He’d seen himself as the wronged party, welcomed home with open arms.

He’d eventually replaced that fantasy with a return of the conquering hero, victor over many tribulations and injustices, worthy of the title awaiting him. For in that version of events, the old duke had died, and very likely been sent to perdition for treating his firstborn so disgracefully.

In reality, Robert had little memory of his exodus from captivity. At his own request, he’d been dosed with laudanum, the better to fortify him for the ordeal of leaving the premises. By then, fear of the out-of-doors, of being touched, of varying his routine had all held him in a powerful grip.

He’d insisted on a night journey, lest the sight of the open sky relieve him of his remaining wits. Nathaniel had half carried him into the Hall under cover of darkness, and Robert had hidden in his rooms for months thereafter.

Standing in the orchard with Constance, watching her eyes light with rejoicing over confidences Robert had never shared with even his own brother, all the imaginings and daydreams about returning to the Hall faded away.

Those dreams had served their purpose, and now that Constance had taken Robert by the lapels and asked to kiss him, those dreams would never be needed again.

He touched his lips to hers, his heart full of reverence for the moment, so unlikely and perfect, for this was homecoming. This was reunification with a past he was proud of, and a foundation for a future shared with someone he cared for deeply.

Constance Wentworth, of all the women in all the world, had seen him at his worst and taken his part. She’d grasped how to survive against long odds, and better still, how to not simply endure, but to triumph.

He kissed her with all the gratitude in him, all the passion channeled so carefully into learning and self-control, and, may the Deity hold her forever in heaven’s most benevolent light, she kissed him back with equal fervor.

“Purple and orange,” she murmured against his mouth, “with bright greens, like the tropics. Exotic, brilliant, delicious…”

“Silk and flannel,” he replied, “softness and warmth, precious spices and mountains of pillows.”

She drew away half an inch, smiling like a houri. “Pillows, Rothhaven? Shall I paint you as a pasha?”

He rested his forehead against hers. “I’m not describing a painting, Constance.”

She drew back farther, her brows knit. “You want me.” She stroked a hand over his falls, as bold as polished brass. “You desire me.”

For the rest of my life. “You don’t seem surprised.” Or shocked or horrified. That terrible childhood had taught her much of value.

“Intrigued.”

She repeated the gesture and Robert had to close his eyes. Watching her explore his responses was too much pleasure.

“Surprised. Pleased. We are behind four sturdy walls, Your Grace.”