Embracing Ashberry (2 page)

Tonight, as he often did, Ashberry felt aged beyond
his thirty-one years.

He remained silently in his armchair, absently
examining the crackling fire as his thoughts drifted, until the
countess, ever serene and smiling, entered the study and kissed
Ashberry’s cheek. She took a seat across from him before she spoke.
“Ashberry, dear, the Whitneys are quite a nice family. I must say
I’m relieved to see they haven’t let their children behave in all
the foolish ways I see young people doing here in London.”

Ashberry nodded. He had already assured himself that
Charlotte would be well protected and quite respected under young
Whitney’s newly constructed roof. Still, he understood his aunt’s
concerns. He, too, found many of the fashionable scenes in London
to be tawdry and purposeless. “Lady Whitney is quite a formidable
matron. I do think she will have a good influence on Charlotte’s
unredeeming ineptitude when it comes to organizing a household,” he
observed after a moment.

He watched his aunt suppress a grimace. Charlotte
was socially adept and an expert when it came to inspiring
confidences from others, but she had never mastered the knacks of
household management. Ashberry continued, relentlessly honest about
his sister’s personality. “They are staying here in London for the
winter and not retiring to his father’s estates, but I am confident
that Edward has the wherewithal to curb Charlotte’s impulsiveness.”
In addition to Charlotte's inability to remember the small details
necessary to coordinate a large staff, she had a tendency to rush
headlong into major projects without first examining how and when
they would be finished.

The marquess’ facial expression might have been
carved from stone. His aunt sighed audibly, and Ashberry knew she
was trying desperately not to scold him. He was no longer a
schoolroom boy but she had nonetheless informed him on several
occasions that she detested his recently acquired habit of
projecting
ennui
: an unfortunate inclination she blamed on
the last months in London, where he lived constantly surrounded by
bloodthirsty politicians and matrons openly critical of his
penchant for making money.

“Actually, I am not concerned about Whitney, his
wife, or young Edward. However, I do have some questions about Ella
Whitney.” Ashberry took a deep breath, carefully maintaining his
impassive features. For months, he had frustrated Lady Westhouse
and the senior matrons—at least the ones who valued his fortune
above the discredit done by his trade interests—by remaining
resolutely uninterested in any miss who dared to fawn over him. But
for some perverse reason, he couldn't acknowledge a disinterest in
this one young woman who seemed to not even notice him.

Worse, Ashberry had been thinking of the chit,
somewhere in the back of his reluctant mind. During dinner, in
fact, Ashberry had spent most of his time imagining how enchanting
she would be when more relaxed, instead of stiff and nervous. Her
hair was a lovely mahogany that hung in attractive loose ringlet
curls from a topknot and dangled temptingly against the back of her
neck, her eyes a vivid and changing green that flickered in the
candlelight, and what he could see of her skin had been a fine,
smooth sheen that reflected the golden light of the
chandeliers.

He had barely been able to keep his attention on the
meal and the conversation for thinking of the child.

In truth, Ashberry could admit to himself that he
was lonely and had been for a long time. Though he was anxious to
return to his home in Cumbria, Ashberry suspected the silence of
the big house there would only serve to exacerbate his moodiness.
For the first time since he had been in the nursery, he would be
essentially alone in the house. His sisters would be in London or
elsewhere in the countryside making new lives for themselves. Even
his two young brothers would be staying in the city to finish their
education under the watchful eye of Lady Westhouse and his brother
Sebastian, who already resided at Aunt Lucy’s fine house in Mayfair
Square.

While still preserving a blank face to his aunt,
Ashberry inwardly confessed that a distraction was in order. He
knew his duty, as his aunt and brothers perceived it, was to marry
and father an heir.

Reminding his body that he knew nothing of the chit
and that they might not suit even if she was of age did no
good.

Ruthlessly, Ashberry forced himself to remember that
Ella Whitney was a young gentlewoman—not at all like the widow or
bluestocking closer to his age that he had spent years mentally
preparing to make his wife. In all likelihood, the girl would be
like most others her age—she would expect to bear him a few
children and then occupy a prominent place in society. Both were
expectations Ashberry couldn't reasonably provide.

