Embracing Ashberry

by Serenity Everton

  Embracing Ashberry

  Serenity Everton

  Copyright 2005 Serenity Everton (asparkle2@yahoo.com).

  Smashwords edition.

  Discover other titles by Serenity Everton at Smashwords.com.

  LICENSE NOTES, SMASHWORDS EDITION

  All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in or introduced into a retrieval system, transmitted by any means (electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, etc) without the prior permission of the author, above.

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents are products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.

  This text was previously published online, with free excerpts still available online at Out of My Mind (http://fiction.kinkyfirehouse.com).

  .

  ABOUT EMBRACING ASHBERRY

  The Marquess of Ashberry had never planned to marry or have children, but there is something about Ella Whitney he can't quite ignore. Her skittishness, her inclination to overlook his existence and her vulnerability has him re-thinking his future.

  Ella Whitney is timid, and for very good reasons. But she can't avoid Ashberry's company all the time with her brother marrying his sister. Instead she has to face her fears, stand up to her family, and remember her dreams.

  This novel is over 100,000 words in length. It is a romance. In the romance genre, the story moves forward as the relationship between the primary characters develops. Sometimes progress in this relationship is marked by sexual content. In this story, Ella and Meriden do explore an intimate relationship within their marriage, but secondary characters do engage in less savory behavior. Readers should expect explicit language and adult situations.

  DEDICATION

  I spent many hours writing this story in 2003. When I wasn’t writing, I was sleeping. Later I had to put it away to function as a new mother, but it came back to life as our family began sleeping more than three or four hours at a time.

  So in those long hours of early morning, where my little girl slept on the couch more easily than in her cradle or crib, and I sat beside her to be sure she didn’t roll off to the floor, I finished the story.

  To my husband Chris, who brought me the baby and bought me the laptop that made it possible.

  TABLE OF CONTENTS

  Title Page

  Dedication

  Prologue

  One

  Two

  Three

  Four

  Five

  Six

  Seven

  Eight

  Nine

  Ten

  Eleven

  Twelve

  Thirteen

  Fourteen

  Fifteen

  Sixteen

  Seventeen

  Eighteen

  Nineteen

  Twenty

  March 1786

  PROLOGUE

  Abandoning the idea of waiting patiently in bed, Ellie threw back the covers and impulsively drew a heavy robe around her slim frame. She didn’t wish to wake the maid quite so soon but decided instead to visit the garden one final time. It had been the scene of many happy childhood games, and Ellie knew she would miss the glorious roses of summer and the beautiful morning glory vines that grew up the side of the manor from April until October.

  In the chill of the pre-dawn light she slipped silently out of her chamber and down the main stairs, crossing the carpets until she stood before the large doors from the dining room that opened into the garden. Ellie unfastened the bolts and moved outside, closing the doors quietly behind her to keep the damp air out of the house.

  The girl had been packed for weeks, and had impatiently—anxiously—tried to speed up her family’s preparations for the journey to London until her brothers were too annoyed to even speak to her. Just shy of eighteen years, her mama and papa had finally agreed she should spend the Season with her parents and older brothers.

  In London, Ellie knew Lord Whitney would take his seat in Parliament and continue teaching her eldest brother Edward the business of being a baron. She and her mother would concentrate on their own business—finding a suitable husband for the only Whitney daughter.

  The nightmare began only a few minutes later. Ellie trembled, a mixture of fear and anger coursing through her blood. “Bastard,” she seethed, squaring her chin and stiffening proudly.

  The forbidden epithet came unexpectedly, from the deepest core of her soul, an unmistakable manifestation of her terror. It would have earned a whipping from her governess, not to mention what punishment her mother and father would have imposed. He, however, hardly flinched but instead had the audacity to reach out and seize the cashmere above her heaving chest in one fist. The fabric rent apart, baring her breasts to the early morning mist. Deliberately, he traced his knife down between the untouched globes, pressing the blade against the soft undersides of her bosom. Suddenly, he laughed cruelly and stepped even closer, pushing the sharp tip into Ellie’s skin. She started to back away, her chin still high, but clearly there was no place for her to go.

  The cool stone of the manor house scraped her shoulder blades.

  The stranger leaned even closer, his hot breath against Ellie’s ear. “Yar a leetle beech, girlie,” he whispered in a peculiar vernacular. Without even a second to reconsider, he drew the edge across Ellie’s stomach, cutting a delicate sliver into her innocent white skin. His other hand was already probing its way inside what remained of her dressing gown, ripping open the front of her sleeping jacket as he searched. His fingers slipped between her thighs as he said softly, “Open yar laigs or I make a new sleet in yar bailly.”

  Unable in her distress to make any rational decision, Ellie did as he demanded. The blood trickled from her stomach and dripped against the tattered fabric as his hand cupped her woman’s flesh. The knife began to strip away the fabric she clutched against her as the strange, heavy presence of his hand between her thighs began to probe even more earnestly. Her ears drumming hard and her eyes burning, Ellie stared down at the knife, as if its experienced movements fascinated her.

  Even through the haze and confusion in her mind, Ellie saw the blood beginning to puddle in the crevices of her own navel. The humiliation and the pain became too much.

