“Carry a damned comb,” Robert said, passing over his. “Potting sheds can leave a man looking tumbled.” He buried his face in a damp length of toweling and considered Nathaniel’s question. “I went outside because I needed to inspect the drive if I’m to take it in hand. Rothhaven Hall must acquire the appearance of a ducal residence. I thought having Lady Constance at my side would distract me from…things.” From the anxious weight of a wide blue sky, from the feeling of being watched from all directions, from a worry that had no source and no solution.

And she had been a distraction. Her ladyship had a way of cocking her head, like a sharpshooter closing one eye to sight on a target, before she delivered her pithy conclusions. She smelled of goodness—roses and sun-warmed linen—and she could follow a conversation that leapt about from the gatehouse to the dry fountain to the best way to discourage lichens from defacing an ancestral pile.

“What about an approaching coach unnerved you?” Nathaniel asked.

“The sound of the wheels.”

“Why?”

Nathaniel was simply curious, simply trying to be helpful, but thank the angels who took pity on lunatic dukes, the ladies arrived at that moment, both of them looking cheery, tidy, and in charity with the world.

“I have worked up an appetite,” Lady Althea said, beaming at her intended.

“If you don’t cut line,” Lady Constance muttered, “I will take my meal with His Grace in the garden, and you two can dine in the potting shed.”

“A picnic sounds lovely.” Lady Althea serenely took the seat Nathaniel held for her. “I do adore a friendly meal al fresco.”

Lady Constance sent Robert a glance that communicated both humor and long-suffering. Nothing about her demeanor suggested he’d disappeared from her side not ten minutes before, without warning, explanation, or excuse.

“His Grace may ask to borrow some goats from Lynley Vale,” Lady Constance said. “The Rothhaven drive is to be reclaimed from the wilderness. I will pass on the soup. Lentils do not agree with me.”

The conversation at lunch was about Crofton Ford, this year’s crop of spring lambs, and the looming ordeal-cum-celebration of shearing. Robert listened with half an ear, then caught Nathaniel watching him with the guarded expression that suggested Robert had missed part of the conversation.

“I beg the pardon of the ladies, I was woolgathering.” Trying to fashion an apology for a reaction that had no rational explanation. Why had he run from the sound of coach wheels? Robert needed to understand that moment if he was to prevent himself from repeating it.

The meal concluded seven eternities later, with Nathaniel declaring that he wanted to show Lady Althea plans for landscaping Crofton Ford. Robert was once again thrown into the company of a woman before whom he’d committed a serious faux pas.