“I am worried because you are worried,” Althea said, “and because Philpot and Cranmouth looked thick as thieves as the coach horses trotted ’round the corner. Constance and I—our whole family—will do what we can for His Grace, but Rothhaven will always need you too.”

“And I will always worry that I’m inadequate to defend my brother’s interests.” Which could not be helped. Nathaniel kissed his intended, for courage, for luck, for the sheer pleasure of kissing her, and because speculating about what mischief Philpot might get up to was depressing in the extreme. “When can we be married?”

Althea had brought the wonderful news that the king was being reasonable regarding the confusion over the title.

“Constance says that I am the older sister and thus I must speak my vows first. I think she likes the idea of being courted by a duke.”

Althea gently bit Nathaniel’s ear, and he resigned himself to temporary, unrequited arousal, a lovely problem to have.

“I didn’t think Constance set much store by titles.”

“She doesn’t, but she very much enjoys watching Quinn and Stephen at a loss. You and Rothhaven are their equals, socially, intellectually, and otherwise. Consternation on the part of the Wentworth menfolk is too delicious not to be savored. My lord, I do believe you will soon be in a state.”

“I will be perpetually in a state married to you. I’m looking forward to it.” Nathaniel was not looking forward to another blasted game of chess.

Althea began setting up the pieces in their starting positions. “I love chess, but you really must try harder, Nathaniel. No gentlemanly scruples about seizing my queen, if you please.”

He set his king back in position. “If you say so, my lady. Perhaps you’d like to be white this time?”

“That would be splendid.”

She turned the board around, her hand brushing his, and Nathaniel resisted—barely—the urge to throw the board against the wall and howl.

Robert held his intended, loving the sturdy feminine curves of her body, the robust energy of her mind, and the ferocious passion of her heart. How on earth, how on God’s beautiful, green, lovely earth, had no other man caught Constance Wentworth’s fancy in all the time she’d been apart from him?

But then, he knew how. Artemis Ivy Wentworth accompanied her mother everywhere, waking and sleeping, a living presence carried in the heart by love, worry, and determination.

“Shall we return to the house?” Constance asked. “I don’t want to overtax you.”