Duke in Search of a Duchess: Sweet Regency Romance

by Jennifer Ashley

  As soon as Ash swung Helena into line in the old-fashioned country dance, he knew he’d made a mistake.

  She was flushed and eager, not chagrined that her ruse of inviting the young women on her list would not work. Her left toe tapped as the music began to play, and she smiled as she curtsied with the row of ladies.

  The dance was one of slow but steady movement, of ladies and gentlemen meeting and parting, turning, promenading, circling back to place, greeting a second partner, and always returning to join hands with the first.

  Helena danced on light feet, never missing a step, her smile welcoming for ladies and gentlemen alike.

  She loved to dance, Ash realized. He’d not seen her do much of it at the gatherings Aunt Florence talked him into attending. Helena usually remained at the side of the ballroom with a clump of matrons and widows, chattering away. A flower among faded weeds, he’d thought.

  As young as she was, she was expected, as a widow, to sit against the wall while the girls she helped chaperone took her place. Helena had been married scarcely two years before her young and rather feckless husband had wrecked his phaeton on the Brighton road and quickly expired.

  She’d changed overnight from flitting butterfly to a shadow in widow’s garb, resolutely turning away the attentions of gentlemen who’d tried to swoop in and pluck her up, fortune and all. Helena’s husband had provided well for her, leaving her a large pile of cash in a trust that his nephew couldn’t touch, and the use of the Berkeley Square house for her lifetime.

  In those first years of her widowhood, Ash had helped keep the ambitious swains from her doorstep, and Olivia had guarded her like a dragon.

  When Olivia had died, Helena had been there at once, returning the courtesy by looking after Lewis, Evie, and Lily while Ash had gone to hell and back.

  She’d always been there, Ash realized, a rock in the torrent that had threatened to sweep him away. She’d been “Aunt Helena” for his children to cling to in their grief and bewilderment, while Ash gradually returned to life.

  Not that Helena had performed these angelic deeds in silence. She’d chatted to him whenever she’d intercepted him, about anything and nothing—the weather, stories in the newspaper, his children and what they’d said to her, speculations about life in other countries and was it similar to life in England? Helena could never not talk.

  Even now, as they danced, she kept up a stream of conversation.

  “I vow, there is Sarah Wilkes. So brave of her to come after that horrible man jilted her. I must speak to her—I know a young man who admires her so. He’s not much to look at, but honorable and kind. She will need someone like that now, do you not think, Ashford?”

  Ash laced his arm firmly through Helena’s to promenade her to the bottom of the line. “Can you not cease your matchmaking impulses for one dance?”

  “Do you know, I do not think I can. The instinct comes unbidden. I long to pair up people and see them happy. Don’t you?”

  “I mind my own business,” Ash said, but absently. Helena’s soft bosom against his arm was distracting.

  “How dull for you. People are interesting, are they not? Infinite variety—everyone has a story. In this room are so many tales, so many little dramas. I want to learn them all and set the players on the path to contentedness. I know I never can, but I enjoy speculating.”

  “You are …” Ash trailed off, fumbling for words, he who could eloquently out-argue the most smooth-tongued of his fellow peers. “A unique woman, Mrs. Courtland.”

  She turned startled brown eyes to him. “I will take that as a compliment, Your Grace.”

  Ash wasn’t certain what he’d meant, except the truth. In all the players and stories she talked about filling this ballroom, Ash wagered none were as interesting as Helena herself.

  The thought startled him so much he stopped in the middle of the dance, missing his steps.

  Helena banged into him, a crush of soft woman. She shot him a surprised look then laughed and pulled him along. “Move with the music. There we are. No one noticed, I think.”

  Ash found his balance again, shaken, aware of Helena studying him. “You look unwell,” she said as they came together. She said something else, but it was lost in the music as she parted from him.

  She continued to chatter, but to Ash, the sound was a blur in the background. The dance mercifully came to an end, and Ash led Helena from the floor.

