The carriage bumped out through the gate and turned down the lane to Millicent’s cottage.
“If it were up to me, I would drop the question,” Helena said. “But the idea is Lewis’s, with his sisters behind him. The choice is not mine to make.”
“That is rubbish—Lewis is a child.”
“He is your child. Have you thought it through, Ash? Why they want you to remarry? Given it deep and careful thought as you seem to do problems in the government? Or did you simply dismiss your son out of hand? Let us recall Lewis’s points, shall we? Several indicate that you lose your temper—throwing your shirts at Edwards, objecting when the children are too loud and not always punctual, and adhering to timetables too much. Lewis paints an excellent portrait of you.”
“Because he is young,” Ash growled. “He does not comprehend—” He broke off, his face reddening.
“Comprehend what?” Helena asked. “Please tell me. I truly wish to know.”
For a moment, Helena thought he wouldn’t answer. Then Ash began, his voice hard. “He does not understand that if I leave off being efficient and romp about laughing, as you believe I should, I would go mad. Why do you think I plan for every minute of every day? So there is no time to sink into melancholia and dark thoughts—I did it to keep myself alive and to continue. So I could take care of my daughters and son. For them.”
He snapped his mouth shut and dropped back to the seat.
“Ash.” Helena, stunned, gentled her voice. “I understand. Grief is painful, can consume you …”
“I know you lost your husband,” Ash said stiffly. “I had much sympathy for you.”
He had, Helena granted him that. Many people believed Helena had never grieved her husband—most of London whispered about her for coming out of mourning so quickly.
“Yes, so please believe that I understand what you felt,” she said. “I know my marriage was a mistake, but I had fallen thoroughly in love with my reprobate husband. His accident took away any chance for him to fall in love with me, to make our marriage one of equal minds, to see both of us happy. I mourned, indeed, and indeed, I put off mourning as soon as I could, because wallowing in my grief endangered me of becoming as mad as you feared you would be. Donning bright clothes and accepting invitations for balls and nights at the theatre is the equivalent of you deciding you must meticulously account for every minute of your days and nights. We are much the same, Ash, whether you believe it or not.”
She stopped, out of breath, realizing she’d said far too much.
Ash only gazed at her, his eyes a mystery. The carriage bumped and jounced over the rutted lane, the wheels loud in the sudden stillness.
“Be that as it may, madam,” Ash said in a low but fierce voice. “Me acting like a jackanapes is not a reasonable solution.” He snatched up his hat. “I conclude that you and I understand each other not at all.”
He banged his stick on the coach’s roof, and when the vehicle slowed, Ash flung open the door, leaping out before the carriage stopped. He slammed the door without looking at Helena and strode away through the tall grass.
Helena watched him through a blur of tears, as he walked purposefully—in a straight line—back toward his home.
Ash remained in a foul mood the rest of the day. He rode to his farms—bundled up well, as Aunt Florence, Edwards, and his children chided him to—following the routine he’d established for himself.
Helena’s words wouldn’t fade, however, and in fact haunted him at every step. The heart of the matter, I believe. You are so very angry if you do not control every person and event around you.
The devil of it was, she was not wrong. No wonder gentlemen were put off by Helena—she was not only clever, but shrewd, and knew exactly what was wrong with a fellow. No gentleman wanted to hear such things from the lady he wooed.
Of course Ash was not wrong either—he had taken up his timetables and rigidity to keep himself from the insanity of grief. He’d had to remain whole in order to look after his son and daughters.
But Helena understood that too. We are much the same, Ash, whether you believe it or not.
Damn the woman.
Ash spent his morning speaking to the steward about the harvest, looking over tenants’ cottages that still needed repairs, and making plans for those repairs to be done before winter set in.
Back to the house for the midday meal. Guy, who’d abruptly left for London after the ball, had returned, and he joined Ash, his always hearty appetite whetted further by his journey.
“Business to see to,” Guy told Ash as an explanation of why he’d gone, though Ash would not dream of asking for one. Guy’s affairs were his own. “Heard you were low. Glad to see you better.”
