“I did enjoy myself.” Robert was still enjoying himself, and that peculiar fact captured his attention.

He had realized in the past few days that Lady Constance Wentworth had trod a path he had yet to travel. She had traversed the difficult terrain between absolute social obscurity and general acceptance by good company. She had left her employment at the asylum, and years later, she was an unremarkable fixture during the London Season, while Robert dreaded travel by coach, and felt uncomfortable under open skies.

He needed to know what she knew, needed her insights and skills, her instincts and wisdom, as he attempted to take his proper place in the world. He hadn’t figured out how to entice her into sharing those challenges with him, but he was nothing if not tenacious with mental puzzles.

Hearing her fill his library with laughter, though, watching her scold Nathaniel within an inch of his handsome pride, seeing her arranging the flowers on the sideboard, Robert came to another conclusion:

He needed her, if he was to make a convincing adjustment into the role of duke.

More than that, though—and this astounded a man who’d parted ways with astonishment years ago—he desired her. He still desired her.

Chapter Five

Chapter Five

For Constance, paying attention to her surroundings had originated not from artistic curiosity or a romantic fascination with nature, but rather, from the sheer compulsion to stay alive. Jack Wentworth had been both the sole beacon of safety in his children’s lives and the greatest threat to their well-being.

Constance had learned to notice differences in Jack’s tread outside the door—was he tired, drunk, seething, jaunty, or—most dangerous condition of all—sober? Did he come home bearing a whiff of cheap perfume, or did the brisk approach of his steps signal a new scheme afoot, a run of good luck with the cards?

She had paid attention to Jack for the same reason a sailor took note of the wind and a farmer studied the sky. Life and death had turned on Jack’s moods. More than once, she’d wakened Althea and Stephen to hustle them out the window as Jack fumbled at the door. By the tone and vileness of his curses, she’d known he was determined to once again take gambling losses out on those unable to defend themselves.

Now she paid attention to Robert, Duke of Rothhaven, who had created a spectacular garden at the very edge of the bleakest moors, and who had made her laugh until her sides ached.

“You are easily amused,” he said. “In life, that quality has to be an asset. We have a portrait gallery in the duchess’s wing, if you’d like to see it while we’re waiting for our meal.”

“Perhaps another time. I’m tempted to spy on your potting shed instead.”