“It seems that every committee in every office in which I have a presence has decided my opinions matter very little these days,” he said stiffly. “Lord Merrivale, my most trusted confidant, the man who practically raised me and helped me carve out a career, had to tell me no one wanted me about.” Hurt lurked in Ashford’s eyes, though his face remained a mask of irritation. He gazed at her in sudden suspicion. “You didn’t have a word with him, did you?”

Helena blinked. “You believe I went around to St. James’s Palace, or wherever you take yourself of a day, and told them to toss you to the pavement? They’d hardly listen to the likes of me. It is more likely Lord Merrivale and your colleagues saw that time away would benefit you.” And them, she did not add.

Ashford gave her a narrow stare, then he shook his head, his expression clearing. “I beg your pardon. I am being fanciful. Towering rage makes me unreasonable.”

“Regard this as a blessing, Your Grace. You’ll have plenty of time to attend to your children, and to seek a wife. That rather large house has room for a ball, a house party—a host of gatherings. A house party would be best, I think, so you can invite the families of all the young ladies to stay. You could observe them at your leisure, and then you—”

“Mrs. Courtland!” His shout cut through her words.

“Yes?”

Ashford’s face was red again, his hair awry in that fetching manner. “The country will have one distinct advantage. You will not be next door.”

“No, that is true. Hmm.”

Helena’s late husband’s estate, now governed by his rather foolish nephew, was in Lincolnshire, while the Dukes of Ashford ruled from a vast tract of land in Somerset.

However, a girlhood friend of Helena’s now lived in the village next to the Ashford estate, and was always begging Helena to come for a long visit. Millicent was happily married with four bouncing children, a state Helena envied. She would write to Millicent forthwith.

“You will need a hostess,” she said. “Yes, your aunt Florence is just the lady. She’ll enjoy it.”

Helena turned away, eager to begin her correspondence. She had much to do.

Before she reached the door, a heavy hand landed on the doorframe, barring her way out. She turned to face the dark countenance and furious glare of the Duke of Ashford.

She smelled his shaving soap—he must have told his valet to scrape him clean once he returned to Berkeley Square, but the shadow on his chin remained. Helena had the most pressing urge to run her fingers along his jaw to discover what the whiskers felt like.

Ashford’s gray eyes flickered with raw emotion, and he did not move his hand from the doorframe. If any other gentleman had loomed over her so, Helena might be frightened or angry, but Ashford’s nearness had her heart hammering.

His breath warmed her as he leaned closer. She expected Ashford to rail at her, but he remained strangely silent.

His gaze moved from her eyes to her mouth, and Helena’s lips tingled. What would it be like to kiss him? Ashford was a strong man, and a handsome one—she had always noticed this.

Would he kiss with precision, as he did everything else? Or would he at last abandon himself to passion, and kiss with ferocity?

Helena suddenly wanted to know.

With him leaning to her, and her own height, she did not have to rise far to reach his lips. Helena closed her eyes and brushed a kiss to his parted mouth.

Ashford jumped in shock. Helena expected him to jerk away, to snarl at her to remember herself, perhaps to shove her from him in horror.

He froze the barest moment before dragging her to him and kissing her back with a fierceness that stole her breath.

He was shaking but wrapped his arms around her, enclosing her with strength. Helena leaned into his hard chest while his lips parted her mouth, his tongue tangled hers, his thigh pressed her hip.

The kiss tore open places Helena hadn’t known were shut, whisked away the barrier around her heart, and sent her blood flowing to all regions of her body.

The stiff, coolheaded Ashford had coalesced into a virile man, and Helena, most definitely a woman, responded. She’d longed for this, she realized, every day for the past few years, when he’d nodded at her in passing or patiently listened to her go on about his children.

He was fire in her arms, his kiss igniting. Helena dared reach up and touch his face, which she found pleasantly coarse with whiskers.

Ashford deepened the kiss, a soft sound in his throat, but there was nothing soft about the way he held her. He pulled her closer, Helena’s breasts crushed to his waistcoat, behind which she could feel the rapid beating of his heart. No clockwork automaton existed beneath his skin—he was flesh and blood, heating her body.

A step in the corridor made them both give a violent start. It was Edwards, coming to assist his master with his packing.

Ashford jerked from her, and the kiss shattered. Helena backed a step and nearly fell, her legs weak as she pressed fingers to her hot and shaking lips.

Edwards had discreetly withdrawn, but Ashford’s eyes were wide, his expression haunted.

