“Yes,” Constance said, spooning up a bite of pear compote in cinnamon and clove sauce. “Yes, I did compromise. When I chose to believe Ivy’s father’s flattery and refused to tell Quinn the varlet’s name. When I fled the protection of my family, when I took up the most menial and obscure occupation I could find. I compromised, and the result would have been tragic, had I not met you.”

Rothhaven took her hand, and that gesture fortified Constance sufficiently that she could finish her declaration, even though the table had gone silent, and Jane looked quite severe.

“I compromised,” Constance went on, “when I allowed Quinn to arrange for Ivy to be raised by the Wilsons. I most assuredly compromised when I sat like an agreeable statue in one Mayfair ballroom after another. I compromised and compromised and compromised, but no more. No more compromising, Rothhaven. I will have my duke, I will be the duchess who happily paints away her seasons on the Yorkshire moors, and I refuse to compromise.”

God in heaven. Constance’s entire family, plus Nathaniel and the vicar, were looking at her as if she’d sprouted horns and a tail. She put down her spoonful of compote and wanted to slither under the table. An apology tried to muddle forth, something about not meaning to air sad linen on such a happy occasion. She looked up and happened to catch Quinn’s eye.

He was smiling, and Quinn smiled so seldom that Constance had forgotten the breathtaking warmth he could display. His daughters and his duchess were the usual recipients of his rare smiles, but he aimed the full-on version at Constance now.

He lifted his glass. “To not compromising on important matters, and if Rothhaven is to blame for your newfound sense of resolve, then I suppose we must thank him and welcome him—him too—to the family.”

Heat stole up Constance’s cheeks, even as a measure of joy pushed aside the worries plaguing her so sorely. Quinn had started the toasts that invariably accompanied any wedding breakfast, and as Jane stood to offer felicitations to the newlyweds, Quinn rose to fetch a fresh bottle of wine from the sideboard.

He passed behind Constance’s chair and bent low enough to whisper in her ear, “Welcome home, my lady,” then sidled on by with all the savoir-faire to which a bank nabob turned duke was entitled.

“What did he say?” Rothhaven asked.

“He said he loves me.” Said he’d always loved her, and said he blamed himself for the whole sad business all those years ago. Silly man. Silly, dear, dear man. “You were right, Rothhaven.” Constance took a taste of an exquisite dessert.

“I am frequently right. To which occasion do you now refer?”

“You said today is a joyous occasion.”

“When I am with you, the occasion is always joyous.”