Duke in Search of a Duchess: Sweet Regency Romance

by Jennifer Ashley

  It wasn’t done for a lady to call upon a gentleman unless he was a relation or they had business to discuss.

  Helena did not let this stop her as she settled her three-plumed turban on her head and took up the shawl she used for late calls. Nothing so formal as what she wore to the theatre or balls during the Season, but nothing so casual as to be insulting. Helena, constantly sought after for her sage advice or to chaperone ingenues, knew exactly what to wear when, though she’d agonized a bit over how to dress to confront the Duke of Ashford.

  She waited until ten minutes past nine—she knew His Grace read to his children until nine o’clock—and rang the bell at the house next door.

  The duke’s abode was the mirror image of Helena’s—her fan-lighted front door lay to the right of her main rooms; his lay to the left.

  The ground floor was for the public—drawing rooms that could be opened into one grand room for dancing. Not that Ashford had hosted anything like a ball or at-home in years. The ground floor was dark and silent, like Helena’s.

  The footman who answered the door was disinclined to let her in. “I’m sorry, madam,” he said, his young face unhappy under his old-fashioned white wig. “His Grace is not receiving visitors.”

  “Nonsense, Henry. I am expected—His Grace must have told you. Besides, you do not want me informing your mother about what I saw you and Alice doing on my back stairs a few days ago, would you?”

  The kiss had been innocent, and a bit touching, but Helena kept her voice firm. His mother would be most displeased, and Henry knew it. Looking even more unhappy, he yielded.

  “His Grace is upstairs, madam. Not to be disturbed.”

  “I know. You’re a good lad, Henry.”

  Helena patted his cheek and hurried up the stairs. One hurdle past. The formidable Edwards, Ashford’s valet, looming on the landing above her, would be a more difficult obstacle.

  To her surprise, Edwards, gray-haired and imposing, stood aside and stared into space as Helena climbed the stairs, pretending not to notice her slide past him. Well, well.

  His Grace’s study was on the second floor, above his private dining room. The duke’s bedchamber was the next floor up, she knew. He slept well above the street and exactly beneath the nursery.

  Helena tapped on the door of the study and admitted herself when she heard Ash’s distracted, “Come.”

  Helena entered a chamber lined with bookcases, books piled across the tops of those already filling the shelves. She’d always known the duke was a reader, though when he found the time, she could not imagine. He did read to his children, they had told her. Interesting books too—an admirable trait in an otherwise inflexible man.

  Ashford did not look up from the papers he read at his desk, so Helena said brightly, “Good evening, Your Grace.”

  Ashford jerked his head up then came to his feet with comical rapidness, his hard face turning as red as Henry’s. “What the devil? Madam, these are my private rooms and you have no appointment.”

  He was struggling to remain civil and barely winning the fight. My, my—would he stoop to bodily pushing her out of his house?

  And could Helena stop him? Not really. He’d be considered wholly justified in ejecting an intruder, and there were those who found Helena a bit forward for a woman.

  She should fear him—she’d observed his strength—but she did not. Strange. Helena might be foolish in her courage, but so be it.

  “I believe I told you I would call this evening,” she said. “We must discuss your children’s request. Not a bad thing, Your Grace, for you to find a wife. I grew up with only a father for many years, and it was a relief when he wedded again. Indeed, my stepmother and I have become great friends.”

  “I know.” Ashford’s lips thinned. “The pair of you natter at the theatre. I hear you—your box is next to mine.”

  “I only natter, as you call it, when the play is deplorable. When we have fine actors and excellent singing, we listen most attentively. Now.” Helena removed a paper from her reticule and bravely approached the desk. “I would not presume to push you into encounters with these ladies without your approval, so I have made a list for you to look over beforehand.”

  “Mrs. Courtland.”

  Helena looked up to find His Grace standing tall and stiff beside her. “Yes?”

  “You will take your list and your good self and remove both from my house. My son had no business approaching you, and you will forget all about this foolishness. I will explain to him why he is wrong.”

  Helena pictured young Lewis as his father sternly instructed him to stay out of his affairs. The lad would be humiliated, embarrassed, hurt. Her resolve increased.

