A Mother For His Family

by Susanne Dietze

  A Convenient Arrangement

  Lady Helena Stanhope’s reputation is in tatters...and she’s lost any hope for a “respectable” ton marriage. An arranged union is the only solution. But once Helena weds formidable Scottish widower John Gordon, Lord Ardoch, and encounters his four mischievous children, she’s determined to help her new, ever-surprising family. Even if she’s sure love is too much to ask for.

  All John needs is someone to mother his admittedly unruly brood. He never imagined that beautiful Lady Helena would be a woman of irresistible spirit, caring and warmth. Or that facing down their pasts would give them so much in common. Now, as danger threatens, John will do whatever it takes to convince Helena their future together—and his love—are for always.

  “Why do you take my part, John?”

  “You are my wife. I will always take your part.” He leveled Helena with his gaze. “I may not always agree with you, but I will stand beside you. No matter what you do.”

  Helena blinked. John believed her. He truly believed her.

  He pulled her to stand. In a gentle motion, he wrapped his arms around her, even though he had promised never to do that, even though she had sworn she would never let him. He left a proper distance between them, as if they were about to waltz, but this was nothing like a dance. This was an embrace. A true, real clasp of his arms around her back.

  Helena closed her eyes. John smelled of starch and wood smoke and soap—so wonderful, she’d bottle the scent if she could and sprinkle it on everything she owned.

  “’Tis all right, Helena,” he whispered. “You are safe...”

  Susanne Dietze began writing love stories in high school, casting her friends in the starring roles. Today, she’s blessed to be the author of over half a dozen historical romances. Married to a pastor, and mom of two, Susanne loves fancy-schmancy tea parties, cozy socks and curling up on the couch with a costume drama and a plate of nachos. You can find her online at www.susannedietze.com.

  Books by Susanne Dietze

  Love Inspired Historical

  The Reluctant Guardian

  A Mother for His Family

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  SUSANNE DIETZE

  A Mother for His Family

  Therefore if any man be in Christ,

  he is a new creature: old things are passed away;

  behold, all things are become new.

  —2 Corinthians 5:17

  To Debra E. Marvin, with gratitude for your friendship, prayers and encouraging help. If I could thank you by taking you to the UK for scones and tea, I would. Instead, we’ll have to settle for Starbucks and a BBC costume drama, which isn’t so bad. Right?

  With deep appreciation to my family; my editor, Emily Rodmell; and my agent, Tamela Hancock Murray. Thank you one and all, from the bottom of my heart.

  Contents

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  Chapter Eight

  Chapter Nine

  Chapter Ten

  Chapter Eleven

  Chapter Twelve

  Chapter Thirteen

  Chapter Fourteen

  Chapter Fifteen

  Chapter Sixteen

  Chapter Seventeen

  Chapter Eighteen

  Chapter Nineteen

  Chapter Twenty

  Chapter Twenty-One

  Chapter Twenty-Two

  Chapter Twenty-Three

  Chapter Twenty-Four

  Chapter Twenty-Five

  Chapter Twenty-Six

  Epilogue

  Dear Reader

  Excerpt from Montana Groom of Convenience by Linda Ford

  Chapter One

  Perthshire, Scotland, July 1819

  With no warning, the rain-soaked ground underfoot gave way, and Lady Helena Stanhope slid backward into the mucky trench. Landing at the bottom of it, she lifted the mud-soaked shred of fabric where her snowy hem used to be and burst into laughter. What else could she do? At least she matched now, inside and out.

  Ruined gowns befitted a ruined reputation.

  “Are you injured?” Gemma Knox, Helena’s cousin by marriage, knelt at the edge of the ha-ha, some six feet up the slope from Helena. A naturalistic feature in the landscaping, the ha-ha prevented cattle and sheep from grazing too close to the house without impairing the view like a fence would—an obvious barrier to animals, but Helena had stumbled into it easily enough.

  Even sheep were smarter than she.

