“Nora’s tea?” The duke frowned. “Did not Sir Anthony help you?” The question was worded rather strongly, as though Sir Anthony must have helped her and nothing else. No one else. Certainly not Nora.

She waved a hand dismissively in the air. “Oh, nothing he does ever helps me. I don’t know why you send for that man. There is nothing to be done for me when I’m in the throes of these spells, I fear, but Nora’s willow bark tea is the closest thing to ever provide me with any relief.”

The duke’s frown intensified and he sent Constantine a rather uncomfortable glance, no doubt recalling how rude he had been to Nora.

Serves him right. Constantine felt a stab of satisfaction, hoping His Grace felt remorse for his treatment of her, and also inordinately proud that Nora alone had been able to provide even a modicum of relief for the duchess.

“I was desperate, m’dear,” the man explained, taking his wife’s hand in his. “I thought Sir Anthony—”

“Just because he attends your club and is a man does not mean he is proficient in medicine, my dear,” she returned.

He puffed up his chest in a display of indignation. “I rather thought his medical license made him proficient in that regard, m’dear.”

“Please.” She laughed lightly and Constantine marveled that this lady was the same one to appear in such discomfort yesterday. “How old is Sir Anthony? Seventy? He received that license in the Dark Ages. I doubt he has kept up on any advances in medicine. Everyone knows he spends all his time with his mistress on Crawley Street.”

“Maude!” the duke exclaimed.

Constantine laughed. He could not help himself.

“What? ’Tis common enough knowledge. Now please fetch Nora, would you? Even though I feel better, I would like some more of that tea of hers.”

The duke looked to him questioningly. Clearly he expected Constantine to produce Nora as though she were naught but a servant to be managed. He certainly would make no such attempt after the abysmal way the duke had treated her . . . and perhaps Constantine was apprehensive to see her again after last night.

He did not precisely know how to comport himself after all that had transpired between them. He had tried to stay away from her. He had locked his door . . . and yet she had still found a way into his chamber, to him. It was difficult to accept that the tonic had broken him, but it had.

“Ah, I believe she is packing for home, Your Grace.” He swallowed and fought to keep his expression neutral. At least that was what Nora had claimed the night before. She’d rejected his clumsy proposal. The fault was his. He should have done better. He owed her better. A gentleman did not offer marriage in such a blundering way.