Ash folded his arms, something punching him in the gut.
“Item four: She must know how to sew so she can mend tears in your shirts and spare Edwards, who is tired of you throwing them at him.” Guy broke off in admiration. “That boy is destined for greatness.”
Ash was torn between pride and annoyance. “Leave it, my friend.”
Guy ignored him. “Item five: She must not adhere to timetables, and must teach you to leave off them. Ah, now we come to the crux of the matter.”
Ash cleared his throat. “It is possible I’ve grown too fond of my routine.”
Guy burst out laughing. “Too fond of your routine? Give me strength. All in London set their watches by it. Those who don’t know you believe you mad, or at least eccentric. I defend you every night to ignorant fools.” Not noticing Ash’s firming mouth, Guy returned to the paper.
“Because we know, dear Papa, how little time you have to pursue the matter, we will ask a person to assist you.”
“What? Who on earth would they ask?” Ash tried to hide his unease. “You? A recipe for disaster. I’ve met your volatile mistresses, and you’ve never been inclined to matrimony.”
“No, they have someone entirely different in mind. Lewis says, We have written to Mrs. Courtland and asked her to help find a suitable woman to marry you, which will be handy as she lives next door.” Guy looked up, smile wide. “Oh dear.”
Anything amusing about the situation rapidly dropped away. Ash, blood cold, advanced on Guy and ripped the paper from him. He turned it around to see the words in plain black ink, scrawled in Lewis’s young penmanship.
Helena Courtland. The widow next door, an unmistakable busybody. Talkative, gossipy, and absolutely the last person in the world who should be involved in Ash’s private life.
Mrs. Courtland was a fairly young woman, not yet thirty, having buried a husband nine years ago. She had no children of her own and had taken to Ash’s offspring rather too well. They enjoyed regaling Ash with her many and bizarre opinions on everything from the latest in clothing to the governing of the British Empire.
“Dear God, not Mrs. Courtland.” The paper crumpled under Ash’s big hand. “I forbid it,” he said hotly, with a sinking sense of futility. “I absolutely forbid it.”
His words were drowned by Guy’s loud and prolonged laughter.
Helena finished reading the letter the footman had delivered to her breakfast table and rang the bell for Evans. When her lady’s maid appeared, Helena said, “Fetch my wrap, Evans. Quickly. I will just catch him.”
The clocks were striking half past eight when Helena tripped from her house, her shawl wrapped around her against the crisp morning air.
“Good morning, Your Grace,” she sang as she stepped in front of the Duke of Ashford.
He was tall, but Helena was tall for a woman, so she did not have to tilt her head back much to study him. Dark hair curled from under his hat, and gray eyes as frosty as a late autumn morning met her gaze. He had shaved—she smelled the soap—but his cheeks and chin were shadowed, his hair so dark his valet could never completely scrape the color away.
Ashford halted, always polite, even if his eyes were forbidding. “Mrs. Courtland.” He gave her a well-mannered bow and then made to move around her.
Of course. His precious schedule. He’d want to be in his offices at the ministry at nine precisely.
Helena again stepped in front of him, determined not to let him flee. Lewis’s letter had touched her heart. She’d do anything to wipe the bleakness from the little faces of Ash’s children, poor mites. The duke had shut himself off when Olivia had died, and finding a wife for him was just the thing to open him up again.
“I shall call ’round this evening,” she said. “I wager you know what about. There aren’t many young ladies in Town at the moment, but we will come up with a strategy. If I can’t have you married off by Christmas, I am certain I can when the Season begins.”
Ashford’s focus sharpened as Helena spoke, and now he leaned to her, making her heart beat faster. Goodness, but he was a large man—in a strong way. Nothing of the corpulent about him.
“Mrs. Courtland,” he said in clipped tones. “You will not speak to me or to my children on this matter again. You will forget all about it. Do you understand me?”
Helena met his gaze. Difficult, because there was such rage in his eyes. Behind the rage she saw frustration, unhappiness, and pain.
“I understand you quite well,” she said. “Good morning, Your Grace.”
Ashford stared at her a moment longer, then he straightened, tipped his hat, and marched away.
Helena watched as he strode along the square and down Berkeley Street toward Piccadilly, and she shook her head.
“I certainly will not forget all about it,” she said to his distant back. “We will get you married by hook or by crook, Your Arrogant Grace. I shall dance at your wedding and laugh very hard.”
Helena kept her gaze on Ashford’s tall body and steady gait until he disappeared from sight. Determination and anticipation tingled through her, making her more animated than she’d been in years.
Now—where to begin?
Chapter 2
It wasn’t done for a lady to call upon a gentleman unless he was a relation or they had business to discuss.
Helena did not let this stop her as she settled her three-plumed turban on her head and took up the shawl she used for late calls. Nothing so formal as what she wore to the theatre or balls during the Season, but nothing so casual as to be insulting. Helena, constantly sought after for her sage advice or to chaperone ingenues, knew exactly what to wear when, though she’d agonized a bit over how
