The Truth About Dukes by Grace Burrowes

Author:Grace Burrowes
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: Grand Central Publishing
Published: 2020-11-10T00:00:00+00:00

“Nobody would blame you if you declined to attend services henceforth,” His Grace of Walden said, “though your gawking neighbors would doubtless miss the spectacle your convulsions provide.”

“Doubtless,” Robert replied. He occupied the forward-facing seat in his own coach, Constance beside him. He recalled leaving his coach to take his place in the family pew, recalled indifferent singing, and then Sorenson reading the banns for Miss Sybil Price and William, Viscount Somebody.

Then, more swiftly than it had in York some two weeks past, the damnable peculiar feeling had risen up as Robert had reached for Nathaniel, who was goggling in Lady Althea’s direction. The next thing Robert remembered was Walden and Nathaniel helping him to his feet and assisting him back into his coach.

His Grace of Walden sat on the opposite bench looking peevish and severe. He thumped the roof once, far harder than necessary to signal the coachy to quit the churchyard.

“Quinn,” Constance said, “you are not helping matters. My intended is not a spectacle.”

“He might well have been making a point with that public display of infirmity,” Walden said, regarding Robert with a brooding sort of curiosity.

Robert forced himself to sit up straight. “I do not appreciate being spoken of in the third person.” Getting out that sentence had taken effort, enunciating, stringing the words into the proper order, adding the note of hauteur…no small feat this soon after a shaking fit, and still he’d come off sounding a bit drunk.

Walden held out his flask, perhaps a gesture of apology.

Robert shook his head. “Ill advised. Give me a quarter hour. I’ll be fine.”

“You won’t ever be fine,” Walden muttered.

“And you,” Constance shot back, “will never acquire tact. Rothhaven has been honest about his malady. You’re simply upset because you were for once unable to control matters, and you deal poorly with feeling helpless. Rothhaven, by contrast, has the strength of character to endure the same challenge without pouting or fuming.”

Walden looked like he’d been kicked in the balls, poor sod.

“I’m feeling better already,” Robert said, “and in a sense, it’s best to get the churchyard debacle behind me. They’ve all seen me twitching and jerking, seen me dazed and undignified. They can have a good gossip, assure one another they will pray for my health, and get on with their impersonations of Christians.”

Walden drank from his flask, an elegant silver vessel with a coat of arms embossed on both sides. “Does that mean we can anticipate a dinner party seizure? A Venetian breakfast seizure? A few seizures at the next summer fête?”

“Stop it,” Constance snapped. “The falling sickness is a sickness, Quinn. It strikes where and when it pleases to.”

Robert squeezed her fingers, though he could not recall taking her hand. “Be easy, my dear. Your brother is trying to understand a disability that has baffled mankind for eons.”

“It sure as hell baffles me,” Walden said. “I have heard of the falling sickness, but the reality surpasses the description. You could have hit your head on the bloody pew.

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