The thought brought her attention back to his firm mouth. She had enjoyed his kiss, and it had soothed her pride to know that she’d kindled his interest. It had been so long since she’d seen Thomas, she didn’t know what remained between them. But it felt good to have a man watching her as if he wanted her.
“Iain,” she murmured.
He brought her down, but the entire time, her body was pressed close to his. She kept her arms upon his shoulders a moment longer before she took slow, limping steps back to the garden bench. Why did she allow her imagination to trespass into thoughts of what could never be? He needed an heiress who would return with him to Ireland. Not a woman like her. They were friends, and that was all.
It was better for her to pick up the pieces of her life and renew her relationship with Lord Burkham. Once she saw him again, she would know if his letters had any meaning at all.
Iain remained on the opposite side of the garden, looking around at the flowers. For a moment, his eyes narrowed when he spied a circle of mushrooms in a shaded part of the garden lawn. She didn’t understand what had transformed his mood until he bent down for a closer look.
The mushrooms were crushed and slimy. Why on earth did he want to go any nearer?
Rose took a few steps toward him, and the stench of the fungus made her wrinkle her nose. “We should go,” she told Iain. “It’s been nearly an hour.”
And still he remained transfixed. He made no comment about what was going on in his mind, and she finally prompted, “What is it?”
“It smelled like this,” he told her. “In Ireland. The potatoes rotted in the ground until the air was tainted with it.” He stood, his expression suddenly stoic. “So many were starving.”
His mood had shifted so abruptly, and the past seemed to haunt him. “I have to help them.”
“You will.”
But a cynical look crossed his face, as if he had no right to be wasting time in a garden. “I suppose this was a reminder I needed. They’re running out of time, and so am I.” He straightened and crossed over to her. “I have to find my bride and soon.”
She took his arm in hers. “It will not be easy finding someone who will want to go back with you to Ireland.”
“She can remain in England, if she wishes,” he said, leading her back toward the garden door. “I can visit her from time to time. It might suit a woman who wishes to be married but have her freedom.”
It didn’t seem to be a pleasant arrangement; rather, it sounded like a lonely existence. You’re not going to marry him, she reminded herself. This does not concern you. And yet, she couldn’t help but think of his future bride. “What about any children you might have?”
Iain didn’t look at her. “I have no desire for children.” His cold remark startled her, for she’d imagined he would be a very good father.
“But what about an heir?” she pointed out. “Someone will have to inherit the earldom.”
He shrugged but said nothing. His disinterest rang false, and she had the sense that he was hiding something from her.
“What if your wife wishes to have a child?” she asked. “Would you deny her that?”
He lifted her through the doorway and then locked the garden door behind him. “I will not deny her marital rights. But no child deserves to be born into a life of suffering. And that is all that remains in Ireland.”
London
One week later
“We’ve arrived!” Lady Penford beamed with happiness as she peered outside the window of the coach. “Oh, I am so pleased to be back in London, Rose. Everything will be so much better now. I can sense it.”
Rose wanted to believe it, and she reached out to squeeze her mother’s hand. “I am glad you were well enough to come.” It had been a journey of mixed-up days, some better than others. But the excitement of the travel had given her mother a new enthusiasm that had been missing for some time. Lord Ashton had traveled in a separate coach and, as far as she knew, had continued on to his brother’s townhouse. She had rather hoped he would travel with them, but he had maintained a courteous distance. Which was all well and proper, but . . . a little disappointing.
When the coach stopped, Calvert carried her inside their townhouse. Rose had not yet revealed her ability to walk, wanting to maintain the surprise. But truthfully, she wasn’t certain if she could manage the stairs yet. She had continued to practice walking in secret, but she tired easily and knew better than to use all her energy because of pride. Then, too, the exercise had made her legs ache. At night, sometimes she awakened in pain, both in her legs and her lower back. But she would accept any amount of discomfort, so long as she could walk.
Her mother and sister led the way, and the butler, Fulton, ushered them into the sitting room, where he gave orders for hot tea and refreshments. He had arrived earlier with several staff members, and it was clear that he had the household well in hand.
Her grandmother followed them, sinking into a chair with an enormous sigh. “A more ghastly trip I’ve never taken. I must say, I’d forgotten how much I despise traveling.”
“Why did you come with us?” Rose asked.
Lady Wolcroft glanced over at Iris, who had her eyes closed and was leaning back against the settee. The silent message was understood. To protect your mother. But her grandmother answered, “To help both of you find husbands. And, of course, to assist Lord Ashton in his own quest for a bride. Have you thought about which ladies might suit him?”
“Not yet.” A sudden aching caught in her gut when she imagined another woman with Iain. It wasn’t jealousy, she told herself. Not at all. It was simply that she couldn’t decide which bride would be right for him. Rose had considered her best friend, Evangeline Sinclair, but she was so painfully shy, it didn’t seem like a good match.
“And what of you?” Lady Wolcroft asked. “I presume you have no interest in wedding Lord Ashton?”
Her grandmother’s suggestion held a knowing air, but Rose tried to ignore it. “I cannot possibly travel to Ireland, Grandmother.” She reached for a sugared scone, dotted with currants. “Besides that, what reason would I have to wed Lord Ashton?”
