The Truth About Dukes (Rogues to Riches #5) - Grace Burrowes Page 0,20
three yellow tulips to the bouquet.
“You are mentally competent.”
“At times, I can be. Come.” He led her to the experimental bed and knelt to cut off one last stem. “Now your sketch will be a little more interesting.” He rose and presented her a tulip with variegated petals of pink and white.
“I have never seen a tulip like this before except in Dutch paintings.”
“Some people think the bulb has been tainted with a hereditary flaw, others think the color comes from crossing strains. The color reproduces, though, so I lean toward the first explanation.”
She took the final bloom. “Having more individuality than other flowers is not a flaw. You should plant these on the front drive for the whole world to see, not hoard them here for your private delectation.”
“You scold me?”
“I give you something to think about. Nathaniel likely tiptoed past your every whim and sniffle. These flowers need water.”
And I need you. Robert came to that conclusion as if he’d been working through a geometric theorem. The answer sat at the bottom of the proof, patiently awaiting the student’s deductions.
But was it the correct answer, or merely a relic of a young man’s fondness for an even younger female?
“This way,” he said, turning back toward the house. “I would normally take you through the French doors, but love is in the air. For all I know, love is in the library, taking shocking liberties on the desk, so we will use the corridor and knock loudly.”
“Are you jealous?”
“What a question.” What an insightful question. “Are you?”
“I am, and I’m not. Althea has always wanted a family, a home of her own where she can take care of others and be taken care of. She will have her heart’s desire, and I do envy her that.”
“Have you a similar long-cherished dream?”
Lady Constance paused on the garden steps, the bouquet held before her. The picture she made was lovely—also lonely.
“To study art in Paris and Rome, I suppose. In a few years, I’ll be able to talk Quinn and Jane into allowing that. Stephen might be willing to share a household with me, at least for a time.”
“You suppose? This is your heart’s desire and you only suppose?” Robert supposed his guest was dissembling, giving him an acceptable answer rather than an honest one.
She preceded him into the house. “When one has nightmares, one avoids dreaming altogether. I would enjoy a year in Paris. What of you, Your Grace? What is your heart’s desire?”
“To see Nathaniel happy. He has suffered much on my account, and he deserves to be free of the burdens I’ve placed on him.”
“I understand fraternal loyalty, but what about you? What is your dream for yourself?”
Robert rapped loudly on the library door. “That is my dream.”
“Then you need more dreams, Rothhaven. You need dreams that include you in them, rather than painting a lovely picture full of other people.” She smote him gently on the chest with the flowers. “More dreams, happier dreams. Selfish, wild dreams. You’re a bright man with a fine imagination. Come up with something besides good wishes for a devoted sibling.”
The door abruptly opened and Nathaniel, looking a tad disheveled, stood on the other side. “Yes?”
A flushed and rosy Althea sat at the desk, not a book or a letter to be seen on the blotter.
“We need water for my flowers,” Constance said. “Have you no other place to disport than a public room, you two? What if we had come in the French doors? You are as bad as Quinn and Jane.” She flounced past a sheepish-looking Nathaniel and continued on to the sideboard.
“Perhaps,” Robert said, “Lady Althea would like a turn about the garden before luncheon. You could check on the seedlings in the potting shed.”
Nathaniel ran his hand through his hair. “The potting shed?”
“The one with the lock on the door.” Robert held open the French door. “We’ll see you when the kitchen bell rings.”
Althea rose from the desk and took Nathaniel by the hand. The happy couple scampered from the library without another word, and within two seconds, Constance was snickering, then giggling, then overcome with hilarity.
“The potting shed,” she managed, some minutes later. “The one with the l-locking door. My next niece or nephew will be named for a p-potting shed. Sprout, perhaps. Seedling Rothmere. You are very naughty, Your Grace. Very naughty indeed.”
“Nathaniel is carrying on in my library with your sister and you say I am naughty?”