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.
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?”
Ashford charged out of his study, stopped short when he saw Helena come off the landing, turned around, and went back in. Helena followed him.
Boxes lay about, books stacked neatly in or beside them. Ashford was taking much of his library with him.
Instead of snapping at her to go, Ashford’s shoulders tightened, and he faced her with a resigned look.
“You are getting your wish, madam. I am hieing to the country, whether I like it or not.”
“Oh, dear. What has happened?”
She did not expect Ashford to answer, except perhaps to shout that it was none of her affair.
“It seems that every committee in every office in which I have a presence has decided my opinions matter very little these days,” he said stiffly. “Lord Merrivale, my most trusted confidant, the man who practically raised me and helped me carve out a career, had to tell me no one wanted me about.” Hurt lurked in Ashford’s eyes, though his face remained a mask of irritation. He gazed at her in sudden suspicion. “You didn’t have a word with him, did you?”