Ash slid away his empty plate and reached for his tea. Guy intercepted Ash’s cup and dropped a dollop of whisky into it from his flask.
“Enforced rest and home remedies,” Ash said as he sipped the doctored tea. “Aunt Florence, my valet, and Mrs. Courtland were my jailers.”
Guy’s brows shot upward. “Mrs. Courtland? Interesting. You look the better for their tending.”
“I am quite cured.” Indeed, Ash hadn’t felt this well in an age.
Ash firmly changed the subject, and they spoke of mutual acquaintance and Ash’s plans for his estate until they finished tea, and Ash headed for the garden. The children would be out any moment, ready for their afternoon’s respite.
“Is Mrs. Courtland about?” Guy asked as he followed Ash. “Or did she race back to London as soon as you were cured, to continue ferreting out a wife for you?”
Ash scowled. “I have no idea. I saw her off this morning—back to her friend’s house on the other side of my park.”
Guy studied him with interest. “Saw her off? She was staying here?” At Ash’s nod, Guy’s tone softened. “Was she, indeed?”
“To nurse me,” Ash said abruptly. “Aunt Florence recruited her.”
“Ah, I see.”
Ash lost his patience. “It is clear that you don’t.” He turned abruptly, hearing the voices of his daughters.
He bent down, his troubles falling away as he waited for Evie and Lily to run to him. Ash rose with one daughter in the crook of each arm and carried them along the path, Lewis running behind. Guy joined them as they tramped to the wide space in the middle of the garden, where a lawn around a fountain made a soft place for the children to play.
Again, Helena’s words came to him. You adore your children and take every sort of care for them.
She’d told him her husband had only known his father from afar. Ash’s father had been a bit less stand-offish, but when Ash had been young, the custom had been to keep the children quiet and out of the way as much as possible. Ash’s father had been plenty busy running the estate and sitting in the House of Lords—as Ash was now—but Ash had vowed that when he had children, he’d not be a stranger to them.
Ash had ordered a few cricket bats and balls to be left on the green, and now he slid off his frock coat and spent a pleasant time showing his daughters how to bat the easy balls Guy tossed them, and teaching Lewis how to refine his pitch.
Lily enjoyed the game, though Evie was more content watching the others. Evie read much, and as her sister and brother ran about, she whisked a book from her pocket and buried herself in its pages. Ash did not admonish her—he for one, thought women should be well-read and learned. The gentlemen Helena described who were put off by it were idiots.
As they rested on the grass, Lewis had to pull out the be-damned letter describing Ash’s perfect match. Ash had sworn the letter had been thrown away or burned—Edwards had taken it at his request—but here it was in Lewis’s pocket.
“We have been thinking, Papa,” Lewis said in his serious Marquess of Wilsdon manner. “About whom you should marry.”
Ash sat up abruptly but tamped down his impatience, not wanting to snap at his son. “I believe I have said we should forget all about the matter.”
Lewis nodded. �
�I was in error when I proposed that Mrs. Courtland should help find a wife for you. Evie, Lily, and I have discussed it, and we have concluded that your perfect match is Mrs. Courtland herself.”
Ash went still. All three children watched him anxiously, Evie with a worried expression, Lily in hope, Lewis remaining solemn. Ash expected to hear Guy laugh, but his friend was strangely silent.
“Lewis,” Ash said warningly. “No.”
Lewis took on the stubborn look Ash often saw in his own reflection. “You told me that when I faced down opposition in the House of Lords, I should be ‘clear, concise, and unafraid’. And so I put it to you.” He lifted the paper, his fingers shaking a bit. “She must be tall—Mrs. Courtland is only a few inches shorter than you. I saw you kiss her in the garden, and she did not have to stand on her tiptoes at all. She must not be too thin or too wide. Mrs. Courtland is right in between, as you would have discovered when you put your arms around her. She must like children—she does like us, even when we are unruly and late for supper. She does know how to sew—when you were sick, she sat with Aunt Florence and mended your shirt.”
