Ashton: Lord of Truth (Lonely Lords Book 13)

by Grace Burrowes

  “My countess will be worried sick,” Hazelton said, “and I’m sure Lady Matilda could use a medicinal tot and a hot bath.”

  “I could use a tot,” Helen said. “I’m not so keen on that bath part.”

  Kilkenney kissed his lady’s cheek. “Matilda, shall I carry you?”

  Helen snorted unconvincingly, if such a thing were possible.

  “Come along,” Hazelton said, swinging the girl onto his back. “They’ll be an eternity tossing rose petals at one another. They’ve had a close call and are due a moment of privacy.”

  “I’m due some food,” Helen said. “I’m famished, in fact. Food, famish, and fact all begin with f. So does Frenchy, and fornica—”

  “Enough showing off,” Hazelton said, taking the steps down to the kitchen. “All’s well enough for now, and her ladyship is safe. You are to be commended for your role in that happy outcome, and I’m sure her ladyship will be very impressed when she learns you followed her carriage over half of London.”

  “Three-quarters at least,” Helen said, the pugnacity leaving her tone. “Hazelnuts?”

  “If you tell anybody I allow you to call me that, I’ll send you straight to a French finishing school where you’ll bathe twice a day.”

  “I might like bathing, if I had a real bathtub to wash in instead of the laundry tubs.” She took an unsteady breath as Hazelton unlocked the back door and crossed the garden. “I was scared.”

  Ah. “So was I, child. I was terrified. I’m still not entirely myself.”

  “Lady Matilda was scared all the t-time, for y-years.” A shudder racked the small body affixed to Hazelton’s back.

  “Lady Matilda is safe now, Helen, and if I know Ashton, Earl of Kilkenney—and I do, quite well—you are safe too. I promise you, child, you are safe. You are well and truly safe.”

  The fierce little mite dissolved into open weeping, and as Hazelton set her on the garden wall and patted her back, he realized that if he and Maggie were blessed with another child, he was hoping—very much hoping—that they’d be blessed with a daughter.

  * * *

  Matilda was clean, at least physically. Washing the fear and anger from her soul would take more than hot water and expensive soap. Only love could do that, and time.

  “I can wash your hair, if you like,” Ashton said.

  Never had a lady had a more unconventional or devoted attendant at her bath.

  “I washed it just this morning, but I’ve soaked long enough.” Matilda braced a hand on the side of the tub, and Ashton drew her to standing with her uninjured arm. Only the one cut on her shoulder would be troublesome, though the bleeding had ruined a pretty dress.

  “Stay there. I’ll fetch you a towel.”

  “Ashton, I’m not about to indulge in strong hysterics.” Weak hysterics remained a possibility.

  “I am,” he retorted, draping a towel about Matilda’s shoulders and hugging her close. “Stephen aimed a loaded gun at you. That… I need Helen to teach me more curses. The girl’s a prodigy, in some regards.”

  “And a terror in others,” Matilda said. “You need to stop worrying so.”

  “I need you.”

  He kissed her, and the sense of his words sank in. He needed to make love with her. “I need you too, and I’m sure the countess left orders we were not to be disturbed for any reason.”

  Ashton dried Matilda off nonetheless, gently patting at the cuts on her chest and arm, then going limb by limb. They were in the bedroom she’d been assigned more than a week ago, a peaceful yellow, blue, and cream chamber that overlooked the back gardens.

  “Are you sure you wouldn’t like something to eat?” Ashton asked. “I can ring—”

  “Make love with me, Ashton. I need you now too.”

  “I need you forever.”

  Their lovemaking explored new depths of tenderness, new horizons of trust. Matilda unabashedly clung, Ashton clung right back. She held nothing back, not tears, not passion, not joy, and certainly—most certainly—not pleasure.

  And neither did he.

  They lay amid the lavender-scented sheets and fluffy pillows, skin cooling, hearts calming. Sleep tugged at Matilda, as did peace.

  “I do love ye,” Ashton whispered. “I lost years off my life when Hazelton said you’d been taken.”

  “I lost years off my life too. I don’t want to waste to any more years, Ashton. A special license will do nicely, and we must invite Hazelton’s duke.”

