Dukes by the Dozen

by Grace Burrowes

  Ash had lain in bed all night, his skin hot, his heart tripping. He could not push aside the image of Helena’s wide smile in her pretty face, the silly feathers in her turban bobbing and dancing with her animated speeches. Her wide brown eyes, the one dark blond curl that drooped to her shoulder, the way her bosom moved behind her cream-colored bodice.

  Mrs. Courtland was a widow—she ought to be wearing black or gray, drab brown at the very least. Not a light gown with sprigs of silver that shimmered as she moved.

  Damned female. When Ash at last drifted to fitful sleep, his dreams put him back into his library with Mrs. Courtland, she floating about the room while he tried to chase her down to shove her out.

  In his dream, he caught her, but she wrapped her arms around him, and Ash tipped her smiling face up to his and kissed her.

  And kissed her. A deep, thorough, hungry kiss that had his heart pounding and long-buried desires erupting to the surface. His sleep-clogged mind conjured her scent, the sweet fragrance of some spice he couldn’t identify, and the heat of her mouth under his.

  No! Ash had jerked awake, air painfully flooding his lungs.

  Damn her, damn her. Damn. Her.

  His sleep was even more fitful after that, and he woke late, Edwards raising brows in surprise when Ash finally dragged himself from bed. There was no time for a proper shave, and Ash felt the whiskers burn his jaw as he took himself off after a hasty breakfast at a quarter to ten.

  There she was. As Ash emerged from his house, Mrs. Courtland was just exiting hers to a waiting carriage. She was neatly attired in a dark green redingote over a gown of lighter green, every line of the ensemble in place. Her straw bonnet, its ribbon matching the redingote, perched on the side of her head, giving her a charming asymmetry.

  Mrs. Courtland nodded at Ash, the feathers in her bonnet dancing. “Good morning, Your Grace.” Her mouth curved, the lips he’d kissed in his dreams red and delectable.

  Ash’s heart thudded until his hurriedly downed breakfast roiled in his stomach. He made himself bow. “Good morning, Mrs. Courtland.”

  The words were as curt as possible, the bow stiff. Not letting his gaze linger on her, Ash marched down Berkeley Street, his usual route.

  The walk would do him good, he assured himself. He’d be fine when he reached St. James’s. A few meetings into the day, and he’d forget all about her.

  Ash strode on, ignoring Mrs. Courtland’s call of farewell in her light voice. He caught himself staring at the pavement, searching for the groove worn by his own feet, before he snarled at himself and hurried onward.

  An hour later, Ash stood, dumbfounded, while his mentor took a pinch of snuff, snorted into a handkerchief, and gave Ash a keen eye.

  “I know it’s difficult, Ash, but you’re out, for now. There will be a call for elections, and you’ll be back. Once the Season begins, mark my words, you’ll return to London in your full glory. Take the time to see to your estate, ride, hunt, stroll in your garden. Or hang out a shingle for a wife, dear boy. It’s high time someone softened you up.”

  Chapter 3

  Through her sitting room window, Helena spied the trunks and valises trickling from the house next door, and Ashford’s strong footmen loading them onto a cart.

  She hurried out of her house to the street. “Good heavens, what is all this?”

  A maid passed a valise to a footman and curtsied to Helena. “His Grace is off to the country, ma’am.” She announced this with a look of relief. While Ashford was not parsimonious to his servants, it must be trying to have him always in residence, his routine to be followed to the exact second.

  “Excellent news,” Helena said.

  She followed the maid into Ash’s house, never mind it was not a proper time to call. Helping the children ready themselves for a journey was an excellent excuse for admittance.

  She heard Lewis, Lily, and Evie in the upper reaches of the house, excited and laughing, and Ashford on the second floor rumbling orders to his manservant. Boldly, Helena ascended the stairs.

  “’Tis only I,” she called. “Can I help?”

  Ashford charged out of his study, stopped short when he saw Helena come off the landing, turned around, and went back in. Helena followed him.

  Boxes lay about, books stacked neatly in or beside them. Ashford was taking much of his library with him.

  Instead of snapping at her to go, Ashford’s shoulders tightened, and he faced her with a resigned look.

  “You are getting your wish, madam. I am hieing to the country, whether I like it or not.”

  “Oh, dear. What has happened?”

  She did not expect Ashford to answer, except perhaps to shout that it was none of her affair.

  “It seems that every committee in every office in which I have a presence has decided my opinions matter very little these days,” he said stiffly. “Lord Merrivale, my most trusted confidant, the man who practically raised me and helped me carve out a career, had to tell me no one wanted me about.” Hurt lurked in Ashford’s eyes, though his face remained a mask of irritation. He gazed at her in sudden suspicion. “You didn’t have a word with him, did you?”

  Helena blinked. “You believe I went around to St. James’s Palace, or wherever you take yourself of a day, and told them to toss you to the pavement? They’d hardly listen to the likes of me. It is more likely Lord Merrivale and your colleagues saw that time away would benefit you.” And them, she did not add.

  Ashford gave her a narrow stare, then he shook his head, his expression clearing. “I beg your pardon. I am being fanciful. Towering rage makes me unreasonable.”

  “Regard this as a blessing, Your Grace. You’ll have plenty of time to attend to your children, and to seek a wife. That rather large house has room for a ball, a house party—a host of gatherings. A house party would be best, I think, so you can invite the families of all the young ladies to stay. You could observe them at your leisure, and then you—”

  “Mrs. Courtland!” His shout cut through her words.

  “Yes?”

