His nose was easy. A proud beak, worthy of his title. The line was straight—no boyhood breaks or brawling—and gave his features an implacable quality. Rothhaven would be polite, even considerate, but he would not back down from a fight.

What had he…? “Why send away the brother who loves you so? Why not allow him to make those choices?”

“Because Nathaniel loves me so.”

His mouth was another challenge. Not quite grim, particularly not with the slight ironic quirk he gave it now.

“You sent your brother away, because he would never abandon you, given a choice.”

“He would stay by my side out of guilt, because the falling sickness can run in families—my father was apparently prone to it—but Nathaniel is free from it. His is the guilt of any family member faced with an afflicted sibling. He sees my suffering and cannot put his own interests first.”

Constance had to make several tries to get his lips right, and still…Lord, she wanted a glass of wine, or—how long until sunset?—brandy.

“Is it Nathaniel’s guilt you are managing or your own, Your Grace? You cannot help an infirmity that has afflicted you since boyhood.”

“True, but I can help the extent to which that infirmity casts a pall over my brother, at least for the present. He deserves a few happy years.”

Constance had been studying her subject long enough to attempt his chin and jaw in one smooth line. More resolution here, and maturity. Rothhaven was not a boy, not a pretty youth, and yet he was attractive.

“Why only a few happy years?”

A bleakness came over Rothhaven’s expression, quickly chased off with that ironic smile. “I was hidden away for more than a decade because my condition makes me unfit for the title. When some impecunious distant relation or meddling neighbor decides that my father was right to remove me from the line of succession, Nathaniel will find a way to blame himself. He will take up his mantle of misery, and likely never again set it aside.”

Constance wanted to tell Rothhaven to be quiet, to stop distracting her, but the purpose of conversation was to distract the subject. To aid him to remain still and relaxed while being closely studied.

She erased her first attempt at his chin. “You are clearly sane and hale. Who could declare you unfit?”

“I am sane at present, but what about five minutes from now, when you address direct questions to me and I simply stare past you—what then? When I cannot sit a horse for fear of a shaking fit overcoming me in the saddle—I have nightmares about that. When I refuse to take strong spirits for fear that too will increase the frequency of my seizures?”

He had barely sipped his wine at lunch, and Constance had been tempted to drink it for him.