This tendency to blurt out feelings was all Rothhaven’s fault. Nothing dismayed him, nothing shook his common sense, and very little inspired his temper. He was in every way the opposite of the man who’d raised Constance, and thank the heavenly powers for that.

She paused only to peek at her appearance—tidy but informal—before preceding Rothhaven through the door of the family parlor.

“Reverend Shaw.” She dipped a curtsy. “Welcome to Roth—Ivy.” Rothhaven came up on Constance’s side, and that alone prevented her from rushing across the room to hug the stuffing out of her daughter. “Welcome, and Mrs. Hodges, a pleasure to see you again. A tea tray is on the way, so let’s please sit down. Did you travel all the way from Fendle Bridge this morning?”

Nobody moved, and Constance’s attempt at gracious chatter died. Ivy wore a pretty green dress that reached to just above her ankles, a nearly-grown-up dress, and she carried a reticule trimmed with a ribbon the same color as her dress.

The sight of her, the sheer, wondrous, dear, amazing sight of her…Constance blinked hard, longing for her paints, completely at sea.

“Girl,” Reverend Shaw said, “have you misplaced your manners? Greet Their Graces.”

Ivy bobbed at the knees. “I don’t know what to call you now. You are a duchess.”

“Call me happy to see you,” Constance said. “Very, very happy. You didn’t run away. I am proud of you for that, not that it’s my place to be proud of you.” An ache started in Constance’s chest, unshed tears, perhaps, unspoken hopes colliding with inevitable heartbreak.

“Uncle and I talked,” Ivy said, staring past Constance’s shoulder. “Mrs. Hodges says we will talk some more.”

God bless and keep Mrs. Hodges. “Sometimes talking takes more courage than riding into battle, I’m told.” Please, may I hug you? Please, oh please.…

“Uncle said we must talk with you and His Grace too.” This occasioned a shy peek at Rothhaven, who was trying to look harmless and not quite succeeding. He had that listening intently, adding up every word, and coming to fourteen accurate conclusions look about him.

“Reverend Shaw is a wise man,” Constance said. “Might we continue this discussion over tea cakes and shortbread? I’d also like you to try some of our pear torte. My sister’s chef refuses to part with the recipe, so we all try to stay in his good books.”

That observation had Mrs. Hodges smiling at the reverend, for some reason, and he held her chair for her. Rothhaven seated Constance, then held a chair for Ivy—who blushed the roaring pink of an embarrassed redhead.