“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 her 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?”
