controlling.”
You are her mother. You are her mother. Said with such conviction, such certainty. “I am her mother.” Constance threw herself against Rothhaven, her heart exploding. “I am her mother, and I will be your duchess, and the very best wife I can be to you. This, I vow.”
Chapter Eleven
A man in love was willing to endure many hardships for the sake of his beloved. Witness, Nathaniel was enduring this chess match with Althea.
“I love flowers,” she said, gaze on the bouquet Nathaniel had arranged on the windowsill of his sitting room. A lone tulip nestled among the last of the irises, the best he could do on short notice. “They make me sad too, though. Their beauty fades so quickly. A whole year goes by before they bloom again, assuming they can withstand our winters.”
Nathaniel moved his rook. “Would we appreciate them as much if they were ever-blooming? I think half of what gets Robert through the winter is planning his flower beds, inspecting the ground to see if the bulbs are coming up, and fretting that they’ll come up too soon. Our siblings have left the garden.”
The last time Nathaniel had looked out the window, Robert and Constance had been in a shocking embrace at Saint Valentine’s feet, which left a younger brother torn between relief—Robert was long overdue for some shocking embraces—and concern.
“You aren’t attending the game,” Althea said, shifting a bishop halfway across the board. “Check.”
Nathaniel had no interest in chess whatsoever. Althea was suffering the female indisposition. She’d announced this before he had bowed over her hand. That she’d share that information so baldly, and with such a disgruntled air, presaged an intimate and interesting marriage.
Though how was a doting fiancé to receive such news? “You have me,” he said, knocking over his king with one finger. “Where do you suppose Robert and Constance got off to?”
Althea caught him by that finger. “They are of age, courting, and sensible. I hope they are admiring the wonders of the potting shed.”
“As do I, but it’s an adjustment, to go from worrying every waking minute about my brother, and knowing he’s somewhere within a very narrow range of possibilities, to being dismissed by him as if I’m a nosy footman.”
Althea came around the card table to perch on Nathaniel’s knees. “I worry about my siblings. They aren’t eccentric to the same degree Robert is, but they have vulnerabilities. He’s making great strides, though, and Constance will be a ferocious ally.”
The feel of Althea in Nathaniel’s lap was already familiar and comfortable. She curled up like a large, contented cat, and some of Nathaniel’s anxiety ebbed.
“Constance was ready to plant Neville Philpot a facer,” he said. “Cranmouth was lucky she didn’t draw his cork.” The sight of somebody else ready to do battle on behalf of Nathaniel’s afflicted brother had been heartening and disconcerting. Even Althea’s participation in that drama had been an adjustment.
“And yet,” she said, “neither solicitor truly yielded Constance any authority over the situation, did they? When you showed up, matters began to sort themselves out.” Althea traced Nathaniel’s features with her index finger, her touch as soothing as birdsong on a summer morning.
“You are worried about Philpot?” Nathaniel asked. Lady Phoebe Philpot had taken Althea into extreme dislike, mostly because Lady Phoebe was perpetually bitter, and the daughter of an earl had to yield socially to the sister of a duke. Such a pity, that.
“I am worried because you are worried,” Althea said, “and because Philpot and Cranmouth looked thick as thieves as the coach horses trotted ’round the corner. Constance and I—our whole family—will do what we can for His Grace, but Rothhaven will always need you too.”
“And I will always worry that I’m inadequate to defend my brother’s interests.” Which could not be helped. Nathaniel kissed his intended, for courage, for luck, for the sheer pleasure of kissing her, and because speculating about what mischief Philpot might get up to was depressing in the extreme. “When can we be married?”
Althea had brought the wonderful news that the king was being reasonable regarding the confusion over the title.
“Constance says that I am the older sister and thus I must speak my vows first. I think she likes the idea of being courted by a duke.”
Althea gently bit Nathaniel’s ear, and he resigned himself to temporary, unrequited arousal, a lovely problem to have.
“I didn’t think Constance set much store by titles.”
“She doesn’t, but she very much enjoys watching Quinn and Stephen at a loss.