  Ashford’s face was red again, his hair awry in that fetching manner. “The country will have one distinct advantage. You will not be next door.”

  “No, that is true. Hmm.”

  Helena’s late husband’s estate, now governed by his rather foolish nephew, was in Lincolnshire, while the Dukes of Ashford ruled from a vast tract of land in Somerset.

  However, a girlhood friend of Helena’s now lived in the village next to the Ashford estate, and was always begging Helena to come for a long visit. Millicent was happily married with four bouncing children, a state Helena envied. She would write to Millicent forthwith.

  “You will need a hostess,” she said. “Yes, your aunt Florence is just the lady. She’ll enjoy it.”

  Helena turned away, eager to begin her correspondence. She had much to do.

  Before she reached the door, a heavy hand landed on the doorframe, barring her way out. She turned to face the dark countenance and furious glare of the Duke of Ashford.

  She smelled his shaving soap—he must have told his valet to scrape him clean once he returned to Berkeley Square, but the shadow on his chin remained. Helena had the most pressing urge to run her fingers along his jaw to discover what the whiskers felt like.

  Ashford’s gray eyes flickered with raw emotion, and he did not move his hand from the doorframe. If any other gentleman had loomed over her so, Helena might be frightened or angry, but Ashford’s nearness had her heart hammering.

  His breath warmed her as he leaned closer. She expected Ashford to rail at her, but he remained strangely silent.

  His gaze moved from her eyes to her mouth, and Helena’s lips tingled. What would it be like to kiss him? Ashford was a strong man, and a handsome one—she had always noticed this.

  Would he kiss with precision, as he did everything else? Or would he at last abandon himself to passion, and kiss with ferocity?

  Helena suddenly wanted to know.

  Wit
h him leaning to her, and her own height, she did not have to rise far to reach his lips. Helena closed her eyes and brushed a kiss to his parted mouth.

  Ashford jumped in shock. Helena expected him to jerk away, to snarl at her to remember herself, perhaps to shove her from him in horror.

  He froze the barest moment before dragging her to him and kissing her back with a fierceness that stole her breath.

  He was shaking but wrapped his arms around her, enclosing her with strength. Helena leaned into his hard chest while his lips parted her mouth, his tongue tangled hers, his thigh pressed her hip.

  The kiss tore open places Helena hadn’t known were shut, whisked away the barrier around her heart, and sent her blood flowing to all regions of her body.

  The stiff, coolheaded Ashford had coalesced into a virile man, and Helena, most definitely a woman, responded. She’d longed for this, she realized, every day for the past few years, when he’d nodded at her in passing or patiently listened to her go on about his children.

  He was fire in her arms, his kiss igniting. Helena dared reach up and touch his face, which she found pleasantly coarse with whiskers.

  Ashford deepened the kiss, a soft sound in his throat, but there was nothing soft about the way he held her. He pulled her closer, Helena’s breasts crushed to his waistcoat, behind which she could feel the rapid beating of his heart. No clockwork automaton existed beneath his skin—he was flesh and blood, heating her body.

  A step in the corridor made them both give a violent start. It was Edwards, coming to assist his master with his packing.

  Ashford jerked from her, and the kiss shattered. Helena backed a step and nearly fell, her legs weak as she pressed fingers to her hot and shaking lips.

  Edwards had discreetly withdrawn, but Ashford’s eyes were wide, his expression haunted.

  Helena gazed at him a long moment, unable to move. She knew she ought to flee, to save them both from embarrassment—or perhaps to keep herself from kissing him again, she didn’t know. But her feet remained fixed in place.

  “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 told himself. Ash had found sanctuary at Middlebrook Castle, one he hadn’t understood he’d needed. If Aunt Florence wanted to invite the county to stroll about the galleries of an evening, she had his blessing. Let her enjoy herself.

  The first gathering occurred after Ash and family had been home two weeks. Aunt Florence truly had invited the entire county, Ash mused—he hadn’t rea
lized he had so many neighbors. Most he recognized to nod to, some had become good friends, and a few were complete strangers. Aunt Florence knew everyone, of course, and Ash went through the ritual of introduction several times.

  He only realized his predicament when he was introduced to Miss Lucy Howard and her family. Miss Howard was tall for a lady, young, but with intelligence in her eyes.

  The name was familiar. Alarm bells rang in his head when Ash remembered she’d been on the list of Helena’s potential brides.

  Ash was a bit more abrupt to the poor girl than he ought to be, but she looked puzzled rather than hurt, likely labeling him a boor.

  Coincidence that she was here, nothing more. Aunt Florence had sent out the invitations, not Helena.

  The alarm sounded again when he met the Honorable Miss Hannah Werner, and then Lady Megan Winter. And then another lady, a young widow this time, whose name he’d spied on the list before he’d thrust it into the flames.

  Damn and blast. Aunt Florence would answer for this.

  Ash was cursorily polite and escaped the ballroom at the first instance. He had so many guests no one would blame him for attending those in other parts of the house.

  He made for the card room, that realm of safety where husbands and fathers retreated once their obligatory greetings were finished. Ash had almost reached it when an all-to-familiar voice pulled him up.

  “There you are, Ashford. Your home is most splendid. I cannot think why you do not live here more often—it must be a magnificent view over the park when the sun sets. Have you met my ladies, yet? I apologize for being late, but dear Millicent is a bit slow. She likes to arrive last thing, though I have pointed out that this is a bit rude.”

  Ash stood frozen in place while the words washed over him, then he slowly turned.

  It was not a dream. Helena Courtland stood behind him, red lips smiling, in a silver and blue gown that rendered her a glowing angel.