Falling Into Bed with a Duke (Hellions of Havisham) (24 page)

Chapter 19

S
HE refused to cry. The stinging in her eyes was the result of London’s wretched air, not her heart’s breaking.

“I am going to take out an advert in the
Times
announcing that I will never marry and am no longer entertaining suitors.”

After returning home, she’d joined her parents in the library. They stared at her following her announcement while she merely tossed back the scotch she’d poured for herself after entering the room.

“Has something happened?” her mother asked.

“I misjudged Ashebury’s affections.”

“How far did you misjudge them?” her father asked, eyes narrowed. She knew his anger wasn’t directed at her.

“Far enough that he might think you will force me to marry him. But I will not, under any circumstances, marry him.”

Her father stood. “Difficult to marry a dead man.”

“Sit down, Father.”

He narrowed his eyes further.

“Please.”

He dropped down onto the sofa beside her mother, who placed her hand over his balled fist, resting on his thigh.

“I did something I ought not,” Minerva said, “which I will not elaborate on. I don’t regret it. I simply regret that I allowed my judgment to be impaired. I thought he wanted me, but as it turns out, he needs my dowry. I can see now that whenever I asked after his finances, he didn’t give me a direct answer. So I was a fool.”

“You weren’t a fool,” her mother said kindly. “He’s very charming. It’s understandable that you would like him and trust him. It’s also understandable that being raised as he was, he might not fully comprehend love.”

Minerva shook her head. “Don’t make excuses for his behavior. All of London makes excuses for the hellions. None of us has a perfect life. We make the best of it.”

“What’s not perfect in yours?” her father asked.

“No man loves me.”

“I love you.”

The air was getting worse. The damn tears were threatening. “I shall be content with that.”

“Taking out an advert seems a bit excessive,” her mother said.

“I don’t want any gentleman callers.”

“I shall inform the staff.”

“I especially don’t want to see Ashebury.”

“You won’t,” her father said.

“Neither do I want him dead.”

“Bruised?”

She couldn’t help it. She released a light laugh. “No, although I do believe I left him bruised.”

“Left hook?”

“No. A little trick Lovingdon taught me. He’d be proud. I would tell him about it, but then he’d threaten to kill Ashebury, and I can’t hold you both at bay.”

“Perhaps you and I should go on holiday somewhere,” her mother said.

“I have something else in mind. I’ll share once I’ve worked out the details. But rest assured, I’m not going to mope about here. I intend to take steps to ensure that I never again cross paths with Ashebury or any other fortune hunter.”

T
HE winds shrieking over the moors buffeted the coach as it turned onto the long drive leading to Havisham Hall. Ashe couldn’t claim to have a sense of going home, but he did experience a bit of bittersweet nostalgia at the gloominess settling in that would soon cloak the moors in moon-shadowed darkness. Profound sadness had visited him here, but he’d also known some of his happier moments.

The Marquess of Marsden had not been a particularly attentive guardian, but neither had he neglected his charges. He would join them at meals, telling them tales of his youth, ones that included Ashe’s father as well as the Earl of Greyling. Through Marsden, Ashe had been given insights into his father as he would have never envisioned him: a rabble-rouser, a student who struggled with his studies, a lad who enjoyed a good prank.

Sometimes, when the wind was quiet, Ashe would catch a glimpse of the man the marquess had been before he lost his wife in childbirth, before he stopped all the clocks at the precise moment of her death. To love a woman such as that—Ashe didn’t know if it would be a blessing or a curse.

The coach drew to a stop in front of the manor house that no longer seemed as large and foreboding as it had to his eight-year-old self. He knew the rooms, the hallways, the shadowed corners as well as he knew his own hand. No one emerged to greet him, but then he wasn’t a guest. He was family of sorts. Comfortable here, he bounded up the steps and through the front door. Silence greeted him. The clocks still didn’t tick, didn’t move forward, didn’t mark time.

Candles flickered to light the way. He strode down the familiar hall, glancing in through doorways as he went, not surprised that he didn’t find an occupied room until he reached the library. A single flame on a waxed taper set on the ebony desk revealed the bent head of Viscount Locksley as he made notations in a ledger. He glanced up, smiled.