  He planned to settle her in a chair and bring her refreshment, as a gentleman should, but Helena was invited immediately to dance once more. With her high color and the silver-blue gown floating like gossamer, it was no wonder gentlemen were lining up for her. Ash ought to be relieved, but he watched her go with reluctance and irritation.

  He made himself escape the ballroom but headed for the terrace this time instead of seeking the card room. He needed air.

  Ash walked out to frigid chill. Nights were growing colder, days shorter.

  Scarcely feeling the weather, he rested his gloved hands on the stone balustrade and gazed at the garden, which twinkled with paper lanterns. No one walked there—the guests were sensibly in the warm house.

  “Deep thoughts, Ash?” Guy Lovell emerged from the shadows, the lit end of his cheroot an orange smudge.

  “Appalling ones.” Ash drew a breath to tell him of his astounding thoughts about Helena and the kiss they’d shared, then let it out again. There were things a man didn’t reveal, even to his closest friend. “Mrs. Courtland has brought eligible women for me to look over.”

  “I saw that.” Guy chuckled. “Too many ladies fishing for husbands tonight. Hence, my retreat. Devoted bachelor, me.”

  Ash folded his arms, tucking his balled hands under them. “She’s recruited my aunt and has moved in with my nearest neighbor. I can’t shake the woman and her schemes.”

  “Give in,” Guy said with a shrug. “Marry one of them. Then Mrs. Courtland will go tamely home.”

  “Somehow, I think she won’t,” Ash said. “Even if I’d do such a damn fool thing as you suggest. The children love her, for one thing.” He let out an exasperated breath. “Damnation, why does that woman get under my skin?”

  “Like a burr one can’t shake?”

  “I suppose.” Ash scowled at the garden, silent fountains marble-pale in the darkness. “If Mrs. Courtland is so keen on marriage, why hasn’t she married again herself?”

  “Why should she?” Guy asked in a reasonable tone. “Her husband turned out to be a complete idiot, but his wise man of business made certain she was set for life.” He took a pull of the cheroot, the smooth smoke wafting over Ashford. “I know—I’ll marry her. I’d put aside my abhorrence of the married state for a pretty woman in my house. We’ll sojourn on the Continent until she forgets about her idea to get you paired off. That should take her out of your hair.”

  “No,” Ash said abruptly.

  “Hmm?” Guy’s brows went up. “I was joking. But why not?”

  “Because …” Ash rearranged his words and cleared his throat. “No need for her to drive you mad in the bargain.”

  Guy took another pull of the cheroot and studied him as smoke trickled from his mouth. “Ah,” he said, then smiled. “I’ll put that idea to rest.”

  “See that you do.”

  Ash didn’t miss Guy’s grin as the man dropped his cheroot into a bowl left on the terrace for the purpose. “I believe I’ll stroll back in,” Guy said. “Time to lose my money at cards. Pity I’m such a bad player.”

  Guy often lost when he first sat down to a game, it was true, but he skillfully won everything back by the end of the night. He enjoyed the challenge.

  Left alone once more with his thoughts, Ash gazed at the dark garden long enough to grow restless. He abandoned thoughts of returning to the ballroom and strode down the steps to the gravel path below.

  Helena, standing just inside a door to the terrace, watched Ash go. He was frustrated, poor man—she and his aunt had sprung the young women on him too abrup
tly. Lady Florence hadn’t warned Ash they were coming, which had probably been for the best. Else he might have disappeared altogether, left the country even.

  Helena pulled her fringed shawl close and stepped out of the house, skimming across the terrace and down to the garden. She hurried in the direction Ash had gone, following the sound of his footsteps on gravel.

  It was frightfully cold. The afternoon’s clouds had rolled away, and clear air filled the spaces to the heavens. Stars hung thick and bright, a half-moon high. There’d be frost in the morning.

  Ash had paused—Helena couldn’t hear his steps any longer. She hurried forward on tiptoe, listening for any movement ... and blundered straight into him.

  Strong hands, warm through his gloves, caught and steadied her. Helena lost hold of the shawl, and both she and Ash dove for it as it slithered to the ground. Her head banged his temple, and he grunted as he snatched the shawl up.

  “Devil take it,” he growled.

