniel shot back. “We had no willow bark tea, no ginger, and precious little feverfew because our housekeeper has grown lax with age. The staff cannot be trusted to remain awake in a