A Duke by Any Other Name by Grace Burrowes

Author:Grace Burrowes
Language: eng
Format: epub, mobi
Publisher: Grand Central Publishing
Published: 2020-04-27T16:00:00+00:00

Chapter Eleven

Arguing with Robbie had wasted precious hours, and thus when he finally capitulated, Nathaniel simply donned a coat and hat and took off across the moonlit fields. Sending a note would have wasted more time, and besides, what could Nathaniel have said?

Please come. We need you. The truth, but what if a servant read such a missive? What if Lady Althea, whom Nathaniel had sent packing earlier that same day, wasn’t in the mood to be summoned?

What if she wasn’t at home? Truly was not at home? Normal people traveled into York from time to time. They had dinner with the neighbors. They socialized.

Nathaniel faced a choice as he gained the main drive to Lynley Vale: To use the front door or the parlor on the first floor, where a soft glow in the windows suggested her ladyship was spending the evening. Time was of the essence, and if Nathaniel wasn’t precisely a duke in truth, he was still the son of a duke.

He marched up to the front steps and rapped the knocker smartly.

An eternity passed before Lady Althea herself opened the door. A young man stood behind her, his hands braced on a cane.

“Your Grace, won’t you come in?” Her gaze was wary, which was better than angry.

“Thank you, but I have not the luxury of tarrying. There is…illness in my house. I’ve been asked to fetch you rather than send for a physician.”

The younger man—dark-haired, slim, tall, attired as a gentleman but lacking a coat—watched this exchange with interest. Who the hell was he, to be removing his coat in the presence of a lady after dark?

“Fever?” Lady Althea asked.

“Yes. Cough, aches. The ankle appears to be improving, but lung fever is setting in.”

“No, it is not,” she countered, stepping back. “Not this soon. A spring cold, influenza, a bit of both, but there hasn’t been time for full-blown lung fever to develop.”

The younger fellow showed no intention of taking himself off, as any polite guest might have done. His eyes were a vivid blue, a noticing sort of blue that put Nathaniel in mind of Althea.

“Lord Stephen Wentworth, I presume?” Nathaniel asked.

“At your service.” He bowed, balancing his weight on his cane. “You are Lynley Vale’s nearest neighbor, the duke of curdled milk and colicky infants, I gather?”

“Rothhaven, at your service, and now is not the time for tedious attempts at humor.”

His lordship’s brows rose—brows very like Lady Althea’s. “Thea, you’d best go with him. His Grace might take to demanding sacrificial maidens or the village’s most handsome youths if his whims are not immediately indulged. I, of course, would be compelled by inherent nobility to offer myself as the first casualty in that event. You know how dukes can be.”

Althea drew Nathaniel by the arm into the house and closed the door. “I know how brothers can be. The patient turned an ankle and as a result spent several hours half-immersed in my stream. He’s an otherwise fit man of about thirty years.”

“But he’s taken chill,” Lord Stephen said, gazing off into the middle distance.

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