  Overwhelmed, she cried out, the horror and agony unmistakable before she dropped the ragged cashmere and pushed the man with unrestrained strength that would later amaze her.

  The stranger cursed, for Ellie’s terrorized wail was loud enough to wake the manor’s residents. With only seconds to spare before enraged rescuers would peer from the upper windows, he made three deep and deliberately damaging cuts: one from the underside of each breast to her navel in the form of a large V and the third from her navel down into the most innocent skin kept shielded by her mahogany curls. He smiled maliciously, accepting that Ellie’s shocked face would have to satisfy him for the moment.

  Still, he couldn’t resist a last jibe. “Don’cha worry, girlie,” he sneered, shaking the blood from the knife, “I be back ‘ta finish zee job.”

  Despite the stirring he could hear above him and the horrified scream from inside the house, the man stepped back and watched Ellie crumple to the ground.

  The shouts came an instant later, but by then he was just a fleeting figure on the edge of the forest. To the family, Ellie was of primary importance.

  October 1789

  ONE

  Ellie’s smile remained frozen on her pink lips, tenuous at best. The dinner party was loud and boisterous, quite unlike the silence and solitude she had craved so desperately for months. She’d been in public since then, of course, but those limited experience
s in Austria and Germany hadn’t prepared her for the overwhelming masculinity presiding in this room. She didn't pretend anything other than time and experience would alter that reality.

  Her eldest brother Edward, the heir to the Whitney barony and legendary lands on the crags of Cornwall, was recently engaged to Lady Charlotte Trinity, one of the twenty-year-old twin sisters of the Marquess of Ashberry. The nobleman himself was dining at the Whitneys' home, along with his three younger brothers, sister Charlotte and his mentoring, maternal aunt. The menagerie, along with Ellie’s own two parents and three brothers, plus the four footmen and butler, filled the dining room to its seams. The eight gentlemen, ranging in ages from fifteen to fifty-five, were as proper as a lady could expect, but their collective gregariousness at the dinner table would have greatly unsettled Ellie only a year earlier.

  Indeed, the attack Ellie had endured in the garden of her family’s estate had finally faded from her immediate memories, but the scars hadn’t healed completely. In fact, in many ways the villain who had assaulted her had succeeded—Ellie was no longer the self-confident, impulsive and eager young lady she had once been.

  When her mother led the four women into the drawing room, Ellie’s shoulders relaxed just slightly. No one had said anything out of place and Ellie had been seated between two of her own brothers, but generally she didn’t socialize outside her family and a very few acquaintances. However, evading this celebration dinner was impossible—even her youngest brother Richard had joined them.

  The padded chairs in the luxurious drawing room were drawn close around the fire, for the early October evenings had already begun to age into the frigid nights of English winters. Lady Whitney and Ashberry’s aunt, the Countess Westhouse, chatted lightly as Ellie’s mother brewed the tea, while Ellie and Charlotte quietly compared notes on the upcoming wedding.

  In the feminine surroundings, Ellie was most comfortable. She was unpretentious, but spoke to the countess only when directly addressed. Still, such decorum ought not seem unusual to the countess. Ellie looked young and was frequently assumed to still be in the schoolroom—and her parents had agreed that this common supposition could be perpetuated to avoid otherwise awkward questions.

  Ellie felt no compelling reason to object to their decree. Indeed, it was easier to be excused and retire just before the gentlemen joined them anyway.

  * * * *

  Ashberry settled back in his chair, gazing moodily at the brandy balloon in his hand as he considered Charlotte’s obvious contentment when she was with Edward Whitney.

  Charlotte had made a love match with the young Whitney, and though Caroline had not said so specifically, Ashberry liked to think that her twin was just as happy. Caroline had married her earl earlier in the summer—a man significantly older than Caroline but with the aura of invincibility that Caroline claimed made her feel safe.

  Caroline and Charlotte were, in many ways, Ashberry's daughters. The marquess did not remember his mother, who had died in childbed along with her second child, but his memories of his father’s second marchioness were vivid and loving. Elizabeth Shelling—Aunt Lucy’s sister—had passed too, from the dreaded fever after the births of the two youngest Trinity twins seventeen years earlier.

  The late marquess had been devastated by the loss of both his wives and had not recovered. Within a year, he had turned into a reclusive drunk, leaving much of the responsibility for the young Trinity children and the family's estates on the shoulders of his eldest son, only fourteen years old at the time and not prepared to even be out of the schoolroom.

  Ashberry had assumed the title that accompanied those duties ten years ago, when the former marquess had sent a champion stud careening over a fence and into a pond. Its agonizing cries had been heard across the fields, bringing help quickly but for no gain. After finding his father’s neck broken from the accident, a twenty-one year old Ashberry had been forced to shoot the arrogant stallion that had carried his father and was the pride and primary source of breeding profits for Ashberry Stables.

  Tonight, as he often did, Ashberry felt aged beyond his thirty-one years.