  “I’m well,” she called, her face upturned to the rain. She didn’t rise yet, though. Her right ankle throbbed. So did her pride, little of it though she had left.

  Two boys with ginger-blond hair scurried down into the ha-ha with her. Young Petey Lyfeld’s freckles faded into his flushing cheeks. “My fault, Lady Helena. I didn’t mean to push you.”

  “You shoved her?” Eddie, two years younger than Petey’s eight, gaped.

  “No,” Helena said with a smile. “I stood too close to the edge to see the world’s largest earthworm and I fell, that’s all.”

  Petey’s arm had bumped hers, but Helena didn’t blame the boy for knocking her off balance. Her unfortunate circumstances were her own fault—not just slipping into the ha-ha, but being banished to Scotland in the first place.

  Even being out in the rain was her doing, because she’d been the one to suggest taking a walk to escape the tension in the house. The skies opened once they’d hiked a half mile or more, and now water dripped from the brim of her cork bonnet and the hem of her once-milky-white cloak. A glance at her ensemble assured her she was now brown-speckled as a goat. “Let’s climb out before we turn to mud.”

  “Why is it called a ha-ha?” Eddie gripped Helena’s hand and tugged her upright. “It should be called a no-no.”

  A shackle of pain fettered Helena’s ankle the moment her foot bore her weight. “Thank you for your assistance, gentlemen, but I do not seem to be ready for the ascent yet.”

  “You are hurt.” Gemma’s lips pressed into a thin line.

  “My ankle twisted. A tiny bit. In a minute or two, it will be better and I shall march up the slope like one of Wellington’s men.” But she didn’t mind postponing her return to the house, where Papa no doubt paced and grumbled under his breath, as he had done since their arrival from London yesterday.

  He had much to be frustrated about. His health was declining, and his disobedient daughter caused him no small amount of grief.

  Her stomach tightened. “Go home and get out of the rain. I’ll be well enough here.” In the trench. In Scotland. Alone and a little afraid.

  Gemma’s frown revealed Helena’s trembling hadn’t gone unnoticed. “Don’t be a widgeon. Boys, fetch Uncle Tavin.”

  Muddying their nankeen pantaloons and miniature boots, the boys scrambled up the ha-ha in less time than it took Helena to envy their pain-free ankles. “Gemma, no.”

  “They’re well on their way. I would pull you out myself, but I’m not so steady on my feet these days.” Her hand rested over her protruding belly. “My husband won’t mind.”

  Helena rolled her eyes. Of course Cousin Tavin wouldn’t mind. He’d relish teasing her about it. Ever since she was a girl, he’d been merciless in his brotherl
y teasing—

  But she wasn’t a child anymore. Frederick Coles had changed that, too.

  Then again, like an infant, she needed assistance if she was to escape the ha-ha. Just like she needed help to get out of her “devastating dilemma,” as Mama called it. Helena’s shoulders slumped as she settled to wait.

  She glanced up. “You shouldn’t be out in the rain in your condition, Gemma.”

  “I’m in the family way. I’m not rheumatic.” Gemma wrapped her scarlet shawl about her.

  A steady thudding rumbled through the earth. Hoofbeats. Wincing in pain, Helena hopped forward like a one-legged bird. How had the boys reached Tavin so fast? How had he saddled a horse and—oh.

  The rider couldn’t be Tavin.

  The hoofbeats slowed as Gemma rose. Before she found her footing, a man in a tall beaver hat and deep blue coat was at Gemma’s side, supporting her by the elbow.

  Helena’s pulse battered her rib cage. No, the man was definitely not Tavin.

  The man stepped out of Helena’s sight. “You gave me a fright, Mrs. Knox, down on the ground. Are you unwell?” He said down like doon, and his yous were clipped and soft.

  Helena’s throat pinched shut. The man was a gentleman in appearance, manner and speech. And he’d been riding to the Knox house. That could mean only one thing.

