Embracing Ashberry Read online

  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.

  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, Whitn
ey 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 habi
t 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.