His body had its own replies that had nothing to do
with reason.

Ashberry had seen her before, at the Whitney house,
during the negotiations for Charlotte’s settlement, when he had
stepped out of the study for a few moments. That time, her hair had
been only partially pinned to her head, while the other half
caressed her shoulders and back when she turned and followed her
brothers up the stairs of their home. The image of her pink lips
pursed in exasperation had hung in his mind for days afterward.

Reluctantly, he returned his attention to his aunt,
wishing as he did that she could have picked any other female in
London as a topic for discussion.

“I did not see any reason for concern, Aunt Lucy.
How exactly does Miss Whitney present a problem for Charlotte?”

“I’m probably reading too much into the situation,”
she admitted, “But Miss Whitney is exceedingly pretty and
well-mannered, and should have significant financial support from
her family.”

“Yes, I imagine she’ll be all the rage one day. I
fail to see the problem,” he said repressively, hoping his aunt
would take his hint and change the direction of their
discussion.

Lady Westhouse sighed, visibly ignoring his frown.
“She should be all the rage now, Ashberry—or even two years ago.
She’s twenty-one years old and hasn’t had a come-out, though from
our conversation this evening I do know she attended society
functions in Europe. Worse, since they didn’t come to town in time
for the Season, the family hasn’t been obliged to proffer an
explanation, and I haven’t heard a whisper of it from anyone left
in London.” The older woman was blunt. “I can think of only one
obvious reason why she isn’t being guided into marriage now that
they’ve returned.”

Ashberry’s eyes were finally intent on his aunt,
musing as he did, for very different reasons, on Miss Whitney’s
actual age. “Our solicitor did a thorough review of his finances.
Whitney is out of debt, the barony secure and Edward’s own capital
is increasing promisingly, though three years in Europe did put a
noticeable dent in the family coffers. Do you know how remarkable
that is for a noble house these days?”

“Could we have missed something, anything?”

The marquess sighed, recognizing the real concern in
his aunt’s eyes. At this point, any difficulty that might arise
would undoubtedly cause his sister the greatest heartache. It was
no secret that Lady Charlotte Trinity had made a love match, rather
than a marriage to her benefit in station and wealth.

Ashberry, unlike most of his contemporaries, lived
within his significant income without incurring overwhelming debt,
thanks to habitual absentia from the gaming tables and dedicated
management of his estates and stud farm. Until his sisters had been
of marriageable age, the family had spent limited time in
London—Ashberry generally came alone and stayed only as long as
business demanded.

The two requirements he had insisted for Charlotte
and Caroline were that the girls’ husbands be equivalent to the
twins in wealth and that they adore their brides.

Still, that first simple requirement had eliminated
nearly every eligible known to Society, for Charlotte and Caroline
had significant dowries. The Whitneys’ return from France four
months earlier, timely as it was in the wake of the Revolution
there, had also been a blessing for Charlotte Trinity. As it was,
Edward Whitney’s financial health was not equivalent to
Charlotte’s, but the marquess had extrapolated on Edward’s wizardry
with investments when he had discovered how important the marriage
was to his sister. Given five years, Ashberry surmised, Edward
Whitney would have acquired a fortune that easily exceeded
Charlotte's.

After her sister had married, Charlotte had been
despondent, resigned to loneliness for another year and despairing
of finding anyone that would meet with the approval of both her
brother and aunt, who insisted Charlotte limit herself to men of,
or at least very nearly related to, the nobility. Still, fate had
been on her side. Charlotte had met Edward Whitney during his first
week in London. The young but serious-minded man had been strolling
through the booksellers on Bond Street when Charlotte had tripped
on the sidewalk and fallen, twisting her ankle. With the Trinity
carriage in Westminster delivering Ashberry to Parliament, Edward
had gallantly stopped a hackney cab and lifted the girl inside,
escorting her and Lady Westhouse to Ashberry House.

