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She wanted every boring, mundane detail about him. Althea was assailed by the realization that she’d wasted years courting society’s favor, when she’d gladly toss aside acceptance in Mayfair for an obscure life with Rothhaven on the Yorkshire moors. Should she be relieved that such a choice would never be put before her? If so, the relief was slow to manifest.
“You are troubled,” Rothhaven said, putting down the hairbrush. “Come here.” He held out his arms and Althea buried herself in his embrace.
“I cannot offer you what you deserve,” he said, stroking her back slowly. “I cannot offer you anything. I regretted that an hour ago. The limitations of my station where you are concerned have now become my defining sorrow. I am sorry, Althea, if you regret what we’ve shared, but my regret is that we cannot share more.”
A ducal expression of sentiment that fell short of a true apology. Careful, sincere, complete. No room for negotiation, no convenient gate left unlocked in the garden wall.
“I will comfort myself,” Althea replied, stroking his chest, “that a mile of countryside and a vast moor of regret lie between us. I am not sorry for what we’ve shared, and I never will be.” She offered that half-truth in good faith, hoping it brought him some comfort. Rothhaven was afflicted with an abundance of honor, and left to his own devices, he’d doubtless locate some manly guilt.
Not enough manly guilt to change his mind, of course, but enough to add to his burdens.
He held her for the space of one more breath, a slow rise and fall of his chest, a few beats of her heart, then he stepped back.
“I’ll leave you here to finish your toilette,” he said, “and I will check on the patient.”
Considerate of him, to give her a bit of solitude, but then, her appearance was far from composed, and even a woman who never cried sometimes needed to stare out at the moors and wonder how the hell she was supposed to carry on.
Rothhaven not only bowed over her hand, he kissed her knuckles, a sweet, courtly gesture of farewell. Then he left, closing the door with a decisive snick of the latch.
Chapter Thirteen
“And who might you be?” The old fellow stood in the Rothhaven Hall front doorway, the coat of his dark livery mis-buttoned.
Never had Stephen been greeted thus in a titled household. “Lord Stephen Wentworth, calling upon His Grace of Rothhaven. I believe my sister, Lady Althea, is biding here.”
“I wouldn’t know anything about that.” The footman remained in the doorway, one veined hand braced on the jamb. “It’s ‘Thatcher, fetch me some toast’ and ‘Thatcher, polish that sconce’ until I’m run off me tired feet. We don’t have callers at t’ Hall, but here you are, Lord Somebody, looking like you expect a dish of tea and a plate of crumpets.”
“Thatcher, might you let me in? I’ve brought a few things for Lady Althea.”
“We don’t have callers here.” He stepped back nonetheless. “Except lately, apparently.”
“I’m not a caller,” Stephen said, crossing the threshold. “I’m simply a neighbor delivering some supplies.”
“We don’t take no deliveries, but then we’re supposed to get a jolly lot of building stone from t’ quarry so we can connect t’ orchard and t’ walled garden. T’ Quality, you know. Daft as curates at t’ communion wine.”
Stephen took off his hat and hung it on a peg. “How is the patient?”
“I’m always patient, thank you very much. Have to be. Served this hall, boy and man, didn’t I? Suppose I’d best put you in the estate office if you’re here to dicker about t’ building stone.”
“I’m not—”
The old fellow tottered off down the corridor, muttering about marmalade and Master Robbie. Stephen tottered along behind him, taking his time so a neighbor on an errand of mercy could do some reconnoitering.
Whatever Stephen had been expecting—splendor in decline, dusty neglect, strange moans welling from unseen dungeons—Rothhaven Hall appeared to be yet another large, reasonably maintained stately home. The mirrors needed some polish, though they weren’t tarnished; the carpets could use a beating but were far from moth-eaten. The dust and cobwebs were of the everyday sort.
“Who is Master Robbie?” Stephen asked as the footman showed him into a comfortably appointed, if somewhat large, estate office.
“We’re not supposed to say,” the footman replied. “That’s ’im.” He gestured with his chin at a portrait over the mantel. The portrait featured a woman seated between two dark-haired little boys, both of whom looked about two seconds away from fidgeting right out of the frame. The woman was dark-haired as well and young matron–ish. While she was pretty, her gaze lacked the serenity of the average aristocratic female enduring a commissioned sitting.
She looked like she was ready to fidget too.
“Who’s the other fellow?” Stephen asked, setting his panniers down at long last.
“Master Nathaniel, but we call him Rothhaven.” The footman gave an exaggerated wink. “Mum’s the word, aye? I don’t suppose you’d like some toast, Mr. Quarry?”
“Toast would be lovely, and please do let Lady Althea know she has a caller.”
The footman stopped at the door. “Is she here? Woman knows how to raise swine. Damned pigs could have sacked London. Treegum said she’d be trouble, but then, females is always trouble, bless ’em.”
