The Truth About Dukes (Rogues to Riches #5) - Grace Burrowes Page 0,53
we heard anything from young Sybil’s swain?”
Phoebe’s smile was an echo of her youthful beauty. “Lord Ellenbrook sent a lovely note to me yesterday, including his good wishes for our Sybil. He expects to be passing back this way early next week. I am encouraged, Mr. Philpot. I am very encouraged.”
The change of subject had served its purpose, restoring Phoebe’s good humor, and allowing Neville to finish his second and third brandy in a better frame of mind. Rothhaven’s situation was troubling, to be sure, but without proof that the duke was being ill treated by his family and neighbors, the matter was not any of Neville’s affair.
Not, at least, until Sybil and her young lord became engaged.
The inevitable had occurred sooner than Robert would have liked. Constance had seen him in the middle of a great fit, convulsing on the ground like a bovine in its final throes at some knacker’s yard. And then what had he done? Had he offered her conversation, reassurances, any semblance of normal interaction?
“I slept most of the way home. Slept in a moving coach, and I detest coach travel.”
Nathaniel regarded him with a slight, maddening smile. “Isn’t that progress of a sort, that you could sleep in a moving coach at midday?”
“No, it is not progress.” Robert sat back on his heels, the walled garden for once providing no solace. “I could not have stayed awake in the coach had I wanted to. I could not prevent myself from having that seizure. I sensed trouble approaching, but I hadn’t enough notice to turn the coach around.”
Nathaniel twirled one of the last of the red tulips by its stem. “How do you sense trouble approaching? Can you anticipate a seizure?”
“Not reliably, and not for want of trying.” The flower bed had bloomed and faded, but Robert believed in allowing the foliage to die back naturally, at least for a few weeks. The appearance of the declining bed was too wretched to be borne, so he folded the leaves to the stalks and tied the lot into tidy bundles. “After yesterday, I must offer Lady Constance the opportunity to cry off.”
“Are you formally engaged already? Fast work, Your Grace.”
Nathaniel sounded a bit envious, which brightened Robert’s outlook marginally.
“Constance is the sister of a duke, the proprieties will be observed. We have an understanding, or we did.” He tied off the last forlorn, pale plant. “Constance needs a man who can support her in all endeavors, not some graceless invalid who embarrasses her in public.”
“Bit late for that, isn’t it? You knew you had epilepsy when you courted her favor.” Nathaniel sat on the gardener’s rug beside Robert, knees bent, feet spread, twirling his tulip and gazing across the garden like some damned philosopher.
Robert had seen the looks on the faces of the crowd around him in York. He’d felt the swift blow to the sole of his boot delivered by a lad more curious than appalled. Be he dead? Those words had lodged in his memory, along with the recollection of being unable to roar back: No, I am not dead.
“People are still unenlightened when it comes to epilepsy, Nathaniel. For myself, I will cope with the hand I’ve been dealt. Having seen one of my seizures firsthand, Constance should be given an opportunity to decline having to share my lot.”
“If you send Constance packing,” Nathaniel said, rising and stretching, “I will be disappointed. She cares for you, and you care for her. The rest can sort itself out if that foundation is in place. Shall I have a look at the correspondence?”
How casually he made that offer, how kindly. “I’ve already gone through the day’s mail, and I’m caught up, thank you. Take some catmint to go with your bouquet. Damned stuff comes back twice as thick for being pruned.”
“You have as well,” Nathaniel said, scooping up the jar. “Thus far, every time life has tried to prune you, you’ve found a way to thrive despite all. I admire that. Looks like we have company.” He sauntered off toward the garden door to greet Lady Constance, who’d apparently tossed propriety to the wind and parted from her sister on the drive.
Brave woman. Dear woman. But was she brave enough? Why should she have to be brave, given what life had already put on her plate? Robert pulled off his gloves, ran a hand through his hair, and prepared to have a difficult, necessary conversation with his intended.