Some families, Ashberry reflected, would have been
mortified by the young man lifting the maiden from the street and
into the cab, since the two had never been introduced and certainly
weren’t on intimate terms. However, Lady Westhouse had been nearly
frantic and no one of acquaintance had been nearby who could have
helped. Ashberry had decided quite quickly that the only
impropriety had been Charlotte sprawled on the boardwalk and in the
dust, unable to walk, and had offered his thanks to Edward, even
giving the young man permission to call on the girl when she
recovered.

Now, they remained in London for no other reason
except Ashberry’s fondness for his sister. Charlotte could not bear
to be so far from her beloved, so Ashberry had agreed to remain in
town until the wedding could be arranged.

“Ashberry?” The countess’ concerned voice snapped
him from the memory of Charlotte’s gratefulness and returned it to
Ella Whitney.

Unlike his aunt, Ashberry could think a number of
reasons why a girl of Miss Whitney’s age would not be in society.
He didn’t particularly like any of them but he was convinced that
financial concerns weren’t responsible.

“The girl behaves as if she is sixteen, perhaps
seventeen,” he murmured. Suddenly, the problem of Ella Whitney’s
social status interested him, if not for the same reasons it
concerned Lady Westhouse. He sighed deeply, for the marquess had
noticed something peculiar that his aunt had not realized or at
least not mentioned. Despite his own subtle efforts, his
unqualified fortune and the marquessate, Ella Whitney had hardly
looked in his direction, let alone any higher than his chin.

Ashberry had assumed she was still young, too young,
since he already knew Whitney did not disparage him for dirtying
his hands with business. Every other family of his acquaintance had
not hesitated to front their daughters for his inspection, except
for the ones so high in the instep that they could not see past
that indiscretion. Just as remarkably, despite the curves of her
figure that had initially attracted his attention and her stunning
wardrobe, she behaved as a miss still in the schoolroom.

“What did Charlotte say about it?”

The countess hesitated before she admitted
reluctantly, “I haven’t asked her specifically about the girl’s
social situation, simply because I do not wish her to begin asking
impertinent questions of Lady Whitney or even her young man. She
did tell me before we were introduced that Miss Whitney was quite
personable in intimate company and much loved by her brothers—but
the girl was overshadowed by her mother and would improve with a
bit of freedom.”

Ashberry nodded, his mind suddenly spinning. Finally
conceding, he promised, “I’ll look into it, Aunt Lucy.”

* * * *

A week later, Ashberry grimly concluded that the
countess would have to be satisfied with his assurances that
nothing affecting Charlotte or Edward kept Ella Whitney from
parading through the
ton
. He told her only that the girl
had been deathly ill from a serious accident more than three years
earlier and that in response her parents were overreacting to
concerns about the girl’s health—it was, after all, the same story
that the Whitneys told anyone who had the audacity to ask.

The countess had accepted the story, her face
relieved.

Ashberry thought that the tale should have bothered
him, for it was the first time he had ever told his aunt anything
less than the complete truth. But it didn’t. After all, the
marquess knew he could never reveal—to anyone—what his solicitor
had discovered about Ella Whitney. The information had been
shockingly easy to find and after a few very specific instructions
to the man, Ashberry locked away the report in his safe and had
ordered the solicitor to forget even her name.

The marquess had considered burning the man’s
written words, but here in the chapel narthex he knew he could not
destroy the account. Not yet. The words fueled an emotion in him
unlike any he had ever felt, a deep-seated fury that made him
clench his fists and hold his jaw at a nearly unnatural angle.

In the stillness, Ella Whitney seemed serene, even
confident—quite the opposite of the emotions turbulently gyrating
inside him. She knelt at the altar rail, her hair shining in the
sunlight that poured through the large windows. He watched,
unabashedly, as the rector approached her before the two moved to a
plain bench beneath one of the windows. When his phaeton had pulled
up in front of the small church on London’s periphery, the marquess
had wondered why Ellie had chosen this chapel for her sanctuary,
but now that he was inside Ashberry thought he understood. The
church featured a glorious feeling of spaciousness, almost as if
one was outdoors even though four walls surrounded him. Here, Ella
Whitney must feel both free and safe.