“I wished them to perdition in my thoughts.” She stalked away, pivoting at the Cupid birdbaths. “We are born flawed. Why does that surprise people? Stephen has an injury. I fell in love with a bounder. Quinn can be rigid, and Jane can’t sing to save herself. Why is anything less than perfection cause for judgment and curiosity? I am overset. I didn’t mean to explode like this. I had planned to be articulate and self-possessed, as your future duchess should be.”

“Should she?”

Constance’s path brought her back to him. “Of course. You are dignified and self-possessed, when not in the midst of your affliction.”

She patted his cravat, which he’d tied in a quick, simple mathematical because he’d craved the comfort of his garden.

“Do you recall our little hike to the orchard, my lady?”

Another pat, or more of a caress. “I relive that encounter in my dreams.”

As did Robert. In his fondest, wildest dreams. He slipped his arms around Constance’s waist. “Do you recall kissing me?”

She linked her fingers at his nape. “Yes, and I recall you kissing me too.”

“Was I dignified and self-possessed?”

The question occasioned a frown. “At first. You have self-restraint, Rothhaven. Buckets and bales of it. I do not.”

Robert drew her close, slowly, gently. “All those years in the schoolroom learning proper deportment when you wanted to go barefoot and paint nature. All the hours spent repeating French phrases you had no use for. All the years of hiding your sorrow as a mother from even your family.” He kissed her temple. “You have self-restraint, Constance. Buckets and bales of it, but I hope you have little need of it with me.”

She let him have her weight on a soft exhalation. “Althea said you might set me aside. She said you are accustomed to being alone and that your attraction to me was too precipitous to endure. I’m a novelty.”

“My attraction to you began years ago. There’s nothing precipitous about it. I set you aside once before, and now that the moment is upon me…”

She peered up at him. “Explain yourself.” Then she bundled closer, as if settling in for a long, comfy snuggle.

And that—the trust, the affection, the desire—decided that last of Robert’s uncertainty. “Now I know I can never let you go.” Then he kissed her, with no self-restraint whatsoever.

“How are you not angry all the time?” Constance asked Rothhaven when she’d recovered from his kisses. “How are you not mad?”

“Oh, but I am.” He kept his arm around her shoulders and walked her toward the garden door. “You’ve seen it for yourself. I am uneasy under an open blue sky, I dread the company of strangers, and I can barely abide to ride in a coach, though I’ve done some thinking about that.”