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“No thank you. If it wouldn’t be unpardonably rude, I believe I’d like to cadge a nap.”
“A nap only,” Althea said, gathering up the rest of the tea things. “If you smacked your head when you slipped, then we must not let you fall into a coma. His Grace will waken you in an hour or so.”
“From footman to nanny,” Robbie murmured, closing his eyes. “Who would believe it?”
Rothhaven set the tray on the desk. “Rest. I’ll look in on you soon, and we can move you upstairs when you’re feeling more the thing.”
His Grace was neither footman nor nanny, but he was tired and worried and could use a friend. “Let’s sit in the garden,” Althea said, taking him by the elbow and leading him into the corridor.
When they’d gone not six feet from the door of the estate office, he surprised Althea by wrapping her in a hug.
“Thank you.” He held on to her, his embrace secure and warm. “I was terrified.…To lose him again would be…I cannot lose him again. Cannot.”
Althea stroked Rothhaven’s back, very much aware that she held a duke in her arms, also a man who’d suffered a serious upset. She liked them both, the grouchy, taciturn duke, and the man who fretted so for a relative.
“My older brother was sent to prison,” she said, the words a surprise even to her. “Charged with manslaughter and marched off to Newgate after a sham of a trial. We had all that money, and I knew him to be innocent, but I was powerless to help. My rage was without limit.”
Rothhaven peered down at her. “Adukewas convicted of manslaughter?”
“Quinn wasn’t a duke yet. People in high places resented how he’d bettered himself, though. I know what it means to feel powerless to protect a loved one.”
Rothhaven kissed her brow, then slipped his arm around her shoulders. “To the garden. Some time sitting among the flowers and sunbeams is in order.”
He walked with her down the corridor until they came to the door that led to the back terrace. Rothhaven Hall was a bit dusty, the carpets needed a good beating, and the footmen should give the sconces a proper polishing, but as stately homes went, the interior of the Hall was aging with dignity. A bouquet of tulips sat before the window of an alcove, a large gray cat curled in the sunny windowsill.
“No headless specters,” Althea said, “no shrieking ghouls. A lot of heavy curtains, though.”
Rothhaven opened the door to the terrace for her. “Sorry to disappoint. I can explain the heavy curtains.”
She stepped through and waited for him on the terrace. “Can you explain Robbie?”
Rothhaven’s gaze traveled over a garden awash in blooms and sunshine, then came to rest on Althea. “If I tell you, then you become part of a deception that weighs more and more heavily with time. I am reluctant to burden you with our secrets.”
While Althea did not want him to have to carry those secrets alone. “He’s family, I can see that much.”
“He’s more than family,” Rothhaven said. “Alaric Gerhardt Robert Rothmere is the rightful Duke of Rothhaven. He was named for my father and grandfather, but my mother—who came to have little regard for either of those men—insisted we call him Robbie.”
“I beg your pardon?”
“Robbie is my older brother and the rightful duke.” Nathaniel went back to studying the garden.
Did he expect her to laugh? To flee in horror? To summon the magistrate? She took him by the hand. “Let’s have a seat. This story will doubtless take some time to properly relate.”
He stood unyielding, his hand entwined with hers. “Althea, you must promise me…”
“Don’t be insulting,Nathaniel.”
She’d made him smile, fleetingly, more a quirk of the lips than a proper smile, but he walked with her hand in hand to the nearest bench and came down beside her, then fell silent as if pondering how in the world to begin his tale.
Chapter Nine
The situation at Rothhaven Hall was simple enough for Nathaniel to explain—one lie had led to others, some of them well intended, some of them despicable—but before airing the Rothmere family’s dirty linen, Nathaniel took a moment to savor the pleasure of Lady Althea’s company.
He’d presumed terribly by taking her in his arms, and the feel of her had been wonderful. He had kept an arm around her shoulders as they’d walked to the terrace because her compact, feminine form tucked against his taller frame was a greater pleasure than all the wild rides and pounding gallops in creation.
Holding her hand, such an unprepossessing gesture, made him want to bow down in gratitude. The friendly widows in York did not hold his hand, they did not hug him. They did not speak his name with humor and affection, daring him to take offense at a little teasing.
They did not sit beside him, adding the scent of roses to his walled garden, long before roses could bloom.