  The Duke of Moreland had apparently smoothed the way for Ashton to see the king, and a lovely royal decree quashing all bothersome warrants sat across the room on the vanity.

  “We must invite George himself,” Ashton said. “If we’re lucky he’ll send regrets. We can put haggis on the menu for the wedding breakfast. That might put him off.”

  Matilda found the energy to situate herself over her lover, soon to be her husband. “You make such a lovely pillow, my lord.”

  “You make an equally lovely blanket, my lady. What shall we do about Stephen?”

  Matilda wished Ashton wouldn’t ask her. Let those whose perspective wasn’t as bitter decide what to do about Stephen, for his intentions had been vile.

  “I hesitate to turn him over to the authorities. I’m not sure why.”

  “Because all you’ve been through has made you more compassionate, not less,” Ashton said. “All you’ve been through gives me nightmares. Stephen deserves to suffer, at the very least. I leave it to you whether he deserves to die.”

  Matilda rested her cheek over Ashton’s heart. “I like the smell of you. You smell clean, but not too fussy.”

  He stroked her hair away from her brow. “Not too much like an earl?”

  Stephen had reeked of cheap perfume, tobacco, stale breath, sweat… if that was the scent of a wealthy gentleman, Matilda wanted no part of it.

  “Stephen looks like a man, but he’s still thinking and acting like a spoiled fourteen-year-old. That’s how old he was when his father decided to remarry, and in Stephen’s mind, I stole his father. I think Stephen convinced himself I was responsible for Althorpe’s death, even if only indirectly. I’d like to give Stephen his father back.”

  “In what sense?”

  “The best punishment for Stephen is to grow up,” Matilda said, feeling for words. “He will become the next Earl of Drexel, but he’s been abandoned by his uncle, with scandal looming, personal debts mounting, the earldom in failing financial health. Drexel was old-fashioned, insisting land rents were the only respectable source of income. That path is doomed—my own father said as much—and Stephen will have to sort through all of that if he wants to be the earl.”

  Ashton rolled them so Matilda was beneath him. “You’re sentencing him to an earldom?”

  “You have Marceline’s sworn statement. You can press charges for kidnapping, conspiracy to commit murder… I like it when you look so fierce.”

  Liked how Ashton’s dark hair needed a trim, liked the strength and passion in him.

  Matilda liked his passion very much.

  “I stepped into an earldom that was running like a top,” Ashton said, “and my brother made sure I knew what I was about. Ewan spent months tramping the tenant farms with me, going over the books, introducing me to the neighbors all over the shire, and explaining strategy and scheduling to me. I’m relying on him now to mind the earldom’s affairs in my absence.”

  Matilda lifted her hips in an experimental greeting and found that Ashton was working on a greeting of his own. What a profound pleasure to be in a bed with a man who enjoyed a healthy sense of desire and let his lady know it.

  “The Drexel earldom is in a bad way,” she said. “The steward is older than the monarchy, the family seat is crumbling, even the town house was starting to leak in the attics six years ago. Drexel probably relied on embezzling to make ends meet.”

  “While Stephen will have to repay the funds stolen.” Ashton kissed her cheek, then her nose. “You’re consigning him to years
of penury and disgrace. I suppose that’s fitting.”

  “You like this idea? Stephen has to put right what he and his uncle put wrong?”

  Ashton hitched closer, his arousal nudging at her sex. “I like this idea. I never asked you if you want a large family, Lady Matilda.”

  “I do. For years, I was an only—oh, that’s lovely, Ashton.”

  He’d got a hand under her backside, and the resulting angle, as well as the snugness… Matilda gave up on coherent speech for the next twenty minutes, and conjectured that she and Ashton would have a very large family.

  “I might have to climb back into that tub just to cool off,” Matilda said, when she could form sentences again. “Will you always be this passionate?”

  “Lass, I’m exercising considerable restraint.”

  She hit him with a pillow, then cuddled against his side. “I thought children would be denied to me, but I do want them. Helen made me realize that. She’s a good girl, but she hasn’t had the right guidance. It’s not too late for her, though. I hope you won’t mind including Helen in our household?”

