“To study art in Paris and Rome, I suppose. In a few years, I’ll be able to talk Quinn and Jane into allowing that. Stephen might be willing to share a household with me, at least for a time.”

“You suppose? This is your heart’s desire and you only suppose?” Robert supposed his guest was dissembling, giving him an acceptable answer rather than an honest one.

She preceded him into the house. “When one has nightmares, one avoids dreaming altogether. I would enjoy a year in Paris. What of you, Your Grace? What is your heart’s desire?”

“To see Nathaniel happy. He has suffered much on my account, and he deserves to be free of the burdens I’ve placed on him.”

“I understand fraternal loyalty, but what about you? What is your dream for yourself?”

Robert rapped loudly on the library door. “That is my dream.”

“Then you need more dreams, Rothhaven. You need dreams that include you in them, rather than painting a lovely picture full of other people.” She smote him gently on the chest with the flowers. “More dreams, happier dreams. Selfish, wild dreams. You’re a bright man with a fine imagination. Come up with something besides good wishes for a devoted sibling.”

The door abruptly opened and Nathaniel, looking a tad disheveled, stood on the other side. “Yes?”

A flushed and rosy Althea sat at the desk, not a book or a letter to be seen on the blotter.

“We need water for my flowers,” Constance said. “Have you no other place to disport than a public room, you two? What if we had come in the French doors? You are as bad as Quinn and Jane.” She flounced past a sheepish-looking Nathaniel and continued on to the sideboard.

“Perhaps,” Robert said, “Lady Althea would like a turn about the garden before luncheon. You could check on the seedlings in the potting shed.”

Nathaniel ran his hand through his hair. “The potting shed?”

“The one with the lock on the door.” Robert held open the French door. “We’ll see you when the kitchen bell rings.”

Althea rose from the desk and took Nathaniel by the hand. The happy couple scampered from the library without another word, and within two seconds, Constance was snickering, then giggling, then overcome with hilarity.

“The potting shed,” she managed, some minutes later. “The one with the l-locking door. My next niece or nephew will be named for a p-potting shed. Sprout, perhaps. Seedling Rothmere. You are very naughty, Your Grace. Very naughty indeed.”

“Nathaniel is carrying on in my library with your sister and you say I am naughty?”

She dabbed at her eyes with a handkerchief and beamed at him. No careful, ladylike smile, but rather, a mischievous grin that did odd things to Robert’s insides.

“Nathaniel is very lucky to have you as a brother, Your Grace. My brothers would have barged in without knocking and enjoyed themselves thoroughly at my expense.”