Duke in Search of a Duchess: Sweet Regency Romance Read online

  Duke in Search of a Duchess

  Jennifer Ashley

  JA / AG Publishing

  Contents

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  About the Author

  Chapter 1

  Precision. Nothing wrong with it.

  Ash allowed his walking stick a single swing as he left St. James’s Palace at exactly seven o’clock in the evening and strode up St. James’s Street in the cool September dusk. He bypassed the temples to backroom politics and ruinous games—White’s, Brooke’s, Boodle’s, et cetera—and continued to Piccadilly, crossing the thoroughfare and along to the green space of Berkeley Square.

  He walked not only for the exercise but because he knew precisely how long it would take him to reach his front door. No would-be pickpocket or robber accosted him along the way, because none would dream of waylaying Augustine Ferrand, the Duke of Ashford. Even the underworld of London had heard of Ash, and stayed away.

  At half past seven on the dot, he entered his domain, and his valet, Edwards, took his hat, coat, and stick.

  A meal waited upstairs in the dining room. Ash consumed it in silence, as usual, reading his evening correspondence and his stack of newspapers. The footmen served fish, soup, meat, and greens with flawless efficiency. The butler poured a red wine for the beginning of the meal and a sweet white for its end. Ash would take brandy later, but only after another order of business.

  At twenty-five minutes past eight, Ash pushed back his chair, left his papers and letters for Edwards to carry to the library, and climbed the stairs to the nursery.

  A chink opened in Ash’s armor when he entered—after tapping politely—to find his oldest son, Lewis, Marquess of Wilsdon, ten years old, standing in the middle of the room.

  Ash’s immediate thought, unbidden: He looks so like his mother.

  Olivia, gentle, beautiful, of the silver laughter, gone forever. Lily, the youngest, had her laugh. She’d be the mirror of Olivia in a few years.

  Ash forced the chink closed. Memories only gutted.

  To hide his sudden falter, he pulled out his gold pocket watch. It read the same as the mantel clock, which had chimed twice as he’d entered. “Half past eight. Why are you all not in bed?”

  Ash was surprised, not angry. Lewis had adopted Ash’s meticulous schedule without protest and made certain his sisters followed it as well.

  The sisters in question, Evie and Lily, peeked out from behind Lewis’s nightshirted back. “Good evening, Papa,” Lily said.

  The fog that perpetually surrounded Ash’s life cleared the slightest bit at the sight of his lovely daughters.

  At half past eight every evening, Ash entered the nursery, kissed his children good night, and sat between their beds to read a chapter from whatever book they were perusing together. Currently it was The Life and Adventures of Robinson Crusoe, though Ash tended to leave out the more frightening bits. He did not want delicate Evie to have nightmares.

  The nanny, chosen for her neat habits and her willingness—indeed, eagerness—to follow Ash’s rules for his offspring, stood rigidly near the bookcase, hands folded. She did not look approving, but she did not intervene, which was interesting. Lewis’s will had obviously prevailed.

  “What is this?” Ash asked in more concern. “Are you well?”

  “Your Grace,” Lewis said formally. “My sisters and I convened a council.” He stumbled a little over the word convened, but Ash kept his face straight.

  “And what did this council discuss?”

  Ash expected Lewis, who was growing at an astonishing rate, to ask for his own bedchamber, or for the more adventurous parts of the stories to be left in, or perhaps beefsteak instead of nursery fare. Natural, Ash supposed. He gave Lewis an encouraging look, ready to consider his son’s demands.

  Lewis cleared his throat. “It has come to our attention that you, sir, perhaps are … well, perhaps …” He flushed and flicked his gaze away.

  “A straightforward statement is best, son,” Ash said. “When you stand up in the House to face down your opposition, you must be clear, concise, and unafraid.”

  Lewis’s face grew redder. Ash conceded that facing a horde of pigheaded peers shouting in the House of Lords might be easier than telling one’s own father what was on one’s mind.

