“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.
Marry Ash? Have him look at her like this always, with softness behind his strength? Kiss her as he had before, with passion and slow warmth? Curl up with her in his bed, as she’d longed to do when he lay with nothing but his nightshirt over his well-muscled body? Only the fact that he’d been quite unwell had prevented Helena from flinging herself on him and begging shamelessly for his embrace.
“Will you?” Ash asked her, sounding less certain. “If you do refuse me, please do not give me the pain of seeing you married to my closest friend. I could not bear that.”
“Ash.” Helena found her breath, and her voice, which rang louder than she meant. “Yes! You just try and stop me marrying you.”
Lewis whooped. The girls joined in his shouts of joy, then all three began running about, turning cartwheels, Lewis kicking his legs in a handstand.
Guy grinned, looking strangely elated. “Thank you, Mrs. Courtland. Whew. For a moment there, I thought you were going to accept.”
“Oh, did you?” Helena’s bewilderment fled in a wash of indignation. “You mean you had no intention of marrying me?”
Guy held up his hands. “I’m a lifelong bachelor, me. The offspring and I had to come up with some way to remove the stick from Ash’s backside and make him propose. Not that it would be a bad thing to share a harness for life with you, Mrs. Courtland,” he added quickly. “I did not lie when I said you were a beautiful and capable woman.”
“Lovell,” Ash said in a quiet voice. “Depart.”
Guy grinned. “Right you are. Lewis—girls. Come along now. The lovebirds want to be alone.”
Lewis righted himself and saluted. Evie and Lily rushed around the trellis to Helena, a scent of late roses wafting as they flung their arms around her knees.
“Thank you!” Evie cried, and Lily said a softer, “Thank you. Mama.”
Tears stung Helena’s eyes. She sank down and gathered them close. “Oh, my girls,” she whispered. “What a gift you are.”
They hugged for a long, tender moment, then the girls swung to their father and latched on to him. “Thank you, Papa!” they cried in overlapping voices.
Ash held Evie and Lily in turn, closing his eyes. Helena hadn’t been wrong when she’d told him she knew he loved his children.
There was a jostle, and Lewis flung himself into the pile, abandoning dignity to share the embraces.
At last all three untangled themselves and dashed for the house, Evie and Lily swinging their twined hands. Guy herded them along, his rumbling voice echoing back to them.
Helena and Ash were left alone ... awkwardly. They faced each other a few feet apart, both breathing hard. Ash’s cheekbones were flushed, but his eyes held determination.
“You won’t take it back?” Helena ventured once all was quiet. “You did not ask me simply to make Mr. Lovell go away?”
“No, I do not want to take it back.” Ash’s answer was fierce, and Helena’s heart turned over. Things would never be dull between her and Ash. “Damnation, I need you to marry me.”
“Good.” Helena tentatively reached out and took his hands, her body heating when he caught hers in a firm grip. “My dear, Ash—”
She broke off as Ash dragged her to him, cupped her head in his strong hand, and kissed her.
The kiss was slow but fervent, Ash taking his time. It promised things to come, nights of passion, his hard body over hers, the two of them holding each other in the dark, staving off the autumn chill.
Ash caressed her lips with his thumb as the kiss ended, his breath on her cheek. “Helena. Love.”
Helena melted toward him then she abruptly pulled back, remembering something. “Mr. Lovell said he thought you’d commanded me to return to London.” She frowned. “Not that I would have taken any notice.”
Ash shook his head, his expression softening. “I meant to
. I couldn’t bear to see you. My thoughts whenever I was with you ... The way I wanted you ... I knew my family was right that you should be my wife.”
Helena gave him a puzzled look. “Then why didn’t you tell me to leave? You could have sent Edwards with a note.”
“Because you might have gone.” Ash looked at her with his heart in his eyes. “And that would have been worse.”
“Oh,” Helena whispered, every hesitation dissolving. She slid her arms around Ash once more, feeling something complete in her as they came together. She drew him down to her and lost herself in another kiss.
This one lasted longer, roses scenting it, the sounds of laughter and the guests a long way off.
When the kiss eased to its close, Ash held Helena in a warm embrace, her head on his shoulder. She could reach up and kiss his chin whenever she wanted, feeling the brush of dark whiskers his razor could never quite take away.
“A moment.” Helena raised her head. “If I marry you, that means a wedding, which means months of planning. Weeks at the very least. We’ll both have to keep to a timetable. I believe the idea of this marriage was to dispense with schedules.”
Ash chuckled. “That is easily solved. We’ll take my coach to Gretna in the morning.”
Helena blinked. “Goodness, Ash, are you certain? An elopement? How impetuous of you.”
His smile radiated heat. “You make me impetuous, Helena. And impatient. I do not want to wait weeks or months and wade through incessant plans before I can have you.”
Helena’s body thrummed pleasantly. “I do not want to wait either.”
“Then we will go?”
“I will have to pack, of course,” she said. “But I believe I can agree to that—impetuously.”
Ash pulled her close, his arms strong, his body powerful. His next kiss stole her breath, and Helena clung to him and enjoyed it.
“I love you, Your Grace,” she whispered.
“I love you, Mrs. Courtland,” Ash said in his low rumble. “Helena. My fine lady. Thank you.”
He did not say for what, but Helena understood. Her loneliness fled in a wash of joy, and she knew his shattered as well.
More yells pulled their attention toward the house. Lewis and his sisters were leaping into the air, waving, laughing. They’d seen the kissing. Guy looked on, arms folded, appearing very pleased with himself.
Ash laughed. Helena hadn’t heard such a jubilant sound in a long time. He waved at his family, then caught Helena around the waist as the two of them headed for the waiting children, and home.
