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“A token of apology for our tardiness.” Nathaniel held out a little spray of violets, arranged in a wrist corsage. “I picked them myself. If I may?”
“Please.” Althea held out her hand. “My gardenias have lost their fragrance.” And she had lost her heart.
Nathaniel substituted the violets for the gardenias she’d been wearing and slipped the paler flowers into his pocket. Althea tucked her hand into the crook of his arm, in part to complete the display of cordial acquaintance he’d begun, and in part to ensure she remained upright. The crowd shifted to reveal Quinn and Stephen at the foot of the steps, chatting amiably with…
“The Duke and Duchess of Rothhaven,” Althea murmured. “I can hardly credit it. At my ball.”
“And Lord Nathaniel Rothmere,” Nathaniel replied, bending close and covering Althea’s hand with his own. “Did you know Socrates had the falling sickness? And Caesar?”
He smiled at her, the way a doting swain smiles at his lady love, and though Althea suspected the smile was half for show, she smiled back at him like a thoroughly smitten lady love.
“I was vaguely aware of those facts, my lord. Your brother cuts quite a figure, as do you.”
“Robert is determined that he will not live down to our father’s example, as am I.”
Lady Phoebe remained in the middle of the dance floor, the other guests drifting away from her, doubtless the better to gawk as Althea greetedTheir Graces of Rothhaven. Before Althea reached the foot of the steps, she caught Vicar Sorenson’s eye and subtly inclined her chin toward Lady Phoebe.
“She should be cast into the nearest moat,” Nathaniel said. “What she was trying to do was the worst kind of evil. You meant her no harm and never have.”
“I believe she has cast herself into a moat, and not a soul among us will toss her a rope, though Vicar will see to it that she’s made to sit through supper for Miss Price’s sake. Introduce me to your mama, please.”
The introductions proceeded amid much smiling and bobbing. Stephen and Robbie were soon engaged in a lively discussion regarding the relative merits of Beethoven over Mozart. Quinn and the Duchess of Rothhaven went in to dinner arm in arm, and Althea was left with no choice but to do likewise with Nathaniel.
Though Althea was confident that, in the entire history of balls, no hostess had ever wished more fervently for her own entertainment to end. Something had changed at Rothhaven Hall, and Althea was dying to know exactly what.
Until she could have Nathaniel to herself, she’d play the part of the gracious hostess, right down to wishing Lady Phoebe a pleasant evening when her ladyship made an unsuccessful attempt to discreetly slink away immediately after supper.
A light glowed in the window of the second-floor corner suite at Lynley Vale. A more honorable man would have allowed the delight of his heart to get a few hours’ sleep before he bothered her, but Nathaniel’s gallantry was no match for the need to be private with his lady.
Dancing with half the giggling twits in the shire had sorely tried that gallantry. His Grace of Walden had doubtless stood up with the other half, while Robert had graciously kept Lord Stephen—and several fawning widows—company in the card room.
“My goodness.” Althea came to a halt in the doorway between her sitting room and her bedroom. “You have graduated from lurking in gardens to housebreaking.”
Nathaniel could not read her mood, could not tell if she was upset that he’d upstaged her at her own ball—though really, Robert had been the talk of the evening—or pleased to see him.
“If I waited to pay a proper call tomorrow, I’d have to fight my way past every callow boy and lonely widower in the shire.” Nathaniel stalked across the room rather than shout. “And then your brothers would doubtless turn up troublesomelycongenialin anticipation of watching your sister-in-law-the-duchess dissect my motives with her sewing scissors. How are you?”
Althea unpinned the rosebud on his lapel. “Tired. You?”
“The same, and glad to have this evening behind us.”
They’d danced the good-night waltz with the entire neighborhood gawking at them. Althea had smiled pleasantly at Nathaniel’s shoulder, while he’d aimed a fond gaze at the top of her head. His intention had been to let all and sundry know that a harsh word aimed at Althea Wentworth would have consequences.
He suspected Althea’s motives had been the same where he was concerned, which left a former ducal impersonator all in a muddle.
“Tell me about Robbie,” Althea said, pouring a glass of water at the sideboard and putting his boutonniere into it.
“Robert—he will no longer answer to Master Robbie—and I learned that our dear, dunderheaded father had the falling sickness too. He likely held Mama at arm’s length to keep his condition a secret from her, though Mama thinks he was also simply difficult by nature.”
Nathaniel took Althea’s wrist and fiddled with the satin bow holding her corsage until the flowers came loose. He put the violets in the same glass of water as his boutonniere, added the wilted gardenias from his pocket, and led Althea into the bedroom.
“Might I assist you with your hooks?” He’d done that much before without completely losing his wits.
“I told my maid not to wait up for me.” Althea gave him her back and swiped her hair off her nape. “She is doubtless in the kitchen, listening to all the after-gossip and flirting with Monsieur.”
God bless Monsieur.“Monsieur’s bill of fare was enough to make a grown man weep. I’d forgotten what a real quiche is supposed to taste like. Why does this blasted gown have so many hooks?”
“The better to stay on when I’m turning down the room with a friendly neighbor. Give me a moment.”