  “Your timetables,” Lewis said quickly. Lily and Evie remained behind him, their eyes round.

  “Timetables?” Ash’s mouth tightened, and another dart of pain lanced his heart. Why did they look so afraid of him? He’d thought he and his children rubbed along tolerably well, a damn sight better than Ash had done with his own father.

  “Yes, sir.” Lewis looked miserable. “You like them too much, we have decided.”

  Ash blinked. “It is not a case of liking or disliking, son. One must be punctual and reliable. That is how one gains trust and respect. Honor.”

  “Yes, sir.” Lewis swallowed, but his jaw firmed with determination. “But, we have concluded that …”

  “Mama never followed them,” Lily burst out. “Least, that’s what Evie and Lewis say.”

  Lily didn’t remember her mother, Olivia having succumbed to fever the year Lily was born. Ash, ill with the same fever, had raged that he’d not been able to save her, but he’d forced himself to recover, to not succumb to despair, for the sake of the three facing him now.

  Olivia had been gentle-voiced but laughing and spontaneous. She’d never been capable of keeping to the clock, and Ash had never minded.

  But arbitrariness was no way to overcome grief, to raise children, to get on with life without falling to pieces.

  “Lily,” Evie hissed. “That’s not what you’re supposed to say.”

  Lily stepped out from behind Lewis, but she remained close to her brother. “Lewis ain’t telling it right. He says you are too—what is that word?” She turned back to her siblings, her braid of dark hair sliding on her shoulder.

  “Rigid,” Evie supplied, while Lewis tried and failed to glare them both to silence. “Unyielding.”

  Ash switched his gaze to Lewis. “I see.”

  Was he unyielding? Ash had no idea. The haze he lived in didn’t let him notice much but what was directly in front of him.

  “Sorry, sir,” Lewis said.

  “No.” Ash straightened to his full height. “Do not apologize. Gentlemen ought to be able to point out each other’s faults in order to improve them. In what way am I too rigid, your lordship?”

  Lewis hesitated, then went on as though steeling himself to finish, come what may. “You look at your watch too often. As though worried you will miss your next appointment.”

  “Because I have many appointments,” Ash answered, trying to sound reasonable. “A duke and a cabinet minister has much to do. You will learn this when you begin your public life.”

  “But when you are at home? With us?”

  The chink in the armor widened once more. Adherence to schedule was how Ash had climbed back from illness and sorrow and made his life meaningful again. It was how he’d taken care of his children.

  He forced his tone to remain gentle. “There is nothing wrong with following a timetable, Lewis. Eating and sleeping regularly is the way to good health.”

  “If you say so, sir.”

  Lily slipped her hand into Lewis’s. As though finding courage in her brother’s touch, she lifted her chin.

  “Lewis says you won’t unbend until you get married,” she said. “If we have a new mama, you won’t worry so mu
ch about not staying with us one second longer than you must.”

  The words came out rapidly and defiantly as Evie and Lewis gazed at Lily in horror.

  Ash stared at them, stunned. Did they believe he was more interested in his schedule than his own children? Had he made them believe so?

  And they thought the way to relax him was to find him a wife? Amusement seeped through Ash’s shock and mortification, and he let it take over. He would assess their claims and see that he did better in future, perhaps changing his schedule to see them earlier in the evening and for a bit longer.

  “Very admirable for you to worry about me,” he said. “But entirely unnecessary. My life admittedly runs like clockwork, but this makes me happy. Now, to bed, the three of you. Mr. Crusoe awaits.”

  He thought that would be the end of it. Nanny had patiently let the children speak, and now Ash expected her to take over and continue the routine.

  Instead, Lewis stepped forward. “We have taken the liberty of drawing up qualities we believe will make the best wife for you. Sir.”

  Lewis held out a folded sheet of foolscap, sealed with wax, and addressed in his son’s large and painfully neat hand to His Grace of Ashford, Berkeley Square, Mayfair.

