He knew those blue eyes, he knew the curve of that jaw. Constance Wentworth was older, of course. Her figure was quite womanly now, and she was attired as befit the daughter of a wealthy and titled house. The subtle wariness hadn’t left her, though, and probably never would.

She’d done Robert the great courtesy of greeting him civilly, and now she had—true to her nature—allowed him the additional kindness of her company at supper. If she thought it odd that he all but clutched at her hand and sat nearly in her lap, she kept that sentiment to herself.

He held out an empty plate to her as they waited in the buffet line.

“I believe, Your Grace, the standard approach is for you to hold the plates while I fill them.”

Because a lady should not have to carry even a plate. “Of course. My apologies.” Growing up isolated from all proper company had left gaps in Robert’s social vocabulary as vast as the Yorkshire moors. Even if he’d wanted to dance with Constance—which, of course, he did not because he could not—the time and the place were wrong.

Constance could drop French phrases into her conversation in a proper Parisian accent. Robert’s French was that of Provence, and he hadn’t realized there was a difference until Nathaniel had asked him about his odd inflections.

“What shall you have to eat?” Constance asked. Lady Constance.

The buffet presented another ordeal, for Robert’s palate was quite particular. “I favor fresh fruit and cheese, a bit of bread and butter. Meat served without sauces.” Peasant fare, oddly enough, was the best diet for minimizing the effects of his illness.

“That appeals to me as well.” She had them through the line a few moments later, their plates only half full. “Come with me,” she said, leading him into a side passage. “I cannot abide to eat in a crowd. I am afraid somebody will steal my food.”

Her comment reassured him that she was still the same blunt, self-possessed, make-no-apologies female he’d met years ago.

“Are you tempted to steal food that belongs to others, my lady?”

“Not anymore.” She opened a door and preceded him into a cozy parlor. “My sister won’t mind us using her private sitting room when the alternative would be to make a scene before the neighbors.”

Robert set the plates on a writing desk angled near the window. “My grasp of proper manners is shaky at best, but should we be alone here?”

“You are safe with me, Your Grace.”

“But are you safe from the Mrs. Weatherbys and Lady Phoebes?” he asked, naming the most malicious of the neighborhood gossips.

Constance closed and locked the door, then pulled the draperies shut. “We are safe from them. They are all too busy gawking at Althea and Lord Nathaniel.”