  Helena tried to grab the shawl from him, but it floated from her grasp as Ash swirled it around her shoulders. He pulled it closed, his hands meeting over Helena’s bosom.

  “My apologies,” she said faintly. Her voice had lost its usual briskness for some reason. A mark on his forehead showed where she’d smacked into him.

  “Why are you charging about in the dark?” Ash demanded. He did not release the shawl, the fists that held it warm points above her chest.

  “Looking for you. I was afraid you’d be hurt.”

  “In my own garden?”

  “One never knows,” Helena said. “It is very dark—you might have tripped and fallen into a fountain, bashed your head on a tree limb, had your clothes catch fire from a spark from a lantern …”

  He stared down at her as she rattled on, then to her amazement, Ash began to laugh. It was a hoarse sound, as though he hadn’t practiced laughter in a while. “That is—”

  “Beyond ridiculous?” Helena gave him a hopeful smile.

  “You are the most maddening woman I’ve ever had the misfortune to live next door to.”

  “Well, as I’ve lived in Berkeley Square for a number of years, and the inhabitant of that house before my husband took up residence was a lifelong bachelor, and your far neighbor is a widower, there haven’t been many females living near you at all.”

  His laughter continued. It was a nice laugh, rumbling and genuine.

  Ash gently tugged her closer, his hands full of the shawl. He was warmth in the darkness, strength against the sudden weakness in her knees.

  He closed the few inches between them, and kissed her.

  Their kiss in London had been urgent and fevered, unexpected. This one was slow, leisurely, private. Behind them, the laughter and music floated, faraway and small. In the garden, all was silence but for Ash’s breathing and the whisper of a breeze over autumn blossoms.

  Helena rose into the kiss, her chest tight, hands finding Ash’s shoulders. He tasted of brandy, smelled of cheroot smoke and the night.

  Just when she thought he’d push from her, Ash brought her closer, arms around her back. His stiffness fell away, as though Ash the duke had disappeared, and Ash the man took over.

  Helena rather liked Ash the man. He held her securely, his body fluid grace, as it had been while they’d danced. His stumble had been an anomaly.

  Ash’s mouth warmed, caressed. Helena parted her lips, letting him in, and she daringly tasted his tongue.

  The flicker—brief, hot, intense—snapped Ash back to stiffness. He jerked his mouth away from hers but steadied Helena before she lost her footing.

  They stared at each other for a long moment, things between them forever changed. Ash’s chest rose sharply, his exhalation fogging in the chill air.

  “Helena.”

  Her name was a faint whisper—Helena, not Mrs. Courtland.

  Helena longed to respond—Ash. But her voice did not work, and her lips, burning from his kiss, would not move.

  “You’re cold,” he announced.

  Helena was hot all over, never noticing the sharp bite of the strengthening breeze. Ash adjusted her shawl, his movements quick, exact, but his hands were shaking.

  “Thank you,” she managed to croak.

  Ash said nothing. He gazed down at her a long moment, his eyes lost in shadow.

  Then he put firm but polite fingers on her elbow. “You should be indoors, out of the weather.”

  Without further word he led her back to the house. His pace was swift, and Helena scurried next to him, her beaded slippers landing in mud. They’d be a sad ruin, but Helena’s practical voice was a distant echo.

  Ash halted when they reached the terrace. He turned to her, a look of vast anguish on his face.

  “Helena …”

  “Never you mind,” Helena said, trying to sound matter-of-fact. “We won’t speak of it.”

  “That’s not—”

  “Ah, there you are, Ash.” Guy Lovell stepped through a doorway with his usual vivacity. “Thought you lost in the dark. Your aunt is hunting for you.” He caught sight of Helena and bowed. “Mrs. Courtland. Forgive me, I did not see you there.” He looked Helena up and down, eyes glittering with interest.

  Ash scowled, but Helena began chattering before he could speak. “Of course, you must go to your aunt, Ashford. And mind what I said about the lanterns and too many sparks. The garden should resemble a paradise of fairies, not be forbidding, like in a novel from Minerva Press. Tell the footmen.”