  He remained silently in his armchair, absently examining the crackling fire as his thoughts drifted, until the countess, ever serene and smiling, entered the study and kissed Ashberry’s cheek. She took a seat across from him before she spoke. “Ashberry, dear, the Whitneys are quite a nice family. I must say I’m relieved to see they haven’t let their children behave in all the foolish ways I see young people doing here in London.”

  Ashberry nodded. He had already assured himself that Charlotte would be well protected and quite respected under young Whitney’s newly constructed roof. Still, he understood his aunt’s concerns. He, too, found many of the fashionable scenes in London to be tawdry and purposeless. “Lady Whitney is quite a formidable matron. I do think she will have a good influence on Charlotte’s unredeeming ineptitude when it comes to organizing a household,” he observed after a moment.

  He watched his aunt suppress a grimace. Charlotte was socially adept and an expert when it came to inspiring confidences from others, but she had never mastered the knacks of household management. Ashberry continued, relentlessly honest about his sister’s personality. “They are staying here in London for the winter and not retiring to his father’s estates, but I am confident that Edward has the wherewithal to curb Charlotte’s impulsiveness.” In addition to Charlotte's inability to remember the small details necessary to coordinate a large staff, she had a tendency to rush headlong into major projects without first examining how and when they would be finished.

  The marquess’ facial expression might have been carved from stone. His aunt sighed audibly, and Ashberry knew she was trying desperately not to scold him. He was no longer a schoolroom boy but she had nonetheless informed him on several occasions that she detested his recently acquired habit of projecting ennui: an unfortunate inclination she blamed on the last months in London, where he lived constantly surrounded by bloodthirsty politicians and matrons openly critical of his penchant for making money.

  “Actually, I am not concerned about Whitney, his wife, or young Edward. However, I do have some questions about Ella Whitney.” Ashberry took a deep breath, carefully maintaining his impassive features. For months, he had frustrated Lady Westhouse and the senior matrons—at least the ones who valued his fortune above the discredit done by his trade interests—by remaining resolutely uninterested in any miss who dared to fawn over him. But for some perverse reason, he couldn't acknowledge a disinterest in this one young woman who seemed to not even notice him.

  Worse, Ashberry had been thinking of the chit, somewhere in the back of his reluctant mind. During dinner, in fact, Ashberry had spent most of his time imagining how enchanting she would be when more relaxed, instead of stiff and nervous. Her hair was a lovely mahogany that hung in attractive loose ringlet curls from a topknot and dangled temptingly against the back of her neck, her eyes a vivid and changing green that flickered in the candlelight, and what he could see of her skin had been a fine, smooth sheen that reflected the golden light of the chandeliers.

  He had barely been able to keep his attention on the meal and the conversation for thinking of the child.

  In truth, Ashberry could admit to himself that he was lonely and had been for a long time. Though he was anxious to return to his home in Cumbria, Ashberry suspected the silence of the big house there would only serve to exacerbate his moodiness. For the first time since he had been in the nursery, he would be essentially alone in the house. His sisters would be in London or elsewhere in the countryside making new lives for themselves. Even his two young brothers would be staying in the city to finish their education under the watchful eye of Lady Westhouse and his brother Sebastian, who already resided at Aunt Lucy’s fine house in Mayfair Square.

  While still preserving a blank face to his aunt, Ashberry inwardly confessed that a distraction was in order. He knew his duty, as his aunt and brothers perceived it, was
to marry and father an heir.

  Reminding his body that he knew nothing of the chit and that they might not suit even if she was of age did no good.

  Ruthlessly, Ashberry forced himself to remember that Ella Whitney was a young gentlewoman—not at all like the widow or bluestocking closer to his age that he had spent years mentally preparing to make his wife. In all likelihood, the girl would be like most others her age—she would expect to bear him a few children and then occupy a prominent place in society. Both were expectations Ashberry couldn't reasonably provide.

  His body had its own replies that had nothing to do with reason.

  Ashberry had seen her before, at the Whitney house, during the negotiations for Charlotte’s settlement, when he had stepped out of the study for a few moments. That time, her hair had been only partially pinned to her head, while the other half caressed her shoulders and back when she turned and followed her brothers up the stairs of their home. The image of her pink lips pursed in exasperation had hung in his mind for days afterward.

  Reluctantly, he returned his attention to his aunt, wishing as he did that she could have picked any other female in London as a topic for discussion.

  “I did not see any reason for concern, Aunt Lucy. How exactly does Miss Whitney present a problem for Charlotte?”

  “I’m probably reading too much into the situation,” she admitted, “But Miss Whitney is exceedingly pretty and well-mannered, and should have significant financial support from her family.”

  “Yes, I imagine she’ll be all the rage one day. I fail to see the problem,” he said repressively, hoping his aunt would take his hint and change the direction of their discussion.

  Lady Westhouse sighed, visibly ignoring his frown. “She should be all the rage now, Ashberry—or even two years ago. She’s twenty-one years old and hasn’t had a come-out, though from our conversation this evening I do know she attended society functions in Europe. Worse, since they didn’t come to town in time for the Season, the family hasn’t been obliged to proffer an explanation, and I haven’t heard a whisper of it from anyone left in London.” The older woman was blunt. “I can think of only one obvious reason why she isn’t being guided into marriage now that they’ve returned.”