Stephen shifted his weight and set the tankard on the bench, so he could brace himself on both the back of the bench and his cane.

“You were in a towering fit of pique, and I wasn’t there to see it. Have you considered next steps?”

“No.”

Stephen waited with damnable fraternal patience.

“I can write to Ivy through the housekeeper, Mrs. Hodges. She appears to care for Ivy and she’s patient with the reverend.”

“A saint among women. I need to sit in the next two minutes or I will fall upon my arse, causing both talk and unnecessary humiliation. Go put Rothhaven out of his misery. He’s doubtless castigating himself without limit for what was probably a doomed mission to begin with. I will nose around and see what I can learn about the larger picture.”

For form’s sake, Constance wanted to argue. To be ordered about by a younger brother who sounded unnervingly like their ducal sibling was annoying. Merely annoying, though, not enraging.

“Take the bench,” Constance said, rising. “Can you transform yourself back into a prancing dandy and join us for dinner tonight?”

“Prancing, Con?” He slid onto the bench with a sigh. “I should live so long as to ever in my life prance.”

“One can prance figuratively. Rothhaven asked me about emigrating to Australia.” She made a production out of opening her parasol and adjusting it over her shoulder.

“You are tempted.”

“His Grace cannot go with me, Stephen. He can barely tolerate coach travel at night, he regulates what he eats ruthlessly, and he must have rest and quiet, which are nearly impossible to assure on board a ship. I cannot ask him to travel that far away from his brother and familiar surroundings. Not yet.”

“And you won’t abandon him, though Ivy cannot stay here. I’m sorry, Con.”

“I accepted his marriage proposal, Stephen. I knew what I was getting into.”

“No,” Stephen said, examining the handle of his cane, “you did not. Neither did Rothhaven. That is the nature of marriage—a vast and perilous unknown temptingly draped in promises of romance and erotic pleasure—and why you will not find me sticking my toe or any other part of me in parson’s mousetrap. Away with you, or Rothhaven will fret himself into a twitteration thinking he’s disappointed you.”

He had disappointed Constance, and she had disappointed Ivy, and the reverend was a disappointment all around. “We’ll hire a private dining room for supper and keep country hours—and Stephen?”

He looked up and for a moment, Constance recalled the vulnerable, furious boy he’d been, and how fiercely he’d fought for a scrap of dignity.

I am not the only one in the habit of keeping myself to myself. “Thank you. Thank you for everything.”