  “Perhaps you could listen for a fraction of a moment, Your Grace. Your son only wishes to see you happy. You cannot tell me that walking to and from Pall Mall every day with never a deviation—for years—can make a person happy. A walking corpse, you are, never looking from side to side. A winter snowstorm, a spring shower, a fine summer day are all the same to you. You never leave London—it isn’t healthy for children to stay here in the heat. You should be at your country house in the summer, where they can ride and run and play.”

  Helena ran out of breath, knowing she’d gone too far, but she squared her shoulders. She’d only spoken the truth.

  “Mayfair is a perfectly fine place,” Ashford countered. “In all seasons. But I do not need to justify my choices—it is my business, madam, and none of yours.”

  “If only you were involved, I’d gladly leave you to walk yourself to death. You must have worn a groove in the pavement between here and St. James’s by now. But you force your children to live as you do, and they are miserable.”

  “And they are my children.” Ashford took another step closer, his body tight. “They will not remain here forever—Lewis will be off to school and the girls will have a governess and be trained at my estate in Somerset before they enter their Seasons. All has been provided for, you needn’t worry.”

  “So you will pack them off like unwanted parcels?”

  Ashford’s usually cool voice rose. “Which do you want, madam? For them to stay here and be miserable in London, or off to the country? You are objecting to both.”

  Helena waited impatiently until he finished. “Of course I am objecting to both. The children have no say in the matter, do they? Cooped up in London or shunted away, when all they want is to be with their father. If they had a mother, they wouldn’t have to be alone—or perhaps you are too stubborn to understand that.”

  “Any woman I married wouldn’t be their mother. No one else can ever be.”

  His voice cracked the tiniest bit, and Helena softened a fraction.

  “Well, of course not. But she can be their friend, someone they can turn to. Like my stepmother and me. Not exactly like us, you understand, because my father married a lady but two years my senior, and Lily is only seven.” She touched her list. “Now then, Hannah Werner, the Honorable Miss. Her father is Viscount Cosgrove as you know. A bit of a stickler, but he could have no objection to his daughter marrying you. I hear she is very shy, but you already have an heir, so you wouldn’t need to bother with siring more. She could be more a companion than for strengthening the bloodline.”

  Ashford went a peculiar shade of red. “For God’s sake—”

  “Lady Megan Winter’s family is even more blue-blooded than yours, I believe. The Earls of Rutledge have been around since the Conquest, and they let no one forget it. Megan is sweet, however, and she’s fond of children.”

  “You are not going to leave off, are you?” Ashford’s gray eyes were stormy. His morning shave had long worn off, his dark whiskers catching the lamplight.

  “I was commissioned by his young lordship, and no, I am not. Next is Miss Lucy Howard. She is much younger than the others, but she’s got a good head on her shoulders, nothing of the flighty miss about her. A lady will need backbone to stand up to you.”

  “Why would she have to
stand up to me?” Ashford demanded. “A wife knows her duty to her husband and her place in the household—there is no reason to have an argument about it.”

  Helena dropped the paper to the desk. “Oh dear. You haven’t had much experience of women, have you?”

  “I was married, madam,” Ashford said, thin-lipped. “For seven years. My house was peaceful.”

  “Yes …” Helena cocked her head. She had been acquainted with Olivia, Duchess of Ashford, who’d been rather in awe of her formidable husband. Losing Olivia had been painful for him, so Helena decided to keep her opinions of the lady’s timidity to herself. “Mmm.”

  “And will be peaceful again once you are gone,” Ashford concluded. “Good night, Mrs. Courtland.”

  Helena didn’t move. “Deadly silent is not the same thing as peaceful. You do know that your children worry about raising their voices when you are home? Apparently, you growl when your routine is disturbed.”

  “Absolute nonsense.”

  “You see? You are growling even now.” Helena touched a finger to her chin. “I knew it would be a challenging task when Lewis asked me, but I did not realize you would be quite so difficult. I see I will have to ease you into the subject.”