  Ash stared down at the paper, trying to keep his anger at bay. The anger was not directed toward Lewis, but at himself. What had Ash done to make his children believe he needed saving? By marriage?

  He would have to nip this idea in the bud. Ash took the letter politely and slid it into his pocket.

  “Very well. Now, enough. To bed.” He sent a stern look to Nanny, who came to life.

  “Your father is correct, your lordship, Lady Evie, Lady Lily. In your beds now. Make haste.”

  Lewis and Evie complied, but Lily hesitated, her blue-gray eyes troubled. “You’ll read it, won’t you, Papa? It took us ever so long to write.”

  “I give you my word,” Ash said to her solemnly. He’d look at what they’d written—Ash never lied to his children.

  To his relief, they at last went obediently to their cots. As Nanny tucked them in, Ash read another chapter in the continuing adventures of the castaway, and then left them.

  It was a little after nine of the clock—the ritual had taken ten minutes longer than usual—when Ash shut himself into the library, ready to go over his notes on treaties and other business of the ministry until one in the morning. After that, he would retire. He would rise again at half past seven, wash and be shaved, dress, eat his breakfast, and walk back to St. James’s.

  He removed the children’s letter from his pocket and set it on his desk near his other correspondence. He would read it, as he promised, but not now. There was much work to do.

  When the clock struck eleven, Edwards opened the door. “The Honorable Mr. Lovell, Your Grace.”

  Guy Lovell, second son to the Marquess of Keeling, breezed in with his usual verve. Distant cousin to Ash’s late wife, the two men had become close friends during the Peninsular War and had remained close through Ash’s marriage and Olivia’s death.

  “Not here to disturb you—just after a restorative.” Guy helped himself to brandy from a side table as Edwards retreated.

  Guy was Ash’s opposite in many ways—profligate where Ash was frugal, spending his evenings in clubs gambling for high stakes and downing bottles of port while Ash sipped strong coffee and pored over papers regarding the future of Great Britain. At one time, Ash had been as fun-loving as Guy, until responsibility had swept away the man-about-town he’d been.

  Guy settled himself into a chair and swung his feet over its arm as he imbibed the brandy. He let out a quiet “Ah,” of satisfaction, but said nothing more. Guy had learned not to speak while Ash was working, and Ash didn’t mind Guy’s silent company.

  Sometimes not so silent. “What’s this?” Guy asked abruptly. “Precious missive from the king?”

  Ash glanced up as Guy came off his chair and swept a paper from the ground, pushed aside by Ash’s work. The seal had broken, and Ash saw with alarm that Guy held the letter his son had given him.

  Ash rose as nonchalantly as he could and reached for it. “The children. Bit of nonsense.”

  Guy spun away from him, an interested gaze on the words. “Item one: She must be tall so she does not have to stand on her tiptoes to kiss you. What the devil, Ash?”

  “I told you, a bit of nonsense.” Ash stopped himself trying to snatch away the paper. He pretended indifference. “Lewis has decided I need a wife.”

  “Has he indeed?” Guy’s dark eyes glittered. “Wise lad. Item two: She must not be too thin or too wide. Hmm, very specific. Item three: She must like children, even when they are loud and less than punctual.”

  Ash folded his arms, something punching him in the gut.

  “Item four: She must know how to sew so she can mend tears in your shirts and spare Edwards, who is tired of you throwing them at him.” Guy broke off in admiration. “That boy is destined for greatness.”

  Ash was torn between pride and annoyance. “Leave it, my friend.”

  Guy ignored him. “Item five: She must not adhere to timetables, and must teach you to leave off them. Ah, now we come to the crux of the matter.”

  Ash cleared his throat. “It is possible I’ve grown too fond of my routine.”

  Guy burst out laughing. “Too fond of your routine? Give me strength. All in London set their watches by it. Those who don’t know you believe you mad, or at least eccentric. I defend you every night to ignorant fools.” Not noticing Ash’s firming mouth, Guy returned to the paper.

