Robert rested his chin against her crown—her hat had gone tumbling to the grass. “It’s not like that. I had a seizure yesterday, then I napped thoroughly. By the time I handed you down from the coach, I was myself again. That seizure could have been a week ago for all it affects me today, and I might not have another incident for a month.”

She stepped back. “Or you might have one twenty minutes from now. This affliction is diabolical. What is that?” She kept hold of his hand and led him around a row of plum trees. “You arranged a picnic? For me?”

“I hoped to share a meal with you, even if in parting. One wants pleasant memories.” One wanted so much more than that, with a hunger that made Robert’s heart ache. The pain was sharp and sweet, like a soldier’s longing for home. To hurt like this was to be fully human, inviting life to roll forward in all its messy glory.

Truly, spring had arrived to Yorkshire and to Rothhaven Hall in the person of Lady Constance Wentworth.

“One wants a midday meal too.” She dropped to her knees on the blankets. “Althea put me off my breakfast. I suggested she speak her vows before I do, mostly so she won’t big-sister me all the way to the altar. I hope that plan is acceptable to you. What a lovely effort you went to.”

“The kitchen went to. I took the liberty of consulting Monsieur Henri.”

“Althea’s cook is a marvel.”

Rothhaven knelt on the blankets with her, a large wicker hamper between them. “Do you ever draw self-portraits?”

Constance paused, a corked flask of lemonade in her hand. “I do, not often lately because I have other, more interesting subjects to work on. Why?”

“If I were a better artist, I’d sketch you as you are now, midday sun bringing out the red highlights in your hair, your curiosity and vitality in equal evidence.” I love you. He tried those words out mentally, knowing them to be true.

She set aside the lemonade and went diving for treasure again. “I wonder if Artemis kept her red hair. She got that from her father, but a baby’s hair can change. Her eyes were blue. I’m told with babies, eye color can change too. Within a year, green or brown hues can emerge. Oh, this is Monsieur’s luncheon bread.”

Robert said a silent prayer that Constance would always discuss her daughter with him so casually, so trustingly. That she would discuss everything with him so easily. Nathaniel all too often tiptoed through a conversation for fear of upsetting the invalid.

A younger brother could have worse failings. Far worse.

“I guessed at your appetites,” Robert said, “and having sampled Monsieur’s efforts, I thought you might enjoy them al fresco.”