Ash could not stop himself touching the sleeve of his shirt—he’d torn it while helping fix the thatch. He imagined Helena’s eyes on her competent stiches as she and Aunt Florence gossiped and sewed.
“She must not adhere to timetables, and must teach you to leave off them,” Lewis continued relentlessly. “I have heard Mrs. Courtland argue with you about your timetables, and I believe she will persuade you to leave off them. You ought to propose to her very soon, perhaps marry her by Christmas. That way, you can start the Season with a wife.”
Lewis folded the paper, his face holding dogged resolution. Evie peered at Ash more fearfully, Lily lifting her chin. Guy, lounging on his side, said nothing at all, tactful for once.
Ash’s jaw was so stiff he could barely move it to reply. “I believe I told you to leave it alone, Lewis. Now give me that letter and go to the nursery. Take your sisters with you. Return to your studies, and we will speak no more of this.”
On the rare times Lewis angered his father, he’d duck his head and say a quick, “Sorry, sir,” and all was forgiven.
This time, he kept his gaze on Ash, with a strength Ash had seen budding in him for some time. “When you were ill, sir, you stayed far from us for our own good,” Lewis said. “I am insisting on this for the same reason.”
Ash shook his head before Lewis finished. “Not the same thing at all. You do not interfere with another man’s personal business, or his life, or choose his path to happiness, no matter how well-meaning you might be.”
Lewis pushed out his lips, rendering him a sullen little boy instead of the well-reasoned man he strove to be. “You interfere with our lives all the time. We want a mum and someone to look after you. Why must you be so unyielding?”
“Unyielding,” Lily echoed in a whisper.
Ash climbed to his feet. “That is enough. Go.” He pointed to the house
His children had learned to obey when he took that tone. Lewis and his sisters rose, all looking more unhappy than chastised. Lewis clasped Evie’s and Lily’s hands and they started together down the path. Lewis had retained the letter, Ash noted.
As they went, Lily looked over her shoulder, the sorrow on her face enough to break Ash’s heart.
“Well,” Guy said, coming to stand next to him. “That seems to be that.”
“It is. I am finished with this. If Mrs. Courtland is still staying with her friend, I will have her sent back to London.”
Guy wrinkled his forehead. “A bit much. You can’t order her about, you know, unless you do make her your wife. Then again—I don’t readily picture Mrs. Courtland obeying your orders, no matter what.”
“Her friend lets the cottage from me—it is part of my estate,” Ash managed to answer. “They stay or go at my pleasure.”
He squared his shoulders and marched for the house. He heard Guy’s voice behind him— “This will be interesting …” but Ash resolutely ignored him.
A few days later, Helena was pleased to accept Lady Florence’s invitation to a garden party at Middlebrook Castle.
She’d heard nothing from Ash after their quarrel in the carriage, hadn’t even seen him, though she’d kept an eye out for him everywhere. She knew he surveyed his estate each morning, but she hadn’t been able to contrive a reason for turning up at one of his outbuildings, or at the home of one of his tenant farmers. Nor had she been able to glimpse him riding across the fields, upright and handsome on a horse.
She was bewildered then, as she strolled a path in Ash’s beautiful garden, very near to where he’d kissed her, for Mr. Lovell to fall into step with her and exclaim, “Good heavens, you’re still here, Mrs. Courtland?”
Helena blinked at him. They were relatively alone, Millicent having charged off to gossip with Lady Florence. Helena had preferred to wander, lost in wistful memory. “Still where?” she asked Guy.
“Here. In Somerset. I thought you fleeing back to London.”
Helena halted in puzzlement. Ash’s neighbors milled around them, enjoying a spate of warm weather that had returned with late September and engendered the impromptu garden party.
“Why should I be fleeing to London?” Helena asked. “Millicent has invited me to stay through Christmas, and I saw no reason not to accept.”
Guy looked confused. “Didn’t Ash tell you to go?”
“Ash? No. I haven’t seen him since he declared himself well and fit again.”
Helena did not add that he’d stormed at her and had kept himself scarce ever since.
Guy opened and closed his mouth a few times in a comical way, then he took on a look of grim determination. He seized Helena by the elbow and steered her toward an empty part of the garden.