  “Because we know, dear Papa, how little time you have to pursue the matter, we will ask a person to assist you.”

  “What? Who on earth would they ask?” Ash tried to hide his unease. “You? A recipe for disaster. I’ve met your volatile mistresses, and you’ve never been inclined to matrimony.”

  “No, they have someone entirely different in mind. Lewis says, We have written to Mrs. Courtland and asked her to help find a suitable woman to marry you, which will be handy as she lives next door.” Guy looked up, smile wide. “Oh dear.”

  Anything amusing about the situation rapidly dropped away. Ash, blood cold, advanced on Guy and ripped the paper from him. He turned it around to see the words in plain black ink, scrawled in Lewis’s young penmanship.

  Helena Courtland. The widow next door, an unmistakable busybody. Talkative, gossipy, and absolutely the last person in the world who should be involved in Ash’s private life.

  Mrs. Courtland was a fairly young woman, not yet thirty, having buried a husband nine years ago. She had no children of her own and had taken to Ash’s offspring rather too well. They enjoyed regaling Ash with her many and bizarre opinions on everything from the latest in clothing to the governing of the British Empire.

  “Dear God, not Mrs. Courtland.” The paper crumpled under Ash’s big hand. “I forbid it,” he said hotly, with a sinking sense of futility. “I absolutely forbid it.”

  His words were drowned by Guy’s loud and prolonged laughter.

  Helena finished reading the letter the footman had delivered to her breakfast table and rang the bell for Evans. When her lady’s maid appeared, Helena said, “Fetch my wrap, Evans. Quickly. I will just catch him.”

  The clocks were striking half past eight when Helena tripped from her house, her shawl wrapped around her against the crisp morning air.

  “Good morning, Your Grace,” she sang as she stepped in front of the Duke of Ashford.

  He was tall, but Helena was tall for a woman, so she did not have to tilt her head back much to study him. Dark hair curled from under his hat, and gray eyes as frosty as a late autumn morning met her gaze. He had shaved—she smelled the soap—but his cheeks and chin were shadowed, his hair so dark his valet could never completely scrape the color away.

  Ashford halted, always polite, even if his eyes were forbidding. “Mrs. Courtland.” He gave her a well-mannered bow and then made to move around her.

  Of co
urse. His precious schedule. He’d want to be in his offices at the ministry at nine precisely.

  Helena again stepped in front of him, determined not to let him flee. Lewis’s letter had touched her heart. She’d do anything to wipe the bleakness from the little faces of Ash’s children, poor mites. The duke had shut himself off when Olivia had died, and finding a wife for him was just the thing to open him up again.

  “I shall call ’round this evening,” she said. “I wager you know what about. There aren’t many young ladies in Town at the moment, but we will come up with a strategy. If I can’t have you married off by Christmas, I am certain I can when the Season begins.”

  Ashford’s focus sharpened as Helena spoke, and now he leaned to her, making her heart beat faster. Goodness, but he was a large man—in a strong way. Nothing of the corpulent about him.

  “Mrs. Courtland,” he said in clipped tones. “You will not speak to me or to my children on this matter again. You will forget all about it. Do you understand me?”

  Helena met his gaze. Difficult, because there was such rage in his eyes. Behind the rage she saw frustration, unhappiness, and pain.

  “I understand you quite well,” she said. “Good morning, Your Grace.”

  Ashford stared at her a moment longer, then he straightened, tipped his hat, and marched away.

  Helena watched as he strode along the square and down Berkeley Street toward Piccadilly, and she shook her head.

  “I certainly will not forget all about it,” she said to his distant back. “We will get you married by hook or by crook, Your Arrogant Grace. I shall dance at your wedding and laugh very hard.”

  Helena kept her gaze on Ashford’s tall body and steady gait until he disappeared from sight. Determination and anticipation tingled through her, making her more animated than she’d been in years.

  Now—where to begin?

  Chapter 2