She keened against his shoulder, a sound as much of grief as of pleasure, and he held her until she collapsed against him, then sank back with her against the mattress.

“Damn you,” she panted, several minutes later as he smoothed his hands over her hair. “Damn you, Rothhaven.”

As scolds went, that one was endearingly pathetic. “If you wanted a lap dog in your bed, you should have accepted a proposal from one of the Town dandies lusting after your settlements.”

She lifted up enough to peer at him. “I did want to be in charge. For once.”

“You want to be in charge, while I am in love.” He brushed her hair back from her cheek, adoring the sight of her rosy and replete. “In charge ought not to signify, Constance. Not here. We will find a way for you to be together with your daughter. I promise you that. I am your ally in that fight, and I will not desert you.”

Robert had no idea how to keep that promise, but he knew very well that he would not part a child from the mother who longed to be with her. When Constance again tucked close, Robert held her gently, as if she might break, as if he might soon have to let her go forever.

Unhappy couples in Stephen’s experience all exuded the same combination of resentment, despair, and bitterness. Some went about it silently, some sniped and carped at each other before company, others pretended harmony in public, though never very convincingly.

The misery was obvious to him, no matter its form.

Happy couples, by contrast, exhibited variety in the joy they took in their couple-dom. Quinn and Jane, for example, had learned to hide most of their shared passion, and yet it smoldered beneath polite manners, parenting discussions, and exquisite social deportment. A casual brush of hands when Quinn removed Jane’s cloak, and a spark would waft up on the marital breeze. Jane would smile and declare a need to retrieve a book from her private sitting room. Quinn would offer to help her find it, and off they went, chatting about some infernal bill in the Lords that Quinn was determined to see tabled.

Cousin Duncan and his Matilda were even more obvious. They could make a chess game into an erotic pavane without saying a word. At the conclusion of the game, Duncan would declare himself defeated and determined on revenge. Matilda would smile and note that the hour grew late. The combatants would wander up the steps to bed, ostensibly discussing queens adept at capturing unsuspecting knights.

Hardly subtle.

Rothhaven and Constance went about the whole business differently. Rothhaven seated Constance at the table, no little whispers or stolen touches tucked into his courtesies. Constance barely acknowledged his assistance, but when she took up the bottle of wine, she served her duke first.

“So what have you learned, Stephen?” she asked, filling Stephen’s glass as well.