“In that case, may I speak to you a moment, Mrs. Courtland? I have a very important question to ask you.”
“Papa!”
Lewis’s urgent whisper took Ash’s attention from a bishop he politely listened to—and thank heaven. The man was pompous and deadly dull.
Ash caught sight of his son crouched in the deep shadow between a hedge and a fountain. Lewis beckoned to Ash furtively but desperately.
“Will you excuse me, sir?” Ash said, cutting through an explanation of finances in a parish in Buckinghamshire—the man was trying, in a roundabout way, to touch Ash for money. “A visitor I must see to.”
The bishop looked annoyed but bowed his head on his thick neck. “Of course.” He moved on in search of the next guest he could beleaguer.
Before Ash could demand, “Lewis, what is the matter?” his son tore free of the bushes and bounced on his toes in agitation.
“You must come, Papa. Quickly, before it is too late.”
“Why? What has happened?” Ash’s heart raced, fear for Evie and Lily clawing at him. Were they hurt? Lost? Fallen into the stream? He started for the end of the garden, but Lewis caught his hand and pulled him back.
“This way, Papa. It’s Mrs. Courtland. And Mr. Lovell. He’s proposing to her. This very minute!”
Chapter 7
Helena withdrew with difficulty from Guy’s grasp. He’d walked her to a remote area of the garden and halted behind a trellis of roses that climbed over the path, shielding them from view of the rest of the party.
“Whatever are you doing, Mr. Lovell?” she asked him worriedly.
“Only declaring my devotion.” Guy put a hand over his heart then fell dramatically to one knee. “Ash is a fool, Mrs. Courtland. He does not see that you are a beautiful, kindhearted woman whom any man would want as a wife. Do tell me you’ll make me the happiest man in the world, Mrs. Courtland. Helena …”
Helena stared down at him in shock. What on earth had she done to make Ash’s closest friend spring out with a proposal? Had he observed her stolen kisses with Ash, perhaps believing her a lightskirt?
No, then his proposal might be of a more repugnant kind. Or had he truly loved her from afar?
And now that Ash was furious with her, even banishing her—
But then, Ash hadn’t banished her. Had Mr. Lovell got that wrong? Or was he inventing things to make her angry at Ash?
Dear heavens, what a muddle.
Helena’s mouth had gone dry, but she called to mind the phrases she’d used when gentlemen had badgered her when she’d first been widowed.
“I apologize, Mr. Lovell, if I ever gave you cause to think my feelings for you tender—”
Her words cut off with an “Oop!” as Guy jumped to his feet and seized her hand. He didn’t pull her close, but he gripped her hand very tightly.
“You never did one thing that was inappropriate,” he said. “It is my heart that is unruly. You captured it without a word. Do say you’ll marry me, dear, dear Helena.”
“No,” came a quiet voice.
Helena jumped, her heart banging. Ash stood near the trellis, one booted foot resting on a stone bench. Lewis hovered a few yards behind him, Lily and Evie clumped around him.
“Ash,” Guy said, sounding unsurprised. “My old friend, you are interrupting.”
“I know. I meant to.” Leisurely Ash came to them, took Guy’s hand, and pried it firmly from Helena’s.
Guy glared at him. “Damn it all, man. You’re interfering with my proposal of marriage.”
“Mrs. Courtland is not marrying you,” Ash said in a hard voice.
“I am not?” Helena barely could find her breath. Ash had released Guy’s hand, but not hers. He held on to Helena’s, possessing it. “That is, no, of course I am not.”
“I see no reason I oughtn’t propose to her,” Guy said in a huff. “I’m a perfectly good catch and in need of a wife. Why shouldn’t she marry me?”
“Because she’s marrying me.”
Helena stared up at Ash in amazement. “I beg your pardon?”
“I said, you’re marrying me.” Ash focused his intense gray gaze upon her. “If you’ll have me.”
Helena continued to stare, her voice gone. She tried to speak, but only a croaking sound emerged.
Duke in Search of a Duchess: Sweet Regency Romance Page 6