“You are too easily pleased,” he replied, scowling at Lord Nathaniel’s retreating form. “The Almighty saw fit to leave the church roof in place, so we must conclude my presence in the family pew was a matter of indifference to Him as well.”

What little conversation Rothhaven had offered today had been irritable, understandably so. The journey into York on a sunny morning had to have tried his nerves. He’d said little for the entire distance other than “Curtains down, please,” and “How much farther?”

Now he stood on the walkway before the offices of Cranmouth and Cranmouth, looking ready to hurl thunderbolts.

“Your neighbors bowed and curtsied out of respect, Rothhaven.”

The duke had waited until the moment before the first hymn had begun to have his coach deposit him at the foot of the church steps. He’d stalked up the church aisle and taken his place beside his brother, but not before every person in the church had risen. For the yeomanry and laborers, no pews were provided, but for the gentry and the merchants, Rothhaven’s arrival had created a stir.

Every soul present had acknowledged his arrival, and the singing had been glorious. A duke returned from the dead was cause for rejoicing, apparently. Vicar Sorenson’s sermon had been on the prodigal son, and some of the older ladies had sniffed into their handkerchiefs for most of the service.

Rothhaven had darted right back into his waiting coach before the final notes of the recessional hymn had ended.

No matter that he hadn’t stood about making small talk in the churchyard. Attending services at all was a start, a leap rather than a step in the right direction. Constance’s joy had been profound. Two days later he’d sent a note asking her about a trip into York to meet with Miss Abbott.

What difference did churchyard pleasantries make, when a man so clearly understood what mattered most to his intended?

“How far is Miss Abbott’s office?” he asked, scowling at a perfectly beautiful blue sky after he’d completed his business with the lawyer.

“Several streets that direction,” Constance said, tipping her chin. “It’s a pretty day for a stroll, and she is expecting us.”

Rothhaven pulled on his gloves—one did not wear gloves when signing documents—and tapped his hat onto his head.

“Let’s be…” He shook free of Constance’s grip. “I need the coach. Now.”

His tone was so abrupt, Constance mentally recoiled. “But we can walk, Rothhaven. I would like to stretch my legs, in fact, and I daresay—”

“Get me the damned—” One moment, Rothhaven had been standing before her, muttering foul language, the next, he slipped downward, his hat tumbling into the street.

“Rothhaven?”