  Ashton curled an arm around Matilda’s shoulders. “I wouldna turn my back on the best general factotum an earl ever had, but there’s something I haven’t had time to tell you.”

  “If we stay in this bed much longer, Helen will be climbing in the window. What haven’t you told me?”

  “I gave up my English land so Shearing could have his barony, and I’m confident he’ll put that situation to rights faster than I ever could. He’ll also be a fine neighbor.”

  Matilda’s kissed Ashton’s chin, which was a bit bristly. “Stop stalling.”

  “I asked George for a wee boon, while I was imposing on the royal favor. George had a daughter once, you know, and he lost both her and his grandchild. He’s keen to look after children, given a chance.”

  “Ashton Fenwick…”

  “By virtue of royal meddling, I will soon become Helen’s guardian. She needs to know she’s loved, and I do love the girl, when I’m not tempted to toss her into the sea.”

  Matilda searched through the feelings struggling for names and found… relief, approval, and joy.

  “I’d love you even if you hadn’t asked George to see to the legalities, Ashton. That was a beautiful gesture, though Helen will tell you she doesn’t need a guardian and never asked for one.”

  Ashton was quiet, and Matilda waited, because apparently the conversation wasn’t over.

  “I asked to be made Lady Kitty’s guardian too. Drexel has doubtless pilfered from her inheritance, but we’ll take good care of her.”

  The tears caught Matilda unaware, an ambush of more joy, and more relief, also more love. She hadn’t thought to ask this of her prospective husband, hadn’t even figured out how to reintroduce herself into her younger sister’s life, though she was determined that Kitty would never be taken from her again.

  “Thank you,” Matilda said, wrapping herself around Ashton. “Thank you so much, Ashton. Kitty and Helen have already started on a friendship, and that’s… that’s… Oh, I do love you. I do love you so very, very much.”

  “Did I tell you we have three bonnie wee nieces? We’ll be awash in young beauties in about ten years, and I’ll have to beat the lads off with my claymore.”

  “You’re looking forward to that.”

  “I look forward to whatever life brings, as long as you’re at my side.”

  As it happened, life brought the Earl and Countess of Kilkenney two fine, strapping sons, a pair of daughters, and then more sons. Those children grew up with no less than five cousins, and when the young ladies came of age, the lads did indeed take notice and paid their addresses in impressive numbers.

  The earl never once threatened any of the adoring swains with his claymore. He didn’t have to when his countess explained to every potential suitor that she’d once been accused of murder, and only a royal decree—and a handsome earl—had seen her perilous fate exchanged for true love and a happily ever after.

  THE END

  To my dear readers,

  I first met Ashton Fenwick in Hadrian: Lord of Hope, and for years, I’d been wondering, “What’s with that earldom on the last page, Fenwick? Tell me what’s going on with that earldom, or I’ll…” Well, all I could do was wonder. Now we know what’s going on with that earldom, and I hope you’ll agree the tale was worth the wait.

  You won’t have to wait nearly as long to learn more about the Duke of Murdoch, whom Ashton invited to his card party. We first met Hamish MacHugh inThe Captive, and Hamish too is struggling under the dubious honor of an unwanted title. The Trouble With Dukes comes out on December 20, 2016, and begins my Windham Brides series. These are the stories for the Windham cousins, who are determined to remain happily contented spinsters… or so they claim.

  I’ve included an excerpt from The Trouble With Dukes below, but if December is too long to wait for your next Grace Burrowes happily-ever-after, you’ll be pleased to know that in October, I’m releasing a pair of Yuletide Regency novellas,The Virtues of Christmas. Henrietta Whitlow and Michael Brenner find true love under the mistletoe in Respect for Christmas, and advice columnist Patience Friendly and her publisher Dougal MacHugh unwrap an unexpected attraction in Patience for Christmas. Read an excerpt or order your copy here. This duet will be available on my website store by October 15, and on retail platforms October 25.

  To stay up to date with all of my releases, signings, special events, and sales, please sign up for my newsletter. I also have a newsletter just for writers, and I’m recently home from my first Scotland With Grace tour. That trip included readers, writers, and lots of just plain nice folks. Learn more about the 2017 Scotland With Grace tour here.

