Robert moved to stand before the parlor windows, hands behind his back as he gazed out through the panes to the darkening countryside and the stars that were starting to twinkle overhead in the indigo of evening. 'Open our doors,' she had said. Unthinkingly his mind translated the words into 'letting the enemy into our camp.' He could not stand the Duchess in the least. A pushy woman who lorded her title over anyone and everyone, a woman worse than any of the armchair generals safe in their gentlemen's clubs and coffee shops who had the audacity to claim they knew what the army should and should not do. The few times he had met her in the past, Robert managed to remain pleasant and smiling only by secretly imagining his fingers around her fat throat, squeezing. The Willoughbys, at least, were harmless ineffectuals. Bland little people who did bland little things; Robert recalled that the husband had something to do with manufacturing or some such.

Instead of answering her subtle plea to have the very civilization he sought to escape now come to them, Robert focused on her first comment. "I may have found you a gardner, actually. A young man in the village. Former soldier who lost his hand. Seems like a stout fellow. I left word for him to come and see me should he want gainful employment." Shaking his head in disgust, he continued in a soft murmur. "I pray he calls upon me. It is an evil thing for a man to waste away in idleness because no one sees his value."

The thought of it soured his mood further. Was he any better than poor young Hammish? It was doubtful the boy had willfully surrendered his missing hand, and Robert knew enough of the land that he was just as certain the farmers here about would have little use for a maimed laborer. Just so, Robert had not willfully surrounded his former life and the love he once had for Diane. It had been torn from him slowly by the war just as the surgeon's saw had severed Hammish's hand. In London, Robert would have wasted away in idleness. The gentility and nobles had no use for a soldier who may have served faithfully but still returned as part of the losing side of an unpopular war. Here in the countryside at least...

All the same, there were oaths he had sworn to his wife. He afforded her some pity, bound together in ties that neither of them relished anymore but that she was determined to honor. No, he did not love Diane anymore, as much as he wished he still could. Nor could he let her loyalty to him and their marriage go unrecognized. Finally, he reluctantly agreed. "If it would... please you. Then, yes. Invite who you will, my dear. And should you have those still among your acquaintances who may not shy away from men of caliber who serve the King, invite them to Sunday's dinner as well. The major and his men no doubt appreciate dining with those who still see a soldier's worth. Especially if the seeing is done from a pretty face." He turned about slowly and stiffly, but managed to summon up a small smile of resignation. "I... have no desire to see you stifled and stilled from your friends and amusements, and there are days I fear you might wilt from following me into my seclusion. I still maintain you would have been happier finishing out The Season in London. But small gatherings only, if you would? For the sake of my nerves?"

Robert left several things unmentioned in his agreement. Small gatherings would allow him the luxury of escaping if he felt the need without having to make too many apologies. It would also give him more room to continue to ponder the problem of Bess. Or rather, the problem of Bess's father.

"I think I shall have a drop of brandy," he declared as he faced the windows again, "and then to retire. The walk in the country air was refreshing but taxing."