“Papa?” The young voice of Evie floated in, followed by Evie herself, Ashford’s middle child, the sensitive one. “Nanny says I can’t bring my favorite dress, but it’s so pretty, and Lewis says I’m being a ninny. Will you tell Lewis I’m not a ninny?— Oh.” She broke into a wide smile when she saw Helena. “Aunt Helena, will you tell Lewis? And Nanny? She listens to you.”
Helena’s face scalded, and her heart refused to calm. But bless the child—she had saved the moment.
“Of course, darling. You shall take every pretty dress you wish. Let us be off to the nursery and finish your packing.”
She was aware of Ashford standing in the middle of the carpet where she’d left him, but Helena could not bring herself to look at him, didn’t trust herself not to reveal how her heart sang with his touch.
She seized Evie by the hand and let the child lead her to safety.
Aunt Florence turned up, bag and baggage, on Ashford’s doorstep the day after he and his children arrived at Middlebrook Castle, the five-hundred-year-old seat of the dukes of Ashford.
“Tuck me into a corner somewhere,” she said from within the recesses of her large traveling bonnet. “Worry for nothing, Ash, dear. I received Helena’s letter and of course I don’t mind at all playing hostess to your at-homes. Will liven the place up.”
She regarded the golden stone house that rose in glittering glory from the wide sweep of lawn and shook her head, as though she found it wanting.
Ash opened his mouth to explain that he’d returned home to take care of the place, not host gatherings. He wanted to see to the farms and ensure that the tenants had tight roofs over their heads for the winter. He’d confer with the steward on what crops they’d plant come spring and discuss the yield of the early harvest.
He closed his mouth. If Aunt Florence wanted to chivy the servants and plan balls, let her. Ash would spend his days on the farms, turn up in time to show his neighbors he hadn’t withered to a stick in the city, and then retire.
“Very well, Auntie.” He kissed her cheek. “How pleasant to see you.”
Aunt Florence gazed at him with his father’s gray eyes, suspicion in them. A widow after thirty years of happy marriage, Aunt Florence was in her fifties and as unbowed and robust as she’d been at thirty.
“And you, Ashford,” she said, still wary. “Now then, where are my nieces and nevvy?”
Ashford’s plan to avoid the goings-on in the house worked well. He soon admitted that a sojourn in the country had been a wise idea. Long rides woke him out of his stupor, returned vigor to his body, and improved his temper.
Likewise his children seemed happier and hadn’t mentioned marriage or Mrs. Courtland since their arrival. Lily had once begun to say Mrs. Courtland’s name and been hurriedly shushed by her brother and sister.
Ash realized he could indulge in strict routine here as well. Up at seven to breakfast, off on his horse at eight. A ride through the village and then around to the home farm and the steward’s house for a meeting at half past. They’d discuss business—much to do—and then Ash would ride through his lands, with or without the steward.
It was harvest time, with some fields already shorn, others still growing, others in the process of being cut. Ash had wheat to sell, barley for the brewers, root crops for cattle and horses to eat over the winter. Sheep lazed in fields he rode past, shearing time near.
Ash began to wonder why he’d neglected the place so long. He hadn’t entirely abandoned his duties as landlord—while in London, he carried on a detailed correspondence with the steward and the estate’s majordomo, but it was no substitute for being here himself.
He also welcomed the time with his children. Every afternoon, from three to five, after Ash’s ride around his boundaries, he would meet Lewis, Evie, and Lily in the garden. They’d run about, or play games of hide and seek, Ash laughing with them as he hadn’t laughed in years.
Sometimes he and Lewis would walk together and talk, man-to-man, as the girls played among the flowerbeds. Lily loved digging in the dirt, and Ash suspected she’d grow up to be an avid gardener. She’d be covered with loam at the end of the afternoon, to the despair of Nanny. Ash didn’t scold her. Lily would be scrubbed up and on the marriage mart soon enough.
The thought squeezed him painfully. Why the devil should young women be paraded past gentlemen like prized horses? As duke’s daughters, Lily and Evie would garner much attention.
Ash determined not to push his daughters to wed until they met gentlemen who were their equals in every way. His own marriage had been conventional enough, but he’d been lucky that Olivia had been a mild and sweet woman, never minding Ash’s odd ways.
Now Helena Courtland was determined to push him back onto the market like a somewhat bruised hunk of flesh.
As always when the thought of Helena popped into his head, Ash tried to hastily close the door on the troubling memory of the kiss.
He must have lost his mind. Of course, he’d been quite agitated from his conversation with Lord Merrivale and the decision to leave London. And bewildered by the unnerving dreams he’d been having of Helena. Yes, all those things combined.
And yet …
He could not banish the remembered sensation of her softness, her scent, the warm silk of her lips.
He tried to joke with himself that at least the kiss had rendered her silent. Then again, while Helena liked to rattle on, her voice was pleasant, like velvet, not shrill and resounding. Damn it all, Ash liked hearing her talk—that is, if he ignored what she was saying.
None of that mattered now, he