  As always, happy reading!

  Grace Burrowes

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  * * *

  The Trouble With Dukes

  “My dear, you do not appear glad to see me,” Fletcher Pilkington purred. Sir Fletcher, rather.

  Megan Windham ran her finger along the page she’d been staring at, as if the maunderings of Mr. Coleridge required every iota of her attention. Then she pushed her spectacles halfway down her nose, the better to blink stupidly at her tormentor.

  “Why, Sir Fletcher, I did not notice you.” Megan had smelled him, though. Attar of roses was not a subtle fragrance when applied in the quantities Sir Fletcher favored. “Good day, and how are you?”

  She smiled agreeably. Better for Sir Fletcher to underestimate her, and better for her not to provoke him.

  “I forget how blind you are,” he said, plucking Megan’s eyeglasses from her nose. “Perhaps if you read less, your vision would improve, hmm?”

  Old fear lanced through Megan, an artifact from childhood instances of having her spectacles taken, sometimes held out of her reach, sometimes hidden. On one occasion, they’d been purposely bent by a bully in the church yard.

  The bully was now a prosperous vicar, while Megan’s eyesight was no better than it had been in her childhood.

  “My vision is adequate, under most circumstances. Today, I’m looking for a gift.” In fact, Megan was hiding from the madhouse that home had become in anticipation of the annual Windham ball. Mama and Aunt Esther were nigh crazed with determination to make this year’s affair the talk of the season, while all Megan wanted was peace and quiet.

  “A gift for me?” Sir Fletcher mused. “Poetry isn’t to my taste, my dear, unless you’re considering translations of Sappho and Catullus.”

  Naughty poems, in other words. Very naughty poems.

  Megan blinked at him uncertainly, as if anything classical was beyond her comprehension. A first year Latin scholar could grasp the fundamental thrust, as it were, of Catullus’s more vulgar offerings, and Megan’s skill with Latin went well beyond the basics.

  “I doubt Uncle Percy would enjoy such verse.” Uncle Percy was a duke and he took family affairs seriously. Mentioning His
Grace might remind Sir Fletcher that Megan had allies.

  Though even Uncle Percy couldn’t get her out of the contretemps she’d muddled into with Sir Fletcher.

  “I wonder how soon Uncle Percy is prepared to welcome me into the family,” Sir Fletcher said, holding Megan’s spectacles up to the nearby window.

  Don’t drop them. Don’t drop them. Please do not drop my eyeglasses. She had an inferior pair in her reticule, but the explanations, pitying looks, and worst of all, Papa’s concerned silence, would be torture.

  Sir Fletcher peered through the spectacles, which were tinted a smoky blue. “Good God, how do you see? Our children will be cross-eyed and afflicted with a permanent squint.”

  Megan dreaded the prospect of bearing Sir Fletcher’s offspring. “Might I have those back, Sir Fletcher? As you’ve noted, my eyes are weak, and I do benefit from having my spectacles.”

  Sir Fletcher was a beautiful man—to appearances. When he’d claimed Megan’s waltz at a regimental ball several years ago, she’d been dazzled by his flattery, bold innuendo, and bolder advances. In other words, she’d been blinded. Golden hair, blue eyes, and a gleaming smile had hidden an avaricious, unscrupulous heart.

  He held her glasses a few inches higher. To a casual observer, he was examining an interesting pair of spectacles, perhaps in anticipation of considerately polishing them with his handkerchief.

  “You’ll benefit from having my ring on your finger,” he said, squinting through one lens. “When can I speak with your father, or should I go straight to Moreland, because he’s the head of your family?”

  That Sir Fletcher would raise this topic at all was unnerving. That he’d bring it up at Hatchards, where duchesses crossed paths with milliners, was terrifying. Other patrons milled among the shelves, and the door bell tinkled constantly, like a miniature death knell for Megan’s freedom.

  “You mustn’t speak with Papa yet,” Megan said. “Charlotte hasn’t received an offer and the season is only getting started. I’ll not allow your haste to interfere with the respect I owe my sisters.” Elizabeth was on the road to spinsterhood—no help there—and Anwen, being the youngest, would normally be the last to wed.