“For the sketch, for the advice. For…” For not ending up dead at the age of fifteen. “For teasing me.” He yielded to impulse then, probably for the first time in months, and bent to kiss her cheek. Very forward of him, despite the fact that their families were soon to be connected.

Very bold.

Constance kissed him back, also on the cheek. “Remember to be fierce.”

Then she sashayed up the corridor, leaving Robert feeling a little dazed, a little bemused, and perhaps even—possibly?—a little fierce.

“This is monstrous,” Lady Phoebe Philpot said. “Monstrous, Mr. Philpot, and as a solicitor, society looks to you to uphold the decorum and dignity of the realm. You must do something.”

What Neville Philpot longed to do was take up his newspaper and leave for the stable, where a man could find a sunny bench, a pint of summer ale, and some dignity of his own. Painful experience told him Phoebe would only work herself into more agitation if he left her to fret, and when her ladyship was agitated no sunny bench in all of England was safe from her dramatics.

“I rather thought the sovereign was charged with upholding the dignity of the realm,” Neville replied, pretending to sort through his correspondence, “or perhaps the military, though they do a wretched poor job of it.”

Phoebe stomped across the library, her footfalls thumping on the new carpets. “Do not jest with me, Neville, not on a topic of this magnitude.”

Neville had yet to figure out what exactly that topic was. Phoebe had summoned him home from York several days ago with a cryptic note. He had only that morning been able to leave his legal duties and return to his country seat. On occasion, Phoebe’s tempers blew themselves out if she was left to her own devices for a few days.

This was apparently not such an occasion.

“Dearest wife, for a lowly solicitor much pre-occupied with the press of business, please do explain which monstrosity has you in a pet now.”

She bowed her head, the picture of feminine martyrdom. Phoebe had married down all those years ago. An earl’s daughter accepted the suit of a promising young solicitor only if enormous pots of money were involved. The pots of money were more or less intact, mostly because of Neville’s abilities as a lawyer, but with each passing year, Phoebe’s irritability grew.

Afternoon sun caught the dusting of powder on her cheeks, intended to hide the approach of middle age. He’d seen her pulling a gray hair from her head last week, and she spent enough on creams, tinctures of youth, and restorative lotions to beggar a sultan. Phoebe was not yet forty, but to Neville she was taking on the qualities of a bitter old woman—and he knew not how to make her happy.