Embracing Ashberry (3 page)

Ashberry’s fist clenched as he watched the girl. She
had been frail and ill for many months, but now she was graceful
and poised to the casual observer. Nearly three years in Germany,
Austria and France had been educational and healing for her.

Whitney seemed certain that his daughter could not
marry but the family was still quite protective—even in the church
she was watched closely by both a maid and two footmen, both of
whom Ashberry knew to carry pistols. Despite Whitney’s convictions
about Ellie’s unsuitability for matrimony, the baron disdained the
lonely life as a governess or companion for her. Instead, Whitney
had already separated a large fund for her from his estates and
named Edward its trustee, enough for her to live comfortably on her
own should she ever leave the confines of the family households.
However, as if to announce his decision about Ellie's future to the
world, Whitney did not insist that his daughter have the customary
female chaperone nearby, though the marquess imagined that the
portly rector might lend her lonely presence the cloak of
respectability.

Ashberry took a seat in a rear pew. The minutes
slipped away until the afternoon sun just edged below the nearby
rooftops. With the brightness just gone from the sanctuary,
Ashberry watched the girl and rector stand, their quiet
conversation complete.

She left in the company of her servants, though he
knew she was both surprised and slightly disturbed by his presence.
He had sensed her startle when her eyes met his. Inwardly, Ashberry
was pleased that Ella Whitney had remembered him at all. Outwardly
he remained still until the rector came and sat beside him.

The man’s voice was quiet. “Yes, my lord?”

Anger toward an unnamed stranger, grief for Ella
Whitney’s pain, his own guilty conscience for disturbing her refuge
and invading her painful past all came through in the tenor of his
voice. “You already know what causes me so much pain.”

The rector was silent for a moment but the man was
obviously sharp. “She is a sweet girl,” he finally allowed.

The marquess nodded. “I have been … interested in
her future since I first saw her. And since I—” He stopped
abruptly, hardly knowing how, or even if, to proceed.

Ashberry’s mind conjured up the image of Ella
Whitney as he had seen her earlier—kneeling at the altar, her
graceful neck bent in prayer. She had seemed almost an angel then,
too fragile to touch with even the gentlest of caresses.
Nevertheless, in his mind she was already becoming Ellie, not a
distant Miss Whitney.

Determined, he cleared his throat and spoke
seriously. “I seek your advice, Reverend. My youngest sister is to
be married to Lord Whitney’s heir. If I did not fear that Miss
Whitney would be terrified of any man’s interest, I would use the
opportunity to court her. So my question to you is thus: Has the
terror she sustained permanently steered her away from men, or is
her seclusion her parents’ decision?”

The curate came and began to light candles and
chandeliers while the rector considered his answer, but still
neither man spoke. When the words finally came, they were quiet and
heartfelt. “My son, I advise you only to proceed with the greatest
of caution and gentleness. If you truly care for her, remember that
further pain will turn her away from the remaining dreams she
cherishes deep inside. As a practical matter, I would tell you that
Lord Whitney considers a marriage impossible and will do all he can
to keep such thoughts from your head.”

“I am afraid the good man is too late in that
respect,” the marquess replied dryly. “However, I do understand his
concerns. Fortunately, Lord Whitney and I have already survived one
set of marriage contracts. One wonders if that will help or hinder
me.” He paused and then added, “Thank you for your advice.”

The rector nodded, only now looking directly at the
man who had come so willingly into this chapel. “Go with God,” he
enjoined.

Charlotte loved Ashberry’s proposition on the
following morning, although she had seemed a bit suspicious when he
initially called her to his study and made the suggestion. Almost
immediately, as though she hypothecated he might retract the offer,
she had sat and written out the invitation to the Whitneys.
Ecstatic at their reply the same day, Charlotte threw herself
wholeheartedly into planning for her first dinner. For practice,
Ashberry had said, resigning himself to an evening of French food
and wine instead of the more familiar English beef the kitchens
normally prepared for him.