About the Author
New York Times bestselling and award-winning author Jennifer Ashley has written more than 95 published novels and novellas in romance, fantasy, mystery, and historical fiction under the names Jennifer Ashley, Allyson James, and Ashley Gardner. Her books have been nominated for and won Romance Writers of America's RITA (given for the best romance novels and novellas of the year), several RT BookReviews Reviewers Choice awards (including Best Urban Fantasy, Best Historical Mystery, and Career Achievement in Historical Romance), and Prism awards for her paranormal romances. Jennifer's books have been translated into more than a dozen languages and have earned starred reviews in Publisher’s Weekly and Booklist.
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https://www.jenniferashley.com
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DEAR DUKE
October
Anna Harrington
Preface
When the new Duke of Monmouth, decides to put through a canal, he isn’t prepared for an old mill owner and his stubborn—but beautiful—daughter to stand in his way. War is declared, and the only person who seems to understand him is the anonymous pen pal to whom he’s been pouring out his heart, a woman not at all who she seems…
Chapter 1
October, 1808
Little London, Lincolnshire
Oh, that man! That horrible, arrogant, power-hungry—
“Son of a duke!” Cora Bradley bit out as she stomped down the lane that wound its way along the river. The same river that the Duke of Monmouth now wanted to turn into a canal to aid the factory owners whose works were being built upstream on the River Welland in Spalding. Because while the Welland flowed fast enough to run their machines, it didn’t allow for carrying to port the products those same machines produced. The new duke’s answer? Build a lock. One that would permit barges to move easily along the river and join in with the new canal recently constructed from Boston.
The same lock that would destroy the free flow of the river through the village and put her father’s grist mill out of operation.
Apparently, the new duke was a staunch believer in progress and innovation. Her father’s mill, with its creaking old timbers and humming grindstones—a mill based upon the ancient Greek mills, in fact—was certainly not that.
Apparently, Monmouth also believed he could run roughshod over anyone who got in his way.
She reached into her pocket to give a good squeeze to the letter that she’d already crumpled in her fist that morning when the duke’s latest attempt to close her father’s mill arrived at their doorstep by liveried footman. The same letter that had snapped her patience and sent her stomping right up to Monmouth’s fancy front door at Bishopswood, demanding to speak with His Grace.
She grimaced at herself. She shouldn’t have confronted the duke like that, leaving the mill in such a hurry that she hadn’t changed and still wore her heavy work apron over her worsted wool dress. Should have given herself a day or two to tamp down her anger and reply in writing instead of confronting him. Should have been able to formulate enough words to make her case for why the mill needed to remain in place, even if just until the end of the year, instead of the angry We will never surrender! that tore out of her as if she were a British general facing down the French and had him staring at her as if she’d just sprouted a second head. Should have stayed rather than turning red with mortification and fleeing from the house. Even now she shouldn’t be cutting across Monmouth land and giving the duke or his agents cause to have her arrested for trespassing.
Instead, she should have gone to her local member of Parliament, a man who had always fancied her and would fall over himself in his rush to provide assistance. In fact, only Samuel Newhouse’s interference on her behalf had kept Monmouth from forcing construction of his lock before now.
But this letter—oh, this one had been the last straw!
To think that he could threaten her by convincing Parliament to pass a new canal bill, giving him rights to destroy whatever structures necessary to ensure the building of His Majesty’s canal, just so he could earn a pretty penny in profits from tolls and warehouses—well, His Grace certainly had another think coming! Not when her father had dedicated his entire life to that mill, not when the next closest mill was nearly ten miles further downstream and therefore difficult for most of the villagers to use. Not even when the duke had offered to buy the mill and at far more than its fair value, which was decreasing more and more every day as a result of her father’s sickness. So much so that she feared the mill would soon be in debt and its grindstones up for auction to the highest bidder.
Certainly not when her father was now dying and had only his memories of a life lived in that mill to cling to. Memories of his late wife most of all, when they’d lived and worked right there on the mill site, which had been the happiest days of Cora’s life. If the mill was destroyed, her last connection to that time would also be destroyed, and happiness for her father’s last days right along with it.
She swiped an angry hand at her stinging eyes. If the newly minted Monmouth thought he could simply bully her and her father into—
Her toe caught. She pitched forward and lost her balance as she stumbled three giant steps forward before she as able to right herself. Stopping, she glanced d
own.
A small, dirt-covered circle stuck up from a small bump in the path. She reached down for it and brushed away the sod clinging to it.
“A ring?” Or at least, she thought it might be a ring. The oddest thing…a ring, fashioned out of what looked like an old spoon handle that was bent to encircle a woman’s small finger. Surely it had once been silver, complete with an etching of some kind on its surface. But time had tarnished it to black, covering the etching until it was no longer recognizable.
Her heart panged as she turned the ring over in her hand. A token of love. A real love that required the man to make this ring rather than simply buy a fancy one from a shop in Lincoln. That was the same kind of love her own parents had shared before her mother died three years ago. Before her father grieved so hard for her that he was soon to follow her to heaven.
She glanced around, holding her breath and listening—
Nothing. No one was near who might have dropped it.
She bit her lip. She couldn’t keep it, wouldn’t keep someone else’s token of love. But she also couldn’t take it to the manor house to inquire of its owner without admitting that she’d been trespassing on Monmouth land. God only knew what kinds of crimes the duke or his agent would accuse her of committing, simply so he could remove her from Little London and have no one to stop him from tearing down the mill. Worse—to have no one there to take care of her father.
But if she returned it to the ground or placed it on top the stone wall, would it become lost again, never to be found by its owner when she realized it was gone and traced back her steps to hunt for it?
No. Monmouth might be a vile, selfish peer who gave no consideration to a person’s property. But she would never be like that.
Dukes by the Dozen Page 56