  “No, indeed, the subject is closed.” Ashford straightened to his full height, his entire attention on her. Rather unnerving, that. “Return home, Mrs. Courtland. I will explain to Lewis that this idea is more than ridiculous.”

  “More than ridiculous? Good heavens. That is quite a lot of ridiculousness, if you think it through. They are only worried for you, Your Grace, as you sit here alone night after night. I think of you, you know, on the other side of the wall from me, absorbed in your papers while life in all its colors flows past you, unnoticed.”

  Anger flashed in Ash’s gray eyes. “What I do in my study is life, madam. I help run the nation.”

  “The nation is full of people, laughing, talking, going to plays, helping each other, but of course you take no notice unless they are figures on a piece of paper.”

  “You have no idea what you are talking about. This conversation is—”

  “More than ridiculous?” Helena sent him a determined smile. “You will have to come up with another adjective. Let us think of some. Ludicrous, preposterous, absurd, farcical …”

  “All of those,” Ashford said in a near shout. “I am finished with it. Good night, Mrs. Courtland.”

  He loomed over her, eyes blazing, like a ghost in her favorite shivery novel. Ashford, however, was very much alive, with his tall frame, flushed face, and dark hair mussed by fingers absently pushing through it as he worked.

  Goodness, it was warm in here.

  Ashford could have rung for his manservant or a footman to eject her, but he did not. He only glared at her, leaving it up to Helena to depart instead of embarrassing her by tossing her out. He did have some manners.

  Or perhaps he was simply too angry to think. Helena heaved a sigh.

  “Very well. It is growing late. I will leave you to contemplate what I’ve said. Study the list tonight, and we can discuss it later.”

  Ashford growled. An actual growl, an animal-like sound in his throat. He snatched the list from the desk, stalked to the fireplace, and thrust it into the flames.

  He turned around and resumed his glare at Helena, like a lion both irritated and smug that he’d bested her.

  Helena sent him a pitying look. “I did, of course, make a copy for myself. I will bring another tomorrow, and I suggest you read it. When you meet the ladies in question, it will be better for you to have consulted my notes.”

  The lion finally roared. “I will not meet them, I will not consult your be-damned notes, and never again will we speak of this. Now, leave my house. At once!”

  Botheration. A direct order left no room for argument. And it was, in fact, Ashford’s house, and he could have her turned out without any harm to himself. Helena would have to withdraw to fight another day.

  “I have no wish to outstay my welcome, of course,” she said with a conceding nod. “Good night, Your Grace. Do consider the young ladies I have mentioned. Discuss them with your children if you like. After all, we are doing this for them.”

  Ashford started for her. Two steps along, he stopped, fists balled, as though it took all his effort not to cross the room and shake her.

  Gracious, the duke everyone called a cold-hearted automaton obviously had plenty of emotion. He radiated it.

  “Sleep well, Your Grace,” Helena said cheerfully. “We will speak on the morrow.”

  She gave him a quick curtsy—she could show she was polite—and scuttled from the room.

  Edwards and Henry lingered on the landing, both starting guiltily when she dashed out. Well, this had probably been the most interesting thing to happen in the house in a long while, and she couldn’t blame them for listening.

  Helena bade them a pleasant good night and descended the stairs, Henry darting ahead of her to open the front door.

  She adjusted her gloves and feathered headdress before she stepped outside. The night was brisk, very pleasant after the warmth of summer. It was still early—perhaps she’d go to the theatre or call upon friends. Many of them spent the autumn on their country estates, but London was never truly deserted.

  Helena returned home and dressed to go out, adding jewels to glitter on her throat and ears. She felt animated and alive. She realized, as her carriage took her toward Covent Garden, that for all Ashford’s bluster and snarling, she’d very much enjoyed arguing with him.

  Enjoyed it very much indeed.

  Bloody woman. Blast her and all womankind.

  Ash rose in the morning, groggy after too little sleep. Helena Courtland had made him lose his temper, shout, and do all manner of uncouth things. His pleasant, clockwork-like existence had been put asunder, as though someone had taken an intricate timepiece and smashed it with a sledgehammer.

  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?”