Quinn did not trust cats, though his sisters favored them. He preferred dogs, and his duchess’s canine—a great black beast with lots of teeth and a properly intimidating growl—made a nice addition to an outing in the park.

Cats, though…They slunk about, silent and hungry, pouncing from dark corners when they weren’t leaving hair—or worse—on every upholstered surface.

Althea’s cat licked Rothhaven’s hand and then leapt into his lap.

“Get down,” Quinn said, using the voice that made bank clerks wish they’d joined the overseas diplomatic corps.

The cat squinted at Quinn and put two paws on Rothhaven’s chest, touching its nose to the duke’s.

“Cats and siblings,” Rothhaven said. “Both intractably independent. To answer your question, I am capable of those acts which generally result in procreation. That said, if Constance marries me, I will doubtless embarrass her in public from time to time. In the churchyard, in the middle of the high street, or over dinner with guests, I will produce a spectacular fit with little or no warning. Then I will be dull-witted for a time, even sleepy. Nothing prevents the seizures, but intemperance, exhaustion, tobacco, and strong drink seem to aggravate them.”

Quinn was torn between sympathy for the person bearing the affliction and frustration that his sister would marry herself to such a one. Rothhaven was deserving of every happiness, but both he and his wife would be the butt of whispers and curious glances.

“So you avoid the churchyard,” Quinn said, “the high street, and dinner guests. Do you expect Constance to join you in this self-imposed exile?”

The cat batted at Rothhaven’s chin. That rudeness was rewarded with a gentle scratching behind the beast’s ears.

“Walden, if you think avoiding church, the village green, and rural dinner parties is exile, your imagination is wanting. Exile is not seeing your only brother for more than ten years, never receiving a letter from family in all that time. Exile is being told at the age of eighteen that you will never again see your sibling or the only home you’ve known, and that this deprivation is for your own good.

“Exile is being denied access to the out-of-doors, never feeling the fresh Yorkshire wind on your face, never hearing a human voice raised in song lest it over-excite your delicate nerves. Try a few years of that, no privacy, no freedom, no manly exertions to work off your temper or your dismals, and then we will discuss what constitutes exile.”

That recitation was made all the more alarming for the half-amused tone in which it was delivered.

“Constance does not have epilepsy,” Quinn said, resisting the compulsion to toss the damned cat out the door. “She deserves to entertain callers, attend services with her neighbors, and frequent the busiest streets in Mayfair if she pleases to.”