Page 30 of Never a Duke
But then, whenhadhe been happy, much less jolly? A memory rose, of Rosalind smiling up at him, her lips rosy with his kisses, her eyes full of wonder.
Atthatmoment, he’d been not merely happy, but joyous.
He bowed to Mrs. Nimitz and took his leave.
Chapter Six
“Do you play an instrument?” Rosalind asked, as Ned Wentworth handed her down from a sumptuous town coach. His vehicle did not boast the Walden coat of arms, but it didn’t need to. Never had Rosalind traveled in such comfort. Never had she traveled in suchquiet. The coach was like a little world, refreshment secreted here, pillows and lap robes piled there, the faint scent of cedar wafting pleasantly about the interior.
“I don’t play with any proficiency,” Mr. Wentworth said. “I pick up the fiddle from time to time.” He saw Rosalind safely to the cobbles and assisted Mrs. Barnstable to alight. “What of you ladies? Do you have preferred instruments?”
Mrs. B chattered on about the flute not being as easy an instrument to play well as most people thought. Mr. Wentworth offered an arm to each lady, and they processed into the Petershams’ impressive residence. Rosalind’s escort continued conversing in pleasantries all the while, giving no indication that the addition of a companion to the outing in any way disappointed him.
Rosalind was disappointed. How was she to learn of Mr. Wentworth’s progress among the houses of ill repute with Mrs. B holding forth so volubly about the Mannheim composers? How was she to convey to Mr. Wentworth that Mrs. Abercrombie’s red-haired companion had left without notice? Calliope Henderson had been pretty, merry, and content with her post.
Bad things come in threes.
“I see Lord and Lady Nathaniel Rothmere are in attendance,” Mr. Wentworth said. “Shall I introduce you? Her Grace of Rothhaven is with them.”
Rosalind shuffled up a few more steps toward the top of the main staircase, where Mrs. Petersham was greeting her guests. A tallish dark-haired fellow was greeting the hostess, two dark-haired women flanking him.
“Those are the Wentworth sisters?” Mrs. Barnstable asked quietly. “Lady Althea and Lady Constance?”
“Lady Althea married Lord Nathaniel Rothmere,” Mr. Wentworth said. “Lady Constance is wed to his brother, Robert, His Grace of Rothhaven. His Grace is not one for socializing, but the ladies never want for an escort.”
Rosalind nearly stuck her tongue out at Mrs. Barnstable:This is the man whose company you cautioned me against. He is on familial terms with not one but two dukes, and even you are impressed with his manners.
Mrs. Barnstable’s gaze said she was all but panting to add ducal siblings to the list of introductions she could brag about to her friends.
“I would not want to impose,” she murmured.
“I would,” Rosalind rejoined. “These people know all the best stories about Mr. Wentworth, and those, I am dying to hear. Besides, Her Grace of Rothhaven is reported to be a fine portraitist, and I do want her opinion regarding the many renderings of Lord Byron.”
About which, Rosalind cared not one fig, but Mrs. B’s demurral must be countered.
“We can sit with them if you like,” Mr. Wentworth said. “The ladies and I haven’t spent much time together since they arrived in London, and I’d like a chance to catch up.”
So apparently would the Wentworth sisters, for they swarmed Mr. Wentworth—How delightful! Our Neddy is here!—and kissed his cheek and fussed over him as if he were the prodigal returned. Lord Nathaniel looked on with smiling patience.
“It’s always like this,” his lordship said quietly. “They embarrass the poor fellow without mercy because their own brothers are too delicate to endure such attentions. I have suggested to my wife that some restraint is in order, but that’s like telling sheep to leave off grazing the Yorkshire hills. Cannot be done.”
His lordship carried the sound of Yorkshire in his accent, and clearly, he carried a profound regard for his wife in his heart. His smile was doting, and he made no move to rescue Mr. Wentworth from the ladies’ enthusiasms.
With Mrs. Barnstable looking as if she’d stepped into a fairy tale, the party found seats. The gentlemen took the outside positions, while Rosalind was tucked between Mr. Wentworth and Her Grace of Rothhaven. Mrs. Barnstable—waving cheerfully to every acquaintance in the room—nestled between Her Grace and Lady Nathaniel.
“You refer to them as Lady Althea and Lady Constance.” Rosalind put the question to Mr. Wentworth quietly. “Is that at their request?”
He passed her a program. “Their insistence. When I met them, they were adjusting to being Miss Wentworth and Miss Constance. Then the titles befell them. The ladies eluded matrimony for years, until the Rothmere fellows came up to scratch. I gather Yorkshire appeals to them in part for its informality and relative peace. London airs are a trial to them both and to their menfolk.”
A duke and his brother could bemenfolk. Papa, George, and Lindy would have apoplexies to hear themselves referred to in such casual language.
“You like these ladies.”
“I love them,” Mr. Wentworth said, peering at his program. “I don’t know Lord Nathaniel or His Grace of Rothhaven all that well, but what I do know of them, I find estimable. Althea and Constance have endured much and are entitled to expect much from their spouses.”
“Have you endured much, Mr. Wentworth?”
He folded his program in half. “I suspect the soprano right before the interval will add to my burdens.”
