He turned his back to Althea—very rude of him—though he appeared to require a moment to marshal his composure. She counted that a small victory, for she had needed many such moments since acquiring a title, and her composure yet remained as unruly as her sows on a pretty spring day.

Though truth be told, the ladies had had some encouragement regarding the direction of their latest outing.

Rothhaven turned to face her, the fire in his gaze banked to burning disdain. “Will you or will you not retrieve your wayward pigs from my land?”

“I refuse to discuss this with a man who cannot observe the simplest conversational courtesy.” She waved a hand at the opposite wing chair, and when that provoked a drawing up of the magnificent ducal height, she feared he’d stalk from the room.

Instead he took the chair, whipping out the tails of his riding jacket like Lucifer arranging his coronation robes.

“Thank you,” Althea said. “When you march about like that you give a lady a crick in her neck. Your orchard is at least a mile from my home farm.”

“And downwind, more’s the pity. Do you raise pigs to perfume the neighborhood with their scent?”

“No more than you keep horses, sheep, or cows for the same purpose, Your Grace. Or maybe your livestock covers up the pervasive odor of brimstone hanging about Rothhaven Hall?”

A muscle twitched in His Grace’s jaw.

Althea had been raised by a man who regarded displays of violence to be all in a day’s parenting. Her instinct for survival had been honed early and well, and had she found Rothhaven frightening, she would not have been alone with him.

She was considered a spinster, while he was a confirmed eccentric. He was intimidating—impressively so—but she had bet her future on his basic decency. He patted his horse, he fed the beast treats, he took off his spurs before calling on a lady, and his retainers were all so venerable they could nearly recall when York was a Viking capital.

A truly dishonorable peer would discard elderly servants, abuse his cattle, and ignore basic manners, wouldn’t he?

The tea tray arrived before Althea could doubt herself further, and in keeping with standing instructions, the kitchen had exerted itself to the utmost. Strensall placed an enormous silver tray before Althea—the good silver, not the fancy silver—bowed, and withdrew.

“How do you take your tea, Your Grace?”

“Plain, except I won’t be staying for tea. Assure me that you’ll send your swineherd over to collect your sows in the next twenty-four hours and I will take my leave of you.”

Not so fast. Having coaxed Rothhaven into making a call, Althea wasn’t about to let him win free that easily.