  Gemma’s face reappeared at the edge of the ha-ha. “I’m in robust health. But I fear we’ve had a small accident.”

  “Ah. Which of the boys made mischief this dreich day?” He peered down, allowing Helena her first good look at him. He was a full head taller than Gemma, broad but slender. Dark blond brows scrunched in concern over light-colored eyes that widened when he saw her. He rushed down into the ha-ha, splattering mud all over his boots and buckskin breeches. “Are you injured?”

  “No.” Her cheeks heated. Surely she blushed so fiercely her wet clothes would steam.

  “Yes,” Gemma contradicted.

  His well-formed lips twitched. “Either way, let’s get you out of here, shall we?”

  The last man to touch her was Frederick. But this man was not Frederick. She had no choice but to allow his help. “Thank you.”

  There was nothing lurid in his gaze as he assessed her one-footed stance and extended his arm. “Lean on me.”

  She placed her hand in the crook of his elbow and dropped her right foot. Pain shot up her bones. “Oh!”

  “Forgive me.” His arm fell.

  “No. It is me.”

  He rubbed his square jaw with his leather-gloved hand. “I intend to carry you.” It sounded like a warning.

  “Say yes, please.” Gemma brushed rain from the epaulettes of her spencer.

  Helena sighed and nodded. The gentleman’s arms went underneath her, swooping her from the ground. He’d carried her out of the ha-ha before she realized her face pressed against his spice-and-starch-scented lapels. A rather nice smell.

  She jerked her head back. How improper to notice such a thing.

  The gentleman peeked at her. “How did you fall down there?” There it was again. Doon. Would Helena speak like that soon, too?

  “Clumsiness, I fear.”

  “No doubt the boys were with you.” With steady steps, he marched to a black, white-socked gelding grazing a few yards distant. She might have been a sack of corn seed for all the intimacy of the act. “I’ll put you on the horse, if you dinnae mind.”

  What she minded was encountering him in this sorry state, but ah well. She’d left her pride back in London. “Thank you for your assistance.”

  With no noticeable difficulty, he adjusted her in his arms and hoisted her into the saddle. She landed square on the horse’s back, although it was an uncomfortable fit, sitting sideways on the standard saddle. It was far more suitable, however, than being carried in his arms all the way back to the house.

  Although he had been everything proper. Even now, he looked away when she adjusted her sullied gown and cloak over her legs. It proved no easy task, for the drenched muslin of her gown clung to her damp undergarments, which stuck to her limbs, revealing the curves of her legs. And her cloak did not reach her ankles.

  Mama would swoon at the sight.

  Her rescuer removed his blue coat and held it up to her. It was on her tongue to refuse, but his expression brooked no argument. His eyes were soft, though. And such a nice shade of green, like the underside of a new leaf.

  She unclasped her cloak and draped it over her legs like a blanket. Then she pulled his wool coat over her shoulders, at once enveloped in welcome warmth and his spicy smell.

  “Thank you.” Did he realize she meant it for more than his coat?

  He nodded, then turned to Gemma. “Are you able to walk back, Mrs. Knox?”

  “Oh, yes.” She tucked her hand into his elbow. “What an exciting day.”

  Did Helena imagine it, or did the gentleman glance at her and smile? The evidence vanished as if washed by the raindrops pelting from the leaden sky. With a click of his tongue, he urged the horse to a walk.

  “In my haste, I did not wait for a proper introduction.” He tilted his head to Gemma. “Perhaps you would be so kind, ma’am?”

  Gemma’s hand flew to her face. “I beg your pardon. In all the activity, I forgot.”

  She then spoke his name, but Helena had guessed it the moment he appeared. How many landed neighbors of a certain age did Tavin and Gemma possess? His name was familiar to her. She had spent the past two weeks clinging to it like the rail of a rotting bridge over a turbulent river. Clutching it because, while she didn’t quite trust its safety, it was the one hope she had to get to the other side.

