The Truth About Dukes (Rogues to Riches #5) - Grace Burrowes
Chapter One
Constance Wentworth’s task was simple: sidle along the edge of the ballroom, looking like a forgettably plain woman making a discreet exit. The safety of the archway lay a mere two yards distant when Robert, Duke of Rothhaven, turned his gaze in her direction.
Surprise flashed in his green eyes, as fleeting as distant lightning on a summer night.
Bollocks and bedamned, he recognized her. He lifted his glass of lemonade in a gesture of acknowledgment.
More than ten years later, and he still knew Constance at sight, as she had known him. She’d had half an hour to adjust to the shock of seeing him, a paltry thirty minutes to reconcile the current man with memories formed years ago.
Rothhaven’s height was striking, but so was his sense of focusing utterly on the object of his attention. He’d had the same quality as a much younger man. His entire being came to a still point, then he aimed every sense exclusively and intensely on who or what had caught his notice.
He was worth noticing too. Deep-set emerald eyes, dramatic brows that gave him a slight air of inquisitiveness at all times. High forehead, dark hair pulled back in an old-fashioned queue. Features that blended Nordic power and Celtic ruggedness with just enough Gallic refinement that his portraits would be stunning even into old age.
Once upon a time, Constance had contented herself with sketching his hands. Given the opportunity now, she would be far more ambitious with her subject.
She inclined her head, for it would not do to snub a duke, much less a duke who held sizable acreage in the neighborhood. That he’d completely misrepresented himself to her years ago, that he’d at one time been a friend, that he was hale and whole and not ten feet away made her steps as she wove through the crowd more urgent.
Which is why she nearly ploughed into him, though his reflexes, as always, were uncannily quick.
He bowed correctly. “Lady Constance, a pleasure.”
With the whole ballroom watching, Constance could only curtsy in return. “Your Grace.”
“You are looking well.” No emotion colored that observation, and Constance was looking well compared to when he’d known her previously. She had made it a point to look well and dress well since then, though never too well.
“Thank you, and Your Grace appears to be in good health.” When she’d first met him, he’d been a wraith, pale, mute, watchful, and bitter.
“I have my dear brother to thank for my improved health. Shall we enjoy the evening air?”
He offered his arm and Constance had no choice but to take it. Her very own sister, Lady Althea Wentworth, was the hostess at this ball. Her brothers, Quinn and Stephen, were on hand, and as far as the family knew, Constance and Rothhaven were at best distant neighbors with only a passing acquaintance.
Would that it were so.
The goggling crowd that hadn’t allowed Constance through a moment before parted like sheep for Rothhaven. His pace was leisurely, and he rested a gloved hand over hers, as if he knew she struggled not to flee.
“The quartet is in good form,” he said. “I do fancy Mozart done well.”
“Do you still play the violin?”
“Rarely. Do you still paint?”
“Every chance I get.” He’d taught her to paint, though all he’d had at the time were oils, which ladies were dissuaded from attempting.
“I rejoice to know that something of lasting value came from our association, my lady.”
They reached the doorway to the back terrace. “May I slap you now, Your Grace?”
“Best not. Your sister as hostess deserves to command all eyes this evening. Then too, your brothers might take a notion to remedy any insult done to you. I could end up a very dead duke.”
“Again.”
“Let’s step outside, shall we?”
Constance allowed that, because she loved to look at the night sky. Rather than lead her to the balustrade overlooking the garden, His Grace escorted her to a bench along the outside wall of the house. Music and conversation spilled through open windows, and torches flickered in the evening breeze. The terrace itself, though, was blessedly deserted.
“How are you?” Rothhaven asked, taking the place beside her. He sat a bit too close for propriety, but his proximity meant Constance could speak quietly.
“I am well. I paint, I attend the social activities I’m told to attend. I dance, I drop French phrases into my conversation, I read but not too much. I have become a portrait of a lady. And what of you?”