carried him into the Hall under cover of darkness, and Robert had hidden in his rooms for months thereafter.
Standing in the orchard with Constance, watching her eyes light with rejoicing over confidences Robert had never shared with even his own brother, all the imaginings and daydreams about returning to the Hall faded away.
Those dreams had served their purpose, and now that Constance had taken Robert by the lapels and asked to kiss him, those dreams would never be needed again.
He touched his lips to hers, his heart full of reverence for the moment, so unlikely and perfect, for this was homecoming. This was reunification with a past he was proud of, and a foundation for a future shared with someone he cared for deeply.
Constance Wentworth, of all the women in all the world, had seen him at his worst and taken his part. She’d grasped how to survive against long odds, and better still, how to not simply endure, but to triumph.
He kissed her with all the gratitude in him, all the passion channeled so carefully into learning and self-control, and, may the Deity hold her forever in heaven’s most benevolent light, she kissed him back with equal fervor.
“Purple and orange,” she murmured against his mouth, “with bright greens, like the tropics. Exotic, brilliant, delicious…”
“Silk and flannel,” he replied, “softness and warmth, precious spices and mountains of pillows.”
She drew away half an inch, smiling like a houri. “Pillows, Rothhaven? Shall I paint you as a pasha?”
He rested his forehead against hers. “I’m not describing a painting, Constance.”
She drew back farther, her brows knit. “You want me.” She stroked a hand over his falls, as bold as polished brass. “You desire me.”
For the rest of my life. “You don’t seem surprised.” Or shocked or horrified. That terrible childhood had taught her much of value.
“Intrigued.”
She repeated the gesture and Robert had to close his eyes. Watching her explore his responses was too much pleasure.
“Surprised. Pleased. We are behind four sturdy walls, Your Grace.”
“If you’re that familiar with my person, might I be Robert to you?” And what had walls to do with anything?
Constance wrapped her hand around his nape and partook of his mouth while he fisted his hands at his sides and tried to think of chess puzzles.
“I could be more familiar with your person, right here, right now,” she said. “I’m not some sheltered blossom with no experience of the world.”
He opened his eyes, which was unwise, because now he was fascinated with the curve of her lips and the curve of her waist.
“I am a sheltered blossom,” he said. “I have experience of women—some—but I want more from you than a tumble against the orchard wall. Much more.”
She stepped back, expression disgruntled. “Right, you want a portrait, some landscapes. I can do that, though posing you—”
“Constance Wentworth.” He took both of her hands in his, lest she march off down the hill, leaving him alone and—ye gods, what a day—aroused. “I want everything with you. I’m not much of a bargain. I will doubtless be declared incompetent before the year is out, and all manner of scandal will result, but as it is yet within my power to marry, and we are well disposed toward one another…should I go down on one knee?”
Perhaps he was daft after all, because proposing to Constance had previously hovered only at the edges of his mind, another fantasy in a head full of them—though a pleasant fantasy. A lovely dream in fact that had turned into erotic pleasure late at night behind the locked door of Robert’s imagination.
“You are proposing to me? Proposing marriage?”
“I thought I’d made it plain that I was proposing rather than propositioning.”
She raised her hand as if to worry a nail, then brushed her fingers through his hair instead. “You could do both.”
“I am proposing to you now. We can discuss the other later. One wants pillows for such a momentous undertaking. Wouldn’t do for the Rothhaven heir to be conceived while my duchess’s comfort is thwarted by a disobliging tree root.”
She glanced at the place below his waist. “If I am conceiving your heir, I suspect I will be oblivious to anything so paltry as a tree root. Are you sure, Rothhaven? I will come to the supper table with smears of paint on my sleeves, smelling of linseed oil and turpentine. I am no sort of hostess and never will be. I don’t keep a regular schedule, and my family can be troublesome.”
Why was she trying to