  He was John Gordon, the Lord Ardoch. The stranger she had come here to marry.

  * * *

  In less than an hour John Gordon, Lord Ardoch, had returned home, changed into dry clothes and ridden back to his neighbor Knox’s house, and been shown with all haste into the blue-papered drawing room. Not one of his London cohorts in Parliament would dare call him inefficient, and if ever a matter demanded expediency, this was it. The task ahead was critical.

  Unfortunately, it was also distasteful. Not the marriage, exactly, but the other part. Coming to terms with Lady Helena Stanhope’s father.

  “And the deed can be accomplished by when?” The powerful Duke of Kelworth stopped pacing a trail into the thick Aubusson rug and leveled John with a glare. Other men quaked under such a stare during parliamentary discussions at Westminster. But not John, which perhaps accounted for Kelworth’s bristling manner toward him.

  His future father-in-law. He stifled a grin. His peers in Parliament would drop a collective jaw when they found out John had married Kelworth’s daughter. Romeo and Juliet made a less surprising match.

  “I must post the Banns first, Your Grace.” John sipped his coffee. Bitter, as he liked it.

  “That will take too long.” Kelworth shoved thinning blond hair from his broad brow in an impatient gesture. “This is Scotland. Marriages are performed by blacksmiths and butchers. Can’t the deed be done today?”

  The deed, as if his daughter’s marriage to him was naught but a transaction. Most dukes expected a better match for their eldest daughter than John, true. No doubt Kelworth would have preferred a Tory, too.

  “It could, but your daughter deserves better, and I’ve my own bairns to consider. A wedding in the kirk is best for everyone. I’ll make special arrangements for all the Banns to be read at once during divine services this Sunday, and we can be married Monday.” He set his coffee on the filigreed table. “By this time next week, it will be over.”

  For better or for worse.

  A pinprick of guilt needled John. He was betraying his late wife’s wishes by marrying again—she’d never said those precise words, but he’d understood her meaning. Catriona would understand him marrying this way, though, wouldn’t she?
Because it was not for love?

  A brief knock on the door drew their gazes. The butler opened the door, admitting a rush of cool from the hall and a wide-eyed Lady Helena. “Forgive my intrusion.”

  John hopped to his feet. Kelworth stood, too. “No intrusion, daughter. The matter is settled. Ardoch is on his way out.”

  “I should like an audience with him before he leaves.” Her words were for her father, but her clear gaze fixed on John.

  “Well, then.” Kelworth started to sit down.

  “A private one.” Her thumbs fidgeted.

  “I should be honored, Lady Helena.” John was eight-and-twenty, no green lad, but the idea of being alone with Lady Helena sent his heart thunking in his chest.

  Kelworth’s brows met in a fierce line and his face purpled, like he had choice words to sputter. Instead he succumbed to a fit of coughing.

  John stepped forward. “Your Grace?”

  Helena rushed toward him, wincing with each step. “Papa—”

  “I’m well. Don’t fuss.” A few more coughs, and Kelworth’s coloring returned to its normal hue. He stepped away from Helena’s outstretched hand, avoiding both of their gazes. “Five minutes.”

  The moment the door shut behind Kelworth with a soft click, Helena hobbled toward John. He hastened to her side, arm extended. “Mayhap you shouldn’t be walking yet.” His wife would have stayed in bed for a week or more after taking a fall. But Helena was not Catriona, was she?

  He shoved the dangerous thought aside and assisted Helena into the fireside chair vacated by her father.

  “I’m already much better. ’twas just a twist.” She’d changed clothing since her tumble into the ha-ha, and her high-neck gown of white covered her, throat to wrist. She looked the model of modesty.

  Something they both knew to be an overstatement.

  He pitied her and her mistaken choice to trust the wrong gentleman, and it was clear from her demeanor that she regretted it. But here she was, paying the price, without tears or wailing, and he couldn’t help but admire her resolve. He took the seat beside her.