Helena gazed at him a long moment, unable to move. She knew she ought to flee, to save them both from embarrassment—or perhaps to keep herself from kissing him again, she didn’t know. But her feet remained fixed in place.

“Papa?” The young voice of Evie floated in, followed by Evie herself, Ashford’s middle child, the sensitive one. “Nanny says I can’t bring my favorite dress, but it’s so pretty, and Lewis says I’m being a ninny. Will you tell Lewis I’m not a ninny?— Oh.” She broke into a wide smile when she saw Helena. “Aunt Helena, will you tell Lewis? And Nanny? She listens to you.”

Helena’s face scalded, and her heart refused to calm. But bless the child—she had saved the moment.

“Of course, darling. You shall take every pretty dress you wish. Let us be off to the nursery and finish your packing.”

She was aware of Ashford standing in the middle of the carpet where she’d left him, but Helena could not bring herself to look at him, didn’t trust herself not to reveal how her heart sang with his touch.

She seized Evie by the hand and let the child lead her to safety.

AUNT FLORENCE TURNED UP, bag and baggage, on Ashford’s doorstep the day after he and his children arrived at Middlebrook Castle, the five-hundred-year-old seat of the dukes of Ashford.

“Tuck me into a corner somewhere,” she said from within the recesses of her large traveling bonnet. “Worry for nothing, Ash, dear. I received Helena’s letter and of course I don’t mind at all playing hostess to your at-homes. Will liven the place up.”

She regarded the golden stone house that rose in glittering glory from the wide sweep of lawn and shook her head, as though she found it wanting.

Ash opened his mouth to explain that he’d returned home to take care of the place, not host gatherings. He wanted to see to the farms and ensure that the tenants had tight roofs over their heads for the winter. He’d confer with the steward on what crops they’d plant come spring and discuss the yield of the early harvest.

He closed his mouth. If Aunt Florence wanted to chivy the servants and plan balls, let her. Ash would spend his days on the farms, turn up in time to show his neighbors he hadn’t withered to a stick in the city, and then retire.

“Very well, Auntie.” He kissed her cheek. “How pleasant to see you.”

Aunt Florence gazed at him with his father’s gray eyes, suspicion in them. A widow after thirty years of happy marriage, Aunt Florence was in her fifties and as unbowed and robust as she’d been at thirty.

“And you, Ashford,” she said, still wary. “Now then, where are my nieces and nevvy?”

ASHFORD’S PLAN TO avoid the goings-on in the house worked well. He soon admitted that a sojourn in the country had been a wise idea. Long rides woke him out of his stupor, returned vigor to his body, and improved his temper.

Likewise his children seemed happier and hadn’t mentioned marriage or Mrs. Courtland since their arrival. Lily had once begun to say Mrs. Courtland’s name and been hurriedly shushed by her brother and sister.

Ash realized he could indulge in strict routine here as well. Up at seven to breakfast, off on his horse at eight. A ride through the village and then around to the home farm and the steward’s house for a meeting at half past. They’d discuss business—much to do—and then Ash would ride through his lands, with or without the steward.

It was harvest time, with some fields already shorn, others still growing, others in the process of being cut. Ash had wheat to sell, barley for the brewers, root crops for cattle and horses to eat over the winter. Sheep lazed in fields he rode past, shearing time near.

Ash began to wonder why he’d neglected the place so long. He hadn’t entirely abandoned his duties as landlord—while in London, he carried on a detailed correspondence with the steward and the estate’s majordomo, but it was no substitute for being here himself.

He also welcomed the time with his children. Every afternoon, from three to five, after Ash’s ride around his boundaries, he would meet Lewis, Evie, and Lily in the garden. They’d run about, or play games of hide and seek, Ash laughing with them as he hadn’t laughed in years.

Sometimes he and Lewis would walk together and talk, man-to-man, as the girls played among the flowerbeds. Lily loved digging in the dirt, and Ash suspected she’d grow up to be an avid gardener. She’d be covered with loam at the end of the afternoon, to the despair of Nanny. Ash didn’t scold her. Lily would be scrubbed up and on the marriage mart soon enough.

The thought squeezed him painfully. Why the devil should young women be paraded past gentlemen like prized horses? As duke’s daughters, Lily and Evie would garner much attention.

Ash determined not to push his daughters to wed until they met gentlemen who were their equals in every way. His own marriage had been conventional enough, but he’d been lucky that Olivia had been a mild and sweet woman, never minding Ash’s odd ways.