Constance sat beside Rothhaven on the bench, his arm around her shoulders, the solid, warm bulk of him against her side. Her straw hat had ended up on the grass along with her sketch pad, reticule, and pencil, and the cat was crouched beside her effects, chewing on her eraser.

“I hate that you have suffered,” Rothhaven replied. “I gather the bounder never meant to marry you.” His hand stroking Constance’s hair was beyond gentle, while his tone presaged protracted torture for the bounder.

“I told him everything, about Jack Wentworth, growing up without shoes, Quinn digging graves.…He listened so sweetly, called me his wild rose. When I told him I had conceived, I thought he would share my joy and we would tell our families of our impending nuptials.”

Rothhaven remained silent, silence being one of his gifts. He was a quiet, patient, kind man, and Constance vowed to make him the best duchess she could possibly be.

“He laughed.” For the first time, Constance recalled that memory with rage rather than sadness. “He laughed and asked me why I’d spread my legs if I hadn’t expected to conceive a bastard. Girls like me were supposed have ways of preventing that sort of thing, and he wasn’t about to be trapped by a streetwalker in muslin and velvet. In his version of events, I’d thrown myself at him, and he’d never breathed a word of marriage much less made me any promises. I’d also picked his pocket while plying my trade, stolen his dear grandpapa’s gold watch.”

Her lover had threatened her with hanging, something Constance would likely never tell Quinn.

Robert’s hand on her hair paused, then resumed its slow caresses. “I’m a fairly good shot. I practice in the gallery when the winter megrims threaten. Something about the loud noise revives my spirits. Even wounding this fellow would put me in a positively jolly humor.”

“You are so dear.” Constance snuggled closer, while the cat curled up on her reticule and closed its eyes. “He died at university before the baby was born. I suspect somebody’s irate husband or brother called him out. The family put it about that he’d fallen prey to a sudden illness.”

Robert kissed Constance’s temple, as if they’d been married for years. “Were you cured of your infatuation by then?”

“By then, I had spent two months in a private madhouse on the moors, working as a maid for people who had lost much, but who yet retained their dignity. By the time Quinn found me, I had been cured of my infatuation and even of some of my self-pity. I explained to Quinn what was afoot, and he arranged for me to bide with a widow in the Nottingham countryside until my confinement had passed. I was at finishing school, as far as the world knew, and the experience did nearly finish me.”

“A difficult lying-in?”