The Truth About Dukes (Rogues to Riches #5) - Grace Burrowes Page 0,3

exalted circumstances.

“I am not in physical pain,” he replied, but not carefully enough, because Constance regarded him across the desk, her expression disgruntled.

“I want to be furious with you, but here you are, still frail in a sense, and all brave and honest about it. I cannot be as angry with you as I’d like, though no gentleman ignores correspondence from a lady. I violated every rule of propriety to write to you, and you never wrote back. I’m glad you are no longer in that awful place.”

Robert still had her letter, still read it from time to time. Sometimes he simply held it in his hands or traced the pretty loops and curls of her penmanship. As long as he’d been out on the moors, he’d forbidden himself to think of her. Since coming home to Rothhaven Hall, he’d tormented himself with reminiscences.

“Are you glad you aren’t there either, my lady?”

“Only a fool would long to be confined in such a place. The cherries are an exquisite choice with this Brie. Althea’s cook is a mage of the kitchen, even when all he’s doing is concocting a menu. The man has powers beyond human explanation.”

She ate with such obvious pleasure that Robert did as she suggested and tried the Brie and the cherries.

“This is…good.” The flavors and textures contrasted, which made a bland cheese and simple orchard fruit more complicated, more interesting. “I will request this pairing at Rothhaven.”

She munched another cherry. “Is that where you’ve been hiding?”

“I thought the interrogation wasn’t to start until we’d finished eating.”

She laughed, a soft chortle that illuminated her features with a rare and breathtaking warmth. “Touché, vieil ami. You were never frail of mind, were you?”

Old friend. The closest thing to an endearment Robert had heard in years. “I am invariably disoriented after a seizure. Nathaniel is concerned that I will be declared mentally unfit by a hostile court, and all our lands and wealth will fall into the hands of crooked trustees.”

Robert was terrified about the same possibility.

“You still seem frightfully astute to me. Do you share your brother’s concern?”

“When I can be rendered insensate for hours, forgetful of even the words coming out of my own mouth, I must acknowledge the validity of Nathaniel’s worry.”

Constance stabbed a piece of cheese with the butter knife and held it out to him. “Then you must have a plan in place for dealing with an attack on your mental competence. What have you in mind?”

What Constance said made sense. Nathaniel had fallen in love with Lady Althea Wentworth, older sister to Lady Constance. A life of peaceful seclusion for Robert at Rothhaven Hall would be impossible to maintain without Nathaniel holding the reins. Another plan was needed, and quickly.

“For the present,” Robert said, “I plan to enjoy my supper and your company. Perhaps you have a few ideas?”

Stephen Wentworth reserved his most difficult conversations with his ducal brother for when he and Quinn were on horseback. His Grace of Walden rode with easy competence, and thus his attention when in the saddle was not commanded by the horse. Quinn chose sensible, sound mounts, up to his weight, and not given to fidgets or strongly stated opinions.

Stephen, by contrast, was a passionate equestrian. On the back of a horse, he was the equal of any man—or woman. He needed no canes, no inordinate caution. He traded his own unreliable leg for the horse’s four sturdy limbs and enormous muscle. In the saddle, he was free from physical pain. In the saddle, he sat as tall and straight as any dragoon.

In the saddle, and there alone, Stephen was superior to his brother in skill, fitness, and confidence.

The other reason for bracing Quinn on delicate matters when he and Stephen rode out was practical. Quinn was seldom alone. Jane and the children claimed his heart and as much of his time as he could give them, particularly when His Grace wasn’t wreaking havoc in the House of Lords or terrorizing his bank managers.

If Quinn walked in the park, he took his older daughters with him or wheeled the baby in her pushchair while Jane sashayed along at his side.

If Quinn enjoyed a drink before dinner, he often did so while playing simple card games with the children on the rug in the family parlor.

If he sat reading in the garden, Jane brought her embroidery to the same bench.

Stephen’s brother was awash in domestic bliss, and seemed to have no clue how much difficulty that posed to