Her grandmother poured out for them, and settled back with her tea, a mischievous look in her eyes. “What reason, indeed?” Then she winked at Rose. “You’ve been spending a great deal of time in his company.”
Blood rushed to her cheeks as she caught her grandmother’s meaning. Iain Donovan was indeed a handsome man, one who would tempt any woman. “Nothing happened, Grandmother. We are only friends.”
Her grandmother let out a hearty laugh. “That may be. But if you have any difficulty finding a husband who isn’t bothered by your inability to walk, I doubt it would bother him. And,” she lowered her voice to a whisper, “let us simply say that I imagine Lord Ashton would have no trouble begetting heirs.”
Except that he doesn’t want any, Rose thought. Even so, her face flushed at the thought of his kisses. He was relentless, a man whose touch made her breathless. She shut down the vision immediately, forcing herself to return to reality.
“Now then,” her grandmother began. “Lord Ashton will take residence in his family’s townhouse and see what has become of his estates during his time away. While he deals with those matters, he has asked me to help in the matter of finding a bride. I shall pay a call upon Her Grace, the Duchess of Worthingstone. She is hosting a ball soon, and I am quite certain she would be willing to extend an invitation to Lord Ashton with all the appropriate ladies in attendance. Amelia has also promised to help me, if needed.”
Lady Wolcroft spoke as if arranging a marriage was rather like choosing a new bonnet. “And as for both of you—” She paused, studying Lily first, before her gaze shifted back to Rose. “I will see what can be done to help you find husbands.”
“I think we can manage it ourselves, thank you,” Rose responded. “After all, Lord Burkham and I are still corresponding.”
Her grandmother’s expression turned sour. “He ma
y be a viscount, but he’s tied up in his mother’s apron strings. You ought to find a kindly older widower who will let you do whatever you wish.”
Or an Irish earl with the manners of a pirate, Rose thought, eyeing her grandmother.
It seemed that everything was shifting right now. It wasn’t at all wise to turn her attention toward Lord Ashton. She knew the reality of his misfortune, and even her dowry might not be enough to heal his broken estate . . . especially if her mother had been giving away money.
Yet, she could not deny the invisible strings that pulled her closer to him. He was a man who could not offer her a fortune, but he was indeed handsome and kind.
“Lord Burkham would not make a good husband for you,” her grandmother continued. Rose said nothing, for she was well aware of her family’s doubts. But she had to make her own decision about whom to marry.
Her sister straightened in her chair and changed the subject. “Grandmother, has there been any word on Lord Arnsbury?”
Lily’s eyes held hope, but Lady Wolcroft shook her head. “I am afraid not. After the last letter, I believe Lady Arnsbury has hired men to try and find him.”
Her sister managed a pained smile. “We did the same for James. I do hope they will return soon.” She fingered the silver chain at her throat.
“As do I.” Lady Wolcroft let out a baleful sigh and turned to her granddaughters. “In the meantime, I hope both of you will consider that there are many men who would be excellent husbands. We are late in arriving for the Season, but I am certain you will each find the right gentleman to wed.”
Rose knew her grandmother was right, but her greater concern was not about finding a husband. She wanted to become the woman she had once been, able to walk like everyone else.
Perhaps then she would find a gentleman who would see her as someone to love instead of a burden.
There were hundreds of Irish—men, women, and children—in the London streets. Iain’s mood darkened at the sight of them as he drove through the city. He’d seen countless signs in store windows that read: No Irish. His people were homeless, driven out from starvation, and no one wanted them. Especially not the English.
His valet, Niall, was staring out the carriage window as well. Iain hadn’t wanted to bring him along, but the man held far too many secrets—and Iain didn’t know which ones were true. He thought it better to keep the man close, rather than risk him spreading stories that could threaten his chances of making a good marriage. While he didn’t think Niall would blackmail him, it was a chance he didn’t want to take.
Although his valet had eaten regular meals since he’d joined Iain, there was still a bleakness and a sense of hopelessness surrounding the man.
“I’d thought of bringing my family to London last winter,” the man blurted out, breaking the silence. “I thought we could start over. I’d find work and we’d have enough to eat. But Isla was too sick to travel, too weak. And we had no medicine for her.”
Iain remained somber, for though he’d known of the little girl’s illness, he hadn’t known Niall had planned to leave. The man turned back to face him. “All these people are going to die. Just like Isla did. And there’s naught we can do to save them.”
Iain held the man’s gaze for a moment. “Not all of them.” He eyed the streets and added, “I gave you another chance when I didn’t have to.” He hoped he wouldn’t regret the decision. “The question is whether or not you’ll offer any loyalty in return.”
His valet met his gaze squarely, and his expression held sincerity. “I will, aye. It’s very grateful I am for all that you’ve done for me, my lord.”
But Iain still wasn’t convinced he’d done the right thing. “Whatever happened to Pádraig or Terence?” He’d heard nothing from his men in weeks.
“They went to Yorkshire and tried to find work in one of the factories, but I cannot say if they found anything.”
