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“A truly vile excuse for a man. Summon his memory and deliver him the cut direct. Chin up, gaze bold. Acknowledge, disdain, dismiss. Don’t sneer. Let your eyes speak for you.”
Glaring at Rothhaven was difficult, and dismissing him was impossible, but Althea gave it her best effort.
“That was quite good,” he said, popping a square of tablet into his mouth. “When you are truly offended, the effect will be magnificent. Be offended easily and often, and the fools will soon learn not to trifle with you. Whatisthis?”
“A Scottish sweet. Monsieur Henri adds a dash of vanilla, and the effect is quite rich.”
Althea had ingested a sweet of a sort too, the delicious treat of learning how to respond to an insult. Turning the head slowly was an important part of the impact, both before and after that bit with the eyes. Acknowledge, disdain, dismiss.
“I must have the recipe,” Rothhaven said. “And I must be going. Is there a reason you do not commend the idiots and gossips to your brother and sister-in-law’s devices? A duke of indifferent origins doubtless has vast experience putting the gossips in their places.”
“Several reasons, my pride first among them. I must learn to make my own way. If I can wedge past all the whispers and jests, I might find a local gentleman whom I can esteem. I cannot rely on Quinn and Jane to search out such a fellow for me when they have little familiarity with Yorkshire society, and their efforts on my behalf in London were disastrously unavailing. Then too, Quinn won’t merely issue a setdown, he’ll ruin anybody who insults his family.”
“I might like this Quinn person. I adore this sweet.”
Althea didn’t always like her older brother, but she respected him immensely. “His Grace of Walden won’t merely start talk in the clubs, he will destroy, unto the nineteenth generation, any who offend him. He’s obnoxiously wealthy, he cuts a wide swath in the Lords, and he all but owns two banks. He can make his competitors tremble before he pours his morning tea.”
Rothhaven dusted his hands over an empty plate. “Some people need ruining, but I take your point. If you are already seen as having the mannerisms of the back alleys, then returning annihilation for a slight only confirms the impression.”
A duke expressed himself in those succinct, sophisticated terms. Althea could only nod. “I must find my own way to manage polite society, particularly here at Lynley Vale. Jane was raised in and around London. She has no connections this far north, and no idea how things are done in the country, while I haven’t anywhere else to go. In this neighborhood, no one’s standing exceeds your own. Will you help me?”
He already had. Althea would practice the cut direct before her cheval mirror, and to perdition with dignity.
Rothhaven rose, looking much less severe than when he’d stalked into the parlor. “Alas, my lady, I cannot. Spring planting is around the corner, and my estate would fall to pieces if I took my hand from the reins for even a figurative instant. My thanks for a pleasant hour, but please promise me that you and your staff will put it about that I am thoroughly disagreeable—if you must mention that my path has crossed yours at all.”
His eyes were crinkled at the corners again. Why did he have to have such lovely eyes?
“You cannot plough and plant every hour of the day, Your Grace.”
He took her hand and bowed. “You would be surprised. Please do retrieve your errant swine, and I’ll look forward to that wheel of cheese.”
Dismissed, though without the disdain. Althea did not care for the experience even so. She walked with him to the front door and passed him his hat and spurs.
“I will revile your execrable manners in the churchyard if you like, and assure all and sundry that your breath is sulfurous. Mightn’t you pay a call or two on me when planting is finished?”
He opened the front door, letting in a gust of fresh, peaty air. “Could you intimate that I was fearsome rather than malodorous?”
“Very well.” Althea accompanied him down the steps to the mounting block. “I will inform any who care to listen that the measure of your step is ominous and that a lift of your eyebrow inspired me to paroxysms of terror.”
“I’d settle for a frisson of dread. One doesn’t want to shade into melodrama.”
One didn’t want to part from Rothhaven never to see him until autumn, when he’d gallop past Althea’s park at dusk on Tuesday evenings.
“I would appreciate even a proper morning call,” she said. “A mere quarter hour of your time.”
A groom walked the duke’s gelding along the path that led from the stables, and Althea felt a sense of having come desperately close to attaining a goal, only to have it slip through her fingers.
That would not do. Not at all. Rothhaven was clearly the right resource for the challenge she faced, he simply needed more motivation to assist her.
“Never beg,” Rothhaven said, buckling on his spurs. “Never give quarter, never beg. With time and determination, I’m sure your situation will improve. My thanks for your hospitality.”
Don’t leave me. Please, don’t leave me.That heart-cry belonged to a young girl watching her mother’s still form being carried from the cramped, dank quarters that had qualified as home. The same girl had thought those words when Quinn had left York to take a job in service at a country manor. As a woman, Althea had again bit back that plea when Quinn had been led off to Newgate.
Rothhaven was barely an acquaintance, but Althea had pinned her hopes on his cooperation—how much trouble would it be for him to pay a few morning calls?—and now he was leaving too.
He checked the snugness of the horse’s girth, let down his stirrups, and swung into the saddle. The great black beast began capering around on the drive, clearly ready for another dash across the countryside.
“I play chess,” Althea said, “and backgammon and cribbage. You could come here on Tuesday nights, and nobody in the village would know. Nobody would know anywhere.”
