Helena blinked. “You believe I went around to St. James’s Palace, or wherever you take yourself of a day, and told them to toss you to the pavement? They’d hardly listen to the likes of me. It is more likely Lord Merrivale and your colleagues saw that time away would benefit you.”
Ashford gave her a narrow stare, then he shook his head, his expression clearing. “I beg your pardon. I am being fanciful. Towering rage makes me unreasonable.”
“Regard this as a blessing, Your Grace. You’ll have plenty of time to attend to your children, and to seek a wife. That rather large house has room for a ball, a house party—a host of gatherings. A house party would be best, I think, so you can invite the families of all the young ladies to stay. You could observe them at your leisure, and then you—”
“Mrs. Courtland!” His shout cut through her words.
“Yes?”
Ashford’s face was red again, his hair awry in that fetching manner. “The country will have one distinct advantage.
“No, that is true. Hmm.”
Helena’s late husband’s estate, now governed by his rather foolish nephew, was in Lincolnshire, while the Dukes of Ashford ruled from a vast tract of land in Somerset.
However, a girlhood friend of Helena’s now lived in the village next to the Ashford estate, and was always begging Helena to come for a long visit. Millicent was happily married with four bouncing children, a state Helena envied. She would write to Millicent forthwith.
“You will need a hostess,” she said. “Yes, your aunt Florence is just the lady. She’ll enjoy it.”
Helena turned away, eager to begin her correspondence. She had much to do.
Before she reached the door, a heavy hand landed on the doorframe, barring her way out. She turned to face the dark countenance and furious glare of the Duke of Ashford.
She smelled his shaving soap—he must have told his valet to scrape him clean once he returned to Berkeley Square, but the shadow on his chin remained. Helena had the most pressing urge to run her fingers along his jaw to discover what the whiskers felt like.
Ashford’s gray eyes flickered with raw emotion, and he did not move his hand from the doorframe. If any other gentleman had loomed over her so, Helena might be frightened or angry, but Ashford’s nearness had her heart hammering.
His breath warmed her as he leaned closer. She expected Ashford to rail at her, but he remained strangely silent.
His gaze moved from her eyes to her mouth, and Helena’s lips tingled. What would it be like to kiss him? Ashford was a strong man, and a handsome one—she had always noticed this.
Would he kiss with precision, as he did everything else? Or would he at last abandon himself to passion, and kiss with ferocity?
Helena suddenly wanted to know.
With him leaning to her, and her own height, she did not have to rise far to reach his lips. Helena closed her eyes and brushed a kiss to his parted mouth.
Ashford jumped in shock. Helena expected him to jerk away, to snarl at her to remember herself, perhaps to shove her from him in horror.
He froze the barest moment before dragging her to him and kissing her back with a fierceness that stole her breath.
He was shaking but wrapped his arms around her, enclosing her with strength. Helena leaned into his hard chest while his lips parted her mouth, his tongue tangled hers, his thigh pressed her hip.
The kiss tore open places Helena hadn’t known were shut, whisked away the barrier around her heart, and sent her blood flowing to all regions of her body.
The stiff, coolheaded Ashford had coalesced into a virile man, and Helena, most definitely a woman, responded. She’d longed for this, she realized, every day for the past few years, when he’d nodded at her in passing or patiently listened to her go on about his children.
He was fire in her arms, his kiss igniting. Helena dared reach up and touch his face, which she found pleasantly coarse with whiskers.
Ashford deepened the kiss, a soft sound in his throat, but there was nothing soft about the way he held her. He pulled her closer, Helena’s breasts crushed to his waistcoat, behind which she could feel the rapid beating of his heart. No clockwork automaton existed beneath his skin—he was flesh and blood, heating her body.
A step in the corridor made them both give a violent start. It was Edwards, coming to assist his master with his packing.
Ashford jerked from her, and the kiss shattered. Helena backed a step and nearly fell, her legs weak as she pressed fingers to her hot and shaking lips.
Edwards had discreetly withdrawn, but Ashford’s eyes were wide, his expression haunted.
Helena gazed at him a long moment, unable to move. She knew she ought to flee, to save them both from embarrassment—or perhaps to keep herself from kissing him again, she didn’t know. But her feet remained fixed in place.
