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Robbie’s gaze swiveled in the gathering gloom. “Don’t ask that of me, Nathaniel. Ask anything of me but that.”
“You said it yourself,” Nathaniel replied. “Our own father managed adequately despite suffering the same affliction you do. He saw to the succession, he fooled everybody, including his own wife and children. We have a chance now to set aside a vast deception and escape from a prison of our own making. I want to take that chance.”
Nathaniel wanted that chance for himself, but more than that, he wanted that chance for Althea, for Mama, for Robbie too, and for the staff that had served so loyally for so long.
“Nathaniel”—Robbie’s gaze was once more that of the haunted wraith who’d come home five years ago—“it’s too soon, it’s too much. Someday, possibly, another year or two, but not—”
“You’ve taken yourself down to the river dozens of times, nobody the wiser. You handle the correspondence, you have long managed the investments. You work out here in the garden under bright summer sun. For God’s sake, I’m not suggesting you give a three-hour speech in the Lords, I’m only asking you to be who you were always meant to be.”
“I have fits,” Robbie shot back. “I stare off into space like the veriest imbecile and don’t even know I’m doing it. I dare not ride a damned horse, I dare not have more than a single glass of wine. You cannot ask this of me, not yet.”
Nathaniel thought of Althea preparing to cross swords with a battle-hardened termagant who held the whole neighborhood in thrall. He thought of Mama, all but banished from her own home. He thought of the old men and women who’d served the Hall all their lives. They longed for the pensioners’ cottages they’d well and truly earned, and he realized something about a small girl who’d been forced to beg for food.
Begging was not always failure of dignity. Sometimes begging was the triumph of love and courage over pride.
“Your Grace,” Nathaniel said, meeting Robbie’s gaze directly, “I am not asking you to take your rightful place as our duke,I am begging you.”
“Lady Phoebe is moving her infantry into place,” Stephen said, beaming at Althea, despite the pain he had to be in. He’d not joined the receiving line, but for the past two hours, he’d flirted with anybody in a skirt while he leaned on a single cane.
“Must you be so indelicate,” Millicent muttered from behind a gently fluttering fan.
“Her ladyship is merely visiting with our neighbors,” Althea replied, and yet, after she’d danced the opening set with Lord Ellenbrook, nobody had asked Althea to stand up again. Quinn had tried, but to accept his partnering would have been too pathetic for words.
“You cannot know,” Stephen said, “how I long to be able to dance. I’d ask Miss Price for her supper waltz, tear every hem she’s wearing, spill my entire meal in her lap, and—”
“Stephen.” Althea pretended to acknowledge a guest across the ballroom with a smile and nod, though nobody was attempting to gain her attention. Even in the receiving line, with Quinn at her side, she’d been the object of cold, curious stares, the occasional furtive sneer, and one or two pitying glances.
Millicent had begun the evening all but babbling her good cheer. Now she stood at Althea’s side, growling like Cerberus in a pink turban.
Only a few older women had offered Althea genuine smiles, while some of the younger men had risked dismemberment by visually inspecting her person until Quinn had noticed what was afoot.
None of it mattered. None of this mistreatment was new, and Althea bore it now with a sense of patient determination. Let Lady Phoebe attempt her sabotage, provided she aimed her malice at Althea rather than Nathaniel.
“It might be time to plead bad fish,” Stephen said, taking a glass of champagne from a passing footman’s tray. “Even Ellenbrook is looking uneasy, and I hadn’t pegged him for a rotter.”
“He danced with me,” Althea said. “He’s been put in an awkward situation.”
“Bad fish is the least of what that Philpot woman deserves,” Milly said, her fan moving more quickly.
Supper was typically not served until midnight, though Althea had moved the meal up considerably to accommodate an early moonset. She’d long since given up hope that Nathaniel would attend, but still, she stole the occasional glance at the main staircase.
The herald she’d hired from York remained at his post at the top of the steps, another fixture on the set of an evening that was descending into farce.
But not tragedy. She was done with tragedy.
“How can you allow Lady Phoebe to spread her poison while you stand by and do nothing?” Stephen muttered. “Bad enough Quinn had to dance with her, worse yet when she swans around as if this were her ballroom and her string quartet.”
“If she confronts me, I will deal with her. If she’s merely gossiping, then I need not dignify her talk with a reply.” Althea had landed on that strategy, knowing it for the compromise it was. She had wanted this ball to be the start of true acceptance by her neighbors, a gesture of goodwill and good intentions on her part.
But what mattered social acceptance from a lot of gossiping tabbies and tipsy squires? What mattered anybody’s approval, if the whole of polite society stood between her and Nathaniel? Without him present, she would not be gaining entrée into the local community, but rather, hosting an expensive entertainment for the mean-spirited and small-minded.
A soft patter of applause signaled the end of the set. The couples wandered from the dance floor, and Althea gave Strensall the signal to open the doors to the buffet in the gallery.
“She’s coming this way,” Stephen said. “I’m off to fetch Quinn.”
“Do not fetch Quinn,” Althea replied, closing her fan with a snap. “I will deal with Lady Phoebe. You escort Milly to the buffet.”
“But my lady…” Milly began.