“Ashe, what the devil? You should have let me know you were coming.”

He shoved himself away from the desk and met Ashe halfway, shaking his hand, clapping him on the shoulder. “What brings you here?”

That discussion was for later. “How’s your father?”

“Mad as ever.” Turning away, Locke crossed over to the sideboard and splashed scotch into two glasses. He handed one to Ashe. “He’s sleeping now. He’ll enjoy seeing you tomorrow.” He sat in a chair before a lazy fire, stretched out his legs. “Bored with London already? Planning our next adventure?”

Ashe took the chair opposite him. “Planning mine at least. I’m thinking perhaps it’s time I married.”

“Good God. What’s brought this on?”

He wasn’t ready to confess. “We’re getting up in years.”

“We’re not even thirty.”

“I’m closer than you are.” By two years.

“But not there yet.” With a blunt-tipped finger, he tapped his tumbler, considering, his green eyes penetrating. Locke had always been the watcher of the group, taking his time, considering all angles, knocking down façades. Perhaps because he’d been cursed with having to witness his father’s gradual decline into madness.

Ashe supposed that was an advantage to not having his parents about. He didn’t have to witness their aging and infirmity. Although their sudden departure had very nearly destroyed him. While he didn’t want to trade places with Locke, he had no luck squelching that little spark of envy because Locke could at least still talk with his father.

“Who’s the woman?” Locke asked solemnly.

“Miss Minerva Dodger.”

Locke gave a low whistle. “You’ll live like a prince off the money she brings into the marriage.”

“She’s more than coin.”

A corner of Locke’s mouth hitched up. “Is she? I don’t recall you having much interest in her before. Has she suddenly transformed into a fetching skirt?”

“Why is everyone so consumed with looks? And why can they not see the beauty in her?”

Locke’s smile grew, until it almost resembled one of childish wonder. “You’re in love with her.”

“What? No. She intrigues me is all. She’s bold as brass and can stand toe to toe with any man. She states her mind. She doesn’t back down. It’s refreshing.”

“Refreshing for now, she might be, but she’ll grow stale over the years with her nag, nag, nagging. Bold women determined to speak their mind have a tendency to irritate after a while.”

“Is that based on your extensive experience with women? When have you ever stayed with one for more than a night?” Ashe downed the remainder of his scotch, then rose to refill his glass. “More?”

“No, I have to finish going over the books tonight.”

Ashe looked over his shoulder. “Everything all right?”

“With the estate? Absolutely. No troubles there.”

Ashe reclaimed his seat. “How do you keep your finances in such good order?”

“It’s not as though my father is a spendthrift. A butler, a cook, a housemaid, a footman to manage this monstrosity.”

“Not all of it is managed.”

“No, only the rooms in which we live. The others are left untouched. God knows we could probably plant seeds in the dust that’s accumulated over the years and have a bountiful harvest.”

“That’ll change when you take a wife.”

“I’ll never marry. Madness is not a legacy to pass on.”

“It’ll end with your father. You’re not mad.”

“Maybe I’m simply better at covering it up.” He sipped his scotch, once again studying Ashe. “You’re not yet betrothed, so no exciting news there. I’m still trying to determine what prompted your visit.”

“Wanted to ensure you were all right. You left rather abruptly when we got off the ship.”

“We were gone longer than I’d planned. Needed to make sure all was in order here.”

“Are you coming to London for what remains of the Season?”

“I don’t think so.” He stood. “I need to finish up. Shall we go riding tomorrow?”

“First thing. I’d like that.”

“Good.” He started walking toward the desk. “You can tell me then why you’re really here.”

W
HY was he here? Ashe wasn’t even certain he knew. The quietness in the house as he wandered about was eerie. The absence of the ticking of clocks making it more so. When he was a lad, he would sleep with his father’s watch beneath the pillow just so there was something other then the winds howling about. He’d found the pocket watch resting on the table beside his father’s bed. It was strange that it had been left behind, and sometimes Ashe wondered if his father had had a premonition about what would happen. But if he had, why hadn’t he left himself and his duchess behind instead of just the watch?