  She lifted her head and swept past Guy, giving him a little nod as she went. Helena felt Guy’s knowing gaze on her back, and the more intense one of Ash.

  Somehow, she made it into the warmth of the house but she did not stop until she reached a withdrawing room. There she sank down and stuck out one damp foot, the beads on her slippers coated with mud.

  “I knew it. Ruined.”

  Then for some unaccountable reason, she burst into tears.

  Ash did not see Helena for the remainder of the night. She managed to elude him at every turn, and finally he stopped himself pursuing her. Guy already guessed something had happened between them, and Ash did not need to give his friend more fuel for gossip.

  He moved through the rest of the ball in a haze, avoiding more dancing by securing himself in the card room. In his distracted state, he lost every game but paid over his losses without fuss.

  When the interminable ball was over, and the final guests at last departed, Helena long gone, Ash threw himself into bed, but sleep eluded him. He did not so much relive the kiss as be submersed in it, feeling Helena’s warmth around him, her scent, the press of her body, the taste of her mouth. The sensations gripped him and would not let him go.

  He rose early the next morning and groggily plunged into the business of the estate, taking himself to its far corners, inspecting cottages and farms. At one point Ash stripped off his coat to assist roofers hauling thatch into place.

  His mind remained so full of Helena—the way her mouth softened to his kiss, her fingers pressing his shoulders, her body pliant in his arms—that he forgot the most basic things, like resuming his coat after the thatching, and riding off straight into the rain.

  The result was, the next day, a very unromantic cold in the head that did not let him out of bed. Aunt Florence and Edwards, in great alarm, sent for a physician. The long-faced doctor examined him and proclaimed that the Duke of Ashford was very ill indeed and should make certain his affairs were in order.

  Chapter 5

  “Dying?” Helena stared at Millicent, her heart compressing into a cold knot of fear.

  Millicent, her cap trimmed with so many ribbons they careened when she so much as breathed, nodded. “I had it from my lady’s maid, who had it from Ashford’s aunt’s maid, who says he’s flat in bed and cannot rise. A physician bled him and dosed him, and proclaimed there was nothing more to be done.”

  Helena had been sipping tea with Millicent and fidgeting, unable to settle herself. Now she rose, hand on he
r throat.

  “Nothing more to be done, my foot. I wager one of my concoctions will do the trick. I must go to him at once.”

  Helena called for Evans and hurried to the kitchens and the old-fashioned still room, where herbs were dried and home remedies for everything from an annoying itch to croup were prepared.

  She seized herbs, licorice, honey, and brandy willy-nilly, for a moment unable to remember what went into her mixtures and how much. Fortunately, Evans helped Helena shake together the correct ingredients and pour the results into clean bottles. All went into Helena’s basket, along with fresh baked bread and grapes—perfect foods for lightening the humors.

  Helena bundled up against the cold that had engulfed Somerset and sent for Millicent’s landau to trundle her down the lane and across the park to Ashford’s mansion.

  Ash pried open his eyes, wincing as the darkness of his bed was pierced by sudden daylight.

  A large basket overflowing with grapes and dark bottles had been plunked to his writing table—the sound had awakened him. Now his bed curtains were wide open, as were the drapes at the window. Late autumn sunlight streamed through, the air clear, the sky very blue.

  His head and eyes ached. “What …?”

  “Shutting yourself up in a dark sick room is never good for you,” came Helena’s breezy voice. “Light and air is what you need, along with my remedies. No one in my house remains ill for long.”

  “ … are you doing here?” Ash finished, voice rasping. “There is contagion …”

  “Nonsense, I never take sick. Brisk walks and eating a hearty dinner is all that is required for good health. Now, what does the doctor believe it is? Consumption?”

  Helena, her curves hugged by a light-blue cotton gown, bustled about the room, tying back drapes, poking up the fire. A lace cap covered her dark golden hair, its tapes flying as she moved. She opened the basket and proceeded to stand at least a dozen bottles across the writing table.

  “No one has mentioned consumption,” Ash managed before he coughed, his body spasming.