“I’m doing well enough as it is,” Cranmouth said. “I don’t like the notion of standing back while you bring scandal down on a ducal family, Philpot. It’s not the done thing.”

Neville had not expected Cranmouth to fall in with a daring scheme at first mention. Phoebe had cautioned patience and persistence, and as usual, Phoebe had been correct.

“Nobody undertakes such a course enthusiastically,” Neville replied, as a second man joined Sir Levi across the room. “For the present, all I suggest you do is have a glance at the old duke’s ledgers and accounts. If you can find proof that regular payments were made to a private madhouse during the years corresponding to Rothhaven’s absence, you will have evidence that supports my case. Does that sound reasonable?”

Evidence was dear to any lawyer’s heart, objective proof that absolved a man of the distasteful uncertainty of—and responsibility for—a personal opinion.

“That makes sense,” Cranmouth said. “And my father kept meticulous records for the old duke. Nothing less would do. Exactly how much extra work do you see my office taking on, should the present titleholder be found unfit?”

The bait had been taken, as Phoebe had known it would be.

“The additional work would be enormous, Cranmouth. A very great burden indeed.”

“A notion worth contemplating.” Cranmouth smiled and lifted his glass. “A health to your lady, Philpot.”

“I am happy to share such a toast. When shall we revisit our earlier topic?”

“Give me a fortnight. The ledgers will have to be retrieved from the attics.”

“Excellent.” Within a week, Sybil’s handsome swain should have proffered his proposal, and Neville could have a petition drafted to bring His Grace of Rothhaven before a board of competence examiners.

Truly, marrying dear Phoebe was the smartest thing Neville had ever done.

Chapter Twelve

Chapter Twelve

Rothhaven as a lover was like a marching army: unstoppable, resolute, and—for Constance—liberating. He hadn’t conquered her so much as he’d overwhelmed her with consideration. Even as passion had rendered her nigh insensate, he’d still been gauging her reactions and attuning his lovemaking to her responses.

And oh, the sensation of his voice, whispered in her ear…

“More, my lady?”

“Tell me if it’s too much, Constance.”

And the words that had sent her over the edge: “Let go. I have you, Constance. You can let go.”

All of this, while their bodies were joined in a slow, relentless rhythm, and pleasure stalked Constance from within.

She had let go, of control, self-doubt, fear, fatigue, everything, except the man in her arms. Holding Rothhaven was like holding the sun in her heart. The darkness that had weighed upon her for years was supplanted with light, warmth, joy, brilliant colors, and—most of all—with hope.