At times, Charlotte was a woman possessed.
Fortunately, she relied on the advice of her dear Aunt Lucy, a
practiced hostess known throughout London for her skill at
smoothing over the most notorious of scandals. While Ashberry was
not even allowed to recommend which footmen would serve, he did
manage to intercede in the seating arrangements through his aunt,
to whom he was forced to admit a curious interest in the girl.

Throughout the week, he called twice at the Whitney
house, each time seeking out the lady of the residence on the
pretense of wedding plans. That Lady Whitney was pleased by the
marquess’ overt interest in the developing scheme was patent and
she enthusiastically conferred with both the marquess and his aunt
while Charlotte and Edward strolled in the gardens or through the
gallery. Ellie, unable to retreat under the watch of the callers,
was reduced to remaining in the drawing room, where Ashberry was
certain to speak to her politely, inviting her opinion and feeling
a strange and unusual mix of emotions when she would reply
softly.

Six days passed since Ashberry’s visit to the
Mayfair chapel before he stood stoically in the dining room and
stared at the table. The sumptuous feast had probably cost him a
small fortune, but if it brought him closer to Ellie Whitney and at
least put them on speaking terms, he wouldn’t complain.

He smiled as his aunt glided into the room, present
all throughout the long afternoon, now dressed and prepared to
guide Charlotte as hostess. “She did well,” he commented.

“Yes,” the countess replied, clearly satisfied.
“Though what possessed you to permit this extravagance is beyond
me.”

“She’ll only do it once,” he said dryly. “Although
I’m sure that when Caroline comes back from her honeymoon, I will
hear about the inequity of it.”

Lady Westhouse dismissed the notion. “That would be
pure foolishness. Caroline did not need the practice, for she was
quite accustomed to arranging small social events. Besides, she is
a countess now with vast resources at her disposal and castles in
three countries. She will be planning balls and political dinners
for a hundred. Charlotte’s expertise must by design be in dinner
parties and smaller
fetes
where Edward can sound out
investment opportunities. She will eventually be a baroness in a
family that prospers because of coal mining and tea, not to mention
the fresh flowers produced at Rose Hill. Comfortable, and
fabulously wealthy if Edward continues on his current bent, but
without the social power of her sister.”

“But she will be happy,” the marquess objected.
“Charlotte adores young Whitney.”

“He is a fine young man,” the countess allowed. “I
have maneuvered the seating arrangement so that Miss Whitney is
seated beside you at dinner. Edward Whitney is on her opposite
side, of course, to provide propriety.”

“I assume then that Charlotte is also nearby.”

The countess laughed. “I will never be that
influential, Ashberry. I’m afraid the only way to separate them at
dinner is to put them in front of a church and wait for them to
preside at their own table.”

On the lady’s comment, the Whitney carriage pulled
to a stop in front of the mansion. The front door was opened
immediately, with his butler Alexander approaching the carriage
door while the Whitney footman set the steps. Ashberry watched
Whitney climb out of the carriage and then assist Lady Whitney and
her daughter down. Ellie was lovely in the early darkness, a
twinkling candle that seemed out of place amidst the rowdy boys
that tumbled down next. Her evening gown was a shimmering gold, but
with an overskirt of sheer white silk to temper the effect,
fashionably cut but without the flounces and embroidery that
Charlotte and Caroline favored. Vivid white velvet ribbon was her
only complement, lacing through her hair and down her back.
Ashberry decided immediately she needed nothing else and was
surreptitiously glad she followed the style of most young women of
their class, favoring her natural hair color over the powdered
curls her mother and his aunt habitually wore.

* * * *

So intent was the lord on Ellie that he almost
missed a greeting from his future brother-in-law. “My lord,” the
younger man nodded crisply, “Good evening.”

“Of course, Whitney,” the marquess murmured after a
pause he hoped the younger man would mark up to a new peculiar
fashion. Ashberry had long since stopped the boy—Ashberry couldn’t
help thinking of him as a boy even though Edward was only five
years his junior—he had long since stopped the boy from executing
the nonsensical, nervous bow he had attempted when the two were
first introduced. It was, Lord Whitney had explained with a small
twitch to his lips, an unfortunate continental habit his son had
acquired.

