The Truth About Dukes (Rogues to Riches #5) - Grace Burrowes Page 0,124

memories, not a mere dwelling, but a home.

Though of course the Wentworth family gave them only two days and nights of privacy before descending en masse.

Epilogue

“Your family takes getting used to,” Rothhaven said, closing the door to the walled garden.

Jane’s and Althea’s voices faded, Nathaniel’s and Quinn’s deeper tones beneath them, as Constance took her husband by the hand and folded into his embrace.

“They worry for us. Our marriage has begun under unusual circumstances.”

Rothhaven draped his arms across her shoulders and kissed her nose. “Our marriage began years ago, Your Grace. When we were both feeling angry and helpless. Look at us now.”

The hearing had been three days past, and since then both Constance and Rothhaven had slept a fair amount, wandered the grounds of the Hall hand in hand, and shared simple, quiet meals. The reality of life free from lawsuits, intrigues, and family dramas was seeping into Constance’s soul by slow degrees.

“Will you let me paint you this afternoon?” she asked. “You did commission a portrait from me, if you’ll recall.” And she could paint him for hours. He had the gift of a stillness that was yet vibrant, the lively intellect and observant mind evident even in his contemplative silences.

“If you must paint my likeness,” he said, “I will bear up manfully under the strain. I might require a short nap at some point.”

“I do adore our short naps.”

A maid appeared on the terrace steps. Harris was young, new to the staff, and had the falling sickness. Her brother had signed on as a footman.

“Excuse me, Your Graces. You have a caller.” She passed over a silver tray with a single card on it. The Reverend Whitlock Shaw.

“Oh, dear.” Constance had given herself one week to rejoice in vanquishing Philpot’s scheme. She had promised herself to hold the sorrow of Ivy’s impending departure at bay for seven days, and then she would face the next ordeal squarely. That promise was neither consistently nor easily kept.

“Put our guest in the family parlor,” Rothhaven said. “Send up a tray with all the trimmings. Some of Monsieur Henri’s pear torte wouldn’t go amiss.”

The maid bobbed a curtsy and withdrew.

“I am nervous,” Constance said, resting her forehead against Rothhaven’s chest. “Why is he calling on us?”

“I invited him to, more or less.”

“You did? Just told him to drop ’round for tea?”

“In so many words. I told him that family ought not to be divided by a child’s circumstances, as my family had been divided by mine. Perhaps he’s here to toss our money back in our faces.”

“Oh, God.”

Rothhaven took both of her hands and kissed her knuckles. “If Shaw is in a taking we will hear him out, apologize for overstepping, and try again. Family doesn’t give up, Constance. Our family doesn’t, not over a silly thing like pride. You certainly didn’t give up when you were searching for your daughter.”

Constance leaned into her husband, drawing strength from his sheer rationality. “Right. Family doesn’t give up. I am terrified, and I don’t know what to do.”

This tendency to blurt out feelings was all Rothhaven’s fault. Nothing dismayed him, nothing shook his common sense, and very little inspired his temper. He was in every way the opposite of the man who’d raised Constance, and thank the heavenly powers for that.

She paused only to peek at her appearance—tidy but informal—before preceding Rothhaven through the door of the family parlor.

“Reverend Shaw.” She dipped a curtsy. “Welcome to Roth—Ivy.” Rothhaven came up on Constance’s side, and that alone prevented her from rushing across the room to hug the stuffing out of her daughter. “Welcome, and Mrs. Hodges, a pleasure to see you again. A tea tray is on the way, so let’s please sit down. Did you travel all the way from Fendle Bridge this morning?”

Nobody moved, and Constance’s attempt at gracious chatter died. Ivy wore a pretty green dress that reached to just above her ankles, a nearly-grown-up dress, and she carried a reticule trimmed with a ribbon the same color as her dress.

The sight of her, the sheer, wondrous, dear, amazing sight of her…Constance blinked hard, longing for her paints, completely at sea.

“Girl,” Reverend Shaw said, “have you misplaced your manners? Greet Their Graces.”

Ivy bobbed at the knees. “I don’t know what to call you now. You are a duchess.”

“Call me happy to see you,” Constance said. “Very, very happy. You didn’t run away. I am proud of you for that, not that it’s my place to be proud of you.” An ache