Page 94 of A Duke Too Far (The Way to a Lord's Heart 4)

The sun was making a leisurely progress toward the western horizon, and with its fading light, Nathaniel felt a sense of his own hopes dimming. Mama and Robbie were once again in the garden, bickering good-naturedly about whether to shade some pansies with burlap, while Nathaniel watched from St. Valentine’s bench and pretended to read Treegum’s latest report.

Something about the report nagged at him, a detail not quite on the page. Focusing on the same verbiage and figures he’d seen for years had grown difficult, though.

Robbie was making plans. In his apartment, boxes had started to fill with books. He’d inquired into use of the second coach and was having it fitted with heavy shades. He’d always been one to go after a goal once he’d made up his mind, a duke who charged forth fearlessly, however misguided his objective.

Stay where I can protect you.Nathaniel could not say that, could not impede his brother’s plans in any way. The best he could do was maintain his silence and his privacy at Rothhaven Hall, and when word came that Robbie’s venture had failed, intercede once again.

“Tell him he’s wrong,” Mama said, settling onto the bench. “The pansies want shade, and this garden hasn’t much of that to offer.”

Robbie was absolutely wrong. “You designed your garden to take advantage of the sun, Your Grace.” When had Mama grown so diminutive? She’d always been a robust woman, but now her energy was the bustling, elderly variety, not the commanding consequence of a duchess.

“I wanted the sun, Nathaniel. I wanted fresh air and bright light. You should go to that ball. Dance with Lady Althea, lend her your consequence.”

“And then turn my back on her? All that will do is fuel Lady Phoebe’s gossip.” Though to waltz with Althea would be divine.

“Robbie wants to set up his own household, and that makes sense to me. One of you needs to get on with being the duke.”

A gentleman did not argue with a lady. “Duking is best undertaken by those who legitimately hold the title. If Lady Phoebe flies into the boughs over a spot of matchmaking competition, think what she’ll do when she finds out my marriage lines are invalid.” Assuming Althea was willing to marry him, which she ought not to be.

Robbie took off his hat and tossed it through the sunbeams to land at Nathaniel’s feet.

“Good aim,” Mama said. “He was a terror on the cricket pitch.” She watched Robbie the way a parent watched a much younger child, one who could be carried off next week by a lung fever.

“He’s not as sound as he thinks he is, Mama, or not the way he thinks he is. He could have drowned, walking by the river’s edge, and then he was ill, and if it hadn’t been for her ladyship—”

The door at the far end of the garden opened. Nathaniel expected to see Treegum, Elf, or a stray maid come through, taking a shortcut perhaps. The damned door was supposed to be kept locked during Mama’s visit, but like many orders Nathaniel gave of late, that one had apparently been ignored.

Cousin Sarah bustled into the garden, a basket over her arm adding to her deceptively harmless appearance. She kept coming as Nathaniel rose and walked toward her, her every step deepening his dread.

She waved to Nathaniel as she approached Robbie, and Nathaniel saw the moment when she realized that the fellow without his hat was not an under-gardener or groundsman.

“Oh, dear,” Mama muttered at Nathaniel’s elbow. “I told her the dower house wanted flowers. I never thought she’d recall my little hobby.”

Cousin Sarah dropped her basket, threw her arms around Robbie, and commenced to blubber and howl loudly enough to be heard as far away as London itself.

“I’m sorry,” Jane said, aiming her apology at Althea. “Perhaps I can come down later, once the guests are through the receiving line.”

Quinn scowled ferociously. “The scent of beeswax aggravates the condition, as I recall.”

“What condition?” Althea asked, for nothing in this exchange made sense to her. Jane’s belly was troubling her and her face was pale. Quinn looked ready to do violence to somebody, perhaps himself.

“You said you were past this part,” he snapped. “You told me the worst of it was behind you.”

“Is Jane ill?” Althea asked.

“No,” Jane said, just as Quinn growled out, “Yes.”

Jane smiled, while Quinn scrubbed a hand over his face. “The duchess and I are in anticipation of an interesting event. We have no son, which bothers me not at all when I have three daughters to love and spoil, as well as a brother and a cousin upon whom the dukedom can inflict itself. My wife nonetheless uses the lack of an heir to regularly and thoroughly—”

“Quinn.” Jane’s rebuke was gentle and amused. “Althea has no interest in those details.”

Althea found those details fascinating. “Your digestion bothers you because you are expecting?”

“It shouldn’t,” Jane replied, aiming a puzzled glance at her stomach. “The midwives all claim that the belly settles down after the first few months. That was true with Bitty.”

Quinn took the place beside Jane on the sofa and laced his fingers with hers. “And Bitty’s sisters have refused to heed the midwife’s guidance. Jane suffers for months with these babies. Contrary Wentworths, the lot of them.”

Quinnsuffered with these babies, a fascinating revelation. “What’s to be done?” Althea asked. “Peppermint tea? Ginger and lemon? Lemon drops?”

---