The marquess greeted the two younger brothers as his
aunt and sister entered the fray, immediately charming all three
young men. Ashberry was left to heartily shake the hand of the
elder Whitney before kissing the back of the baroness’ glove. “It
is a delight to see you again, my lady,” he murmured, catching a
glimpse of his interest, who had quite failed to sneak past him
unnoticed and into the salon.

The marquess summoned every ounce of charm he could
muster before the girl’s two parents. “And Miss Whitney,” he
smiled, nodding smoothly and taking the nervous hand she proffered
after a half second. He held it firmly for just an instant before
lifting it to his lips and pressing a gentle kiss through her
glove. He freed her hand only when he felt her fingers tremble. “It
is my pleasure to see you here at Charlotte’s little dinner.”

Ashberry knew instinctively that the girl wasn’t
looking him in the eye, but he said nothing. Clearly, the front
hall was no place to conduct a courtship. Instead, he turned to
take her mother’s arm. “Lady Whitney, if you will permit me to
escort you into the salon?”

Ellie nearly sighed aloud when he released her hand.
She bit back the noise, taking a deep breath only after her father
took her by the arm. As she had told her mother after their dinner
party two weeks earlier, the marquess did not remind her of the man
who haunted her nightmares, but his size alone was intimidating and
she found it difficult not to stutter when he was near.

He was so tall that he had nearly lost his head in
the doorways of the Whitney house. Here, though, the high ceilings
seemed built to fit him. Ellie wondered nervously if every Trinity
man was as tall, but then answered her unspoken query—she had met
the marquess’ younger brothers and though they were of good height,
none had the stature of the eldest.

Mentally, she sighed and put thoughts of the lord
from her mind, though she and her father followed Ashberry and
Ellie’s mother into the salon, leaving Charlotte and all the young
men to trail behind. She was sure he was just being polite in the
popular way of
tonnish
gentlemen, since Charlotte would
soon be her sister-in-law. There was, after all, no reason for him
to think of her as a fashionable eligible.

Ellie was startled again a few minutes later when
Charlotte gave the word that dinner was ready. “Edward, please take
your mama in,” she requested of Ellie’s brother. Confidently, she
took Lord Whitney’s arm, her own intentions clear. Before Ellie was
quite ready, she found her hand placed gently on the marquess’ coat
sleeve.

He purposefully moved slowly, allowing the others to
precede him and Ellie’s stomach fluttered when she saw a
significant look pass between the marquess and Charlotte’s aunt,
who discreetly attached herself to Ellie’s next youngest brother,
John. Clearly, the marquess had gone outside the expectations of
etiquette that Charlotte assumed he would follow, for the countess
was the guest of the highest rank present and he should have quite
properly escorted her into dinner. The realization made her stomach
lurch wildly and for a moment she wondered if she ought to pull
away and correct him—and knew immediately it was impossible. After
all, he was a marquess and she a simple baron’s daughter, hardly
his equal. Questioning him would likely only cause a scene as the
inevitable set-down followed.

Not that she could have found her voice, especially
once he spoke.

His voice was a low murmur, gentle but undeniably
warm and masculine. He leaned over so that she could easily hear
him. “I am honored, Miss Whitney, to have your arm.” He guided her
behind the others, careful not to seem as if he was detaining her.
“I hope you enjoy sharing dinner with me. I believe we are seated
near one another.”

Ellie blushed. With a blank mind and a frozen
throat, she couldn’t have responded if the king himself had been
beside her. Instead, she managed a brief nod of acknowledgement and
concentrated on her mother’s back in front of her, passing at that
moment into the dining room.

TWO

Ashberry saw the flush of her cheeks and
ears. He was disappointed that she hadn't replied, but convinced
himself he was satisfied with her inability to pretend an
indifference to him was enough, at least for the moment. In fact,
he chuckled to himself as he pulled out her chair. She was
purposely avoiding his gaze and not just fumbling in her
shyness.