He stepped into a long hallway, where only one door stood slightly ajar, a pale finger of light slicing along the floor. Even knowing he should turn back to avoid upsetting the old man, he carried forward and walked into the bedchamber that smelled of bergamot and lavender. He thought perhaps the marquess kept lavender sachets around the residence, because there were pockets of the scent in the air here and there. In the marchioness’s bedchamber—which hadn’t been touched since the night she died, other than to remove any evidence of her death—on the vanity had stood a bottle of lavender perfume. Ashe knew because he and the others had snuck into the room one night, even knowing it was forbidden. Grey and Edward had gotten into one of their usual shoving matches. When Grey had pushed Edward into the table, the bottle had toppled over onto the floor and broken into a thousand shards. The sound had brought Marsden into the bedchamber.

He’d been furious at their intrusion. It was the only time that he had ever punished them. In the library, he’d lined them up, made them drop their trousers and grab the back of their knees. He’d taken a switch to each of them, repeatedly, determinedly, and harshly. Until his arm grew tired, until he dropped into a chair, and wept. Huge, gut-wrenching sobs that had hurt Ashe more than the switch slapping against his backside.

After that, the door to his wife’s bedchamber had been locked. Not that Ashe had any desire to return to it. He’d never again wanted to make the marquess weep with such soul-crushing despair.

But still, at nine, he’d offered the man no comfort. With the others he’d stood there, stared, and shifted his feet in discomfiture as the marquess grieved the loss of a fragrance. Not until he grew into manhood did he fully realize the man was grieving the loss of so much more.

“Ashe,” the marquess rasped, as though his vocal cords had grown tired.

“My lord,” he said, walking farther into the room until he reached the cushioned chair where Marsden sat in front of the window. He pressed his shoulder into the casement, welcoming the support, the sharp bite of the wood. The marquess’s hair was stringy, unkempt, the white strands brushing his shoulders. White stubble dotted his jaw. He had no valet, but someone had shaved him recently. Probably Locke.

His dressing gown was threadbare and faded. Ashe wished he’d thought to bring the man a new one from London. Not that he would have worn it. He didn’t like the unfamiliar.

“She’s out there tonight, waiting for me,” Marsden said, his fingers trailing over the small, framed painting resting in his lap. “Do you hear her?”

“Yes, my lord.”

“I’ll join her soon. When Locke is happy.” He grinned slightly, his green eyes boring into Ashe. “When you are. When Greyling and Edward are. How are they?”

“They’re well, my lord. In London.”

“Why aren’t you?”

Ashe looked out into the darkness. He thought he’d needed to see Locke. He was wrong. “You loved her very much.”

“No.”

Surprised by the answer, Ashe shifted his gaze back to the marquess, who was shaking his head.

“That does not even begin to describe what I felt for her. What I felt was . . . everything. When she was no more, everything was gone.”

“In all my years here, you never told us about her. What was she like?”

A faraway look came into Marsden’s eyes as though he were traveling back through the years. “She was the moon and stars. The sun and rain. I did not like her as much as I liked the way I was when I was with her. I was optimistic, invincible. Kinder, gentler. She brought out the best in me. Does she bring out the best in you?”

Ashe wrinkled his brow. “Who?”

“This woman you love.”

He stared at the marquess. His eyes held knowledge, understanding. “I don’t love her, but there is a woman, yes. She’s sharp, clever, strong-minded. I need her dowry. I made rather a mess of my fortune.” He pressed his shoulder harder into the sharp edge of the casement. “I can’t make numbers work.”

“Neither could your father.”

Ashe straightened away from the window edge. “Pardon?”

Marsden chuckled low. “It was his secret. But he told me. Was fearful he wouldn’t be able to manage his estates. So he would bring me his books, and I would provide him with the answers. I forgot that. All the years you were here, I never thought to tell you. Never paid any attention to your studies. Damnation,” he whispered. “That’s why he selected me. To be your guardian. I knew his secret. He thought I would guide you. Instead, I failed you.”

“I wouldn’t say that. If anything, it was my pride, not letting on that I was struggling. Relying too much on my man of business, when I wasn’t completely open with him. I need to find someone I can trust to know everything.” If he could convince Minerva to put
her
pride aside, she would make an excellent person to manage his accounts.