Niall paused a moment and lowered his voice, although there was no one to overhear him. “I promised I would tell you what happened to your mother. If you’re wanting to hear it.”
Iain wasn’t certain of that, but he said nothing to deny it. At his silence, Niall began by saying, “You are Lady Ashton’s son. Everyone will attest to that. But there are whispers about your father.”
“He was killed by one of our tenants. I know that much.” And Iain suspected that somehow his mother held him to blame, though he had not yet been born.
“I was fifteen years old when the earl killed Seán O’Toole,” Niall said. “I was there when it happened.” His voice turned flat, and he continued, “His lordship broke into Seán’s house in the middle of the night, raging at him for attacking the countess.”
A strange iciness crawled over Iain at the revelation. He hadn’t known that his mother had been hurt by one of the tenants, but he understood what Niall was implying.
“His lordship had a revolver, and he shot Seán in the stomach,” Niall continued. “He did it to avenge his wife’s honor. But Seán had a gun of his own, and he killed the earl before he bled to death.”
The servant stared at Iain with pity in his eyes. “You may have been born to the countess. And it’s indeed possible that she could have been pregnant before the attack. But whether or not the earl is your father, you remind Lady Ashton of the night she was hurt. That is why she can’t treat you as a beloved son. Because she doesn’t know who fathered you. None of us does.”
He absorbed what the man had said, and the pieces did fit together. If his own mother didn’t know who had fathered him, she would have no choice but to accept him as the earl’s son.
“What do the tenants say about it?”
Niall shrugged. “They don’t care who you are, so long as you end the famine. They’d rather have the devil they know than the devil they don’t.” He straightened. “It’s better for all of us if you are the earl. If you wed an heiress and restore our crops, it’s more than any of the tenants can do.” He eyed Iain. “But that is why Lady Ashton treats you the way she does.”
He turned over the information in his mind, uncertain what to think of it. For all he knew, he could be a bastard. Or not.
Even if he had no right to the title, it didn’t change the fact that he held himself responsible for Ashton and for his sisters. He owed it to all of them to somehow find a wife who could quickly restore the estate.
The coach came to a stop in front of his brother’s townhouse. He had never been here before, but Lady Rose had promised to notify his London household of his impending arrival.
The coachman came to open the door, and Iain stepped outside. The air was full of mingled odors, of soot and horse manure, food and a scent that was uniquely London. A rise of uneasiness caught him as he remembered all the times he’d been left behind in Ireland. These were his first moments in this foreign city, and the differences were vast.
He twisted his brother’s signet ring, feeling the weight of the gold. Regardless of whether he had been fathered by the earl, Moira hadn’t believed it.
But perhaps his brother had.
He would never know what Michael had thought, but he had never treated him as anything other than his younger brother. It was Michael who had taught him how to run the estate, Michael who had made him the land steward for Ashton.
Because of his brother, Iain knew every inch of the estate, and he had sworn to make it profitable again. His heart ached at the memory of Michael, for he had died far too young from consumption. And though Iain was the only one left to pick up the pieces, it was for the greater good of Ashton. His sisters needed him, too.
He brushed away a wrinkle from his coat and strode up the front stairs. Niall knocked on his behalf, and Iain did his best to appear like the earl. Behave as if you own the world and everything in it, Lady Rose had advised. If anyone questions you, ignore them. Pretend that you are always right.
At the thought of her, he wanted to smile. She had tutored him on proper etiquette and all the rules of society during th
e past week. It was difficult enough being in this city, especially when he had to impress the right people, but he hoped Rose’s instructions had prepared him for what lay ahead.
The butler opened the townhouse door and beamed at the sight of them. “My Lord Ashton, it is good to meet you at last. Your brother Michael, God rest his soul, spoke of you often with such fondness. I am Chester Barlow.”
“Thank you, Barlow,” he managed. He was grateful to learn that Michael had mentioned him. Perhaps it wouldn’t be quite so difficult to make his place here in London. He followed the butler inside and gave over his hat and coat, while the man gave orders for a footman to bring him a light supper.
“I will take a tray in my room,” Iain said. Though it was still early, he needed time to gather his thoughts and plans.
“Very good, my lord.” The butler made arrangements for his belongings to be brought from the coach. There were only two trunks, and he knew that would appear unusual to the staff. It was yet another reason why he wanted to retreat: to avoid the inevitable questions.
He walked up the staircase, following the footman, who guided him to his room. The servant departed quickly, giving Iain time to think.
He recognized this room as his brother’s. The large bedroom held an enormous bed, and a fire had been lit in the hearth. Iain sat down in his brother’s chair, watching as the coals glowed within the iron grate.
He walked over to Michael’s desk and opened it. Inside, he found paper, a pen, and ink. And there, atop a stack of papers, was a letter his brother had written but never sent. The familiar sight of Michael’s handwriting made his throat ache and his eyes burn when he realized that the unsent letter had been addressed to him.
Dear Iain,
I must say, I do despise London. Mother believes I must try to gain a seat in Parliament and argue for the rights of the Irish, but I would rather be at home and let someone else take my place.
You have no idea how tedious it is or how very fortunate you are. I envy you. But perhaps one day
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