“I saw that.” Guy chuckled. “Too many ladies fishing for husbands tonight. Hence, my retreat. Devoted bachelor, me.”
Ash folded his arms, tucking his balled hands under them. “She’s recruited my aunt and has moved in with my nearest neighbor. I can’t shake the woman and her schemes.”
“Give in,” Guy said with a shrug. “Marry one of them. Then Mrs. Courtland will go tamely home.”
“Somehow, I think she won’t,” Ash said. “Even if I’d do such a damn fool thing as you suggest. The children love her, for one thing.” He let out an exasperated breath. “Damnation, why does that woman get under my skin?”
“Like a burr one can’t shake?”
“I suppose.” Ash scowled at the garden, silent fountains marble-pale in the darkness. “If Mrs. Courtland is so keen on marriage, why hasn’t she married again herself?”
“Why should she?” Guy asked in a reasonable tone. “Her husband turned out to be a complete idiot, but his wise man of business made certain she was set for life.” He took a pull of the cheroot, the smooth smoke wafting over Ashford. “I know—I’ll marry her. I’d put aside my abhorrence of the married state for a pretty woman in my house. We’ll sojourn on the Continent until she forgets about her idea to get you paired off. That should take her out of your hair.”
“No,” Ash said abruptly.
“Hmm?” Guy’s brows went up. “I was joking. But why not?”
“Because …” Ash rearranged his words and cleared his throat. “No need for her to drive you mad in the bargain.”
Guy took another pull of the cheroot and studied him as smoke trickled from his mouth. “Ah,” he said, then smiled. “I’ll put that idea to rest.”
“See that you do.”
Ash didn’t miss Guy’s grin as the man dropped his cheroot into a bowl left on the terrace for the purpose. “I believe I’ll stroll back in,” Guy said. “Time to lose my money at cards. Pity I’m such a bad player.”
Guy often lost when he first sat down to a game, it was true, but he skillfully won everything back by the end of the night. He enjoyed the challenge.
Left alone once more with his thoughts, Ash gazed at the dark garden long enough to grow restless. He abandoned thoughts of returning to the ballroom and strode down the steps to the gravel path below.
Helena, standing just inside a door to the terrace, watched Ash go. He was frustrated, poor man—she and his aunt had sprung the young women on him too abruptly. Lady Florence hadn’t warned Ash they were coming, which had probably been for the best. Else he might have disappeared altogether, left the country even.
Helena pulled her fringed shawl close and stepped out of the house, skimming across the terrace and down to the garden. She hurried in the direction Ash had gone, following the sound of his footsteps on gravel.
It was frightfully cold. The afternoon’s clouds had rolled away, and clear air filled the spaces to the heavens. Stars hung thick and bright, a half-moon high. There’d be frost in the morning.
Ash had paused—Helena couldn’t hear his steps any longer. She hurried forward on tiptoe, listening for any movement ... and blundered straight into him.
Strong hands, warm through his gloves, caught and steadied her. Helena lost hold of the shawl, and both she and Ash dove for it as it slithered to the ground. Her head banged his temple, and he grunted as he snatched the shawl up.
“Devil take it,” he growled.
Helena tried to grab the shawl from him, but it floated from her grasp as Ash swirled it around her shoulders. He pulled it closed, his hands meeting over Helena’s bosom.
“My apologies,” she said faintly. Her voice had lost its usual briskness for some reason. A mark on his forehead showed where she’d smacked into him.
“Why are you charging about in the dark?” Ash demanded. He did not release the shawl, the fists that held it warm points above her chest.
“Looking for you. I was afraid you’d be hurt.”
“In my own garden?”
“One never knows,” Helena said. “It is very dark—you might have tripped and fallen into a fountain, bashed your head on a tree limb, had your clothes catch fire from a spark from a lantern …”
He stared down at her as she rattled on, then to her amazement, Ash began to laugh. It was a hoarse sound, as though he hadn’t practiced laughter in a while. “That is—”
“Beyond ridiculous?” Helena gave him a hopeful smile.
“You are the most maddening woman I’ve ever had the misfortune to live next door to.”
“Well, as I’ve lived in Berkeley Square for a number of years, and the inhabitant of that house before my husband took up residence was a lifelong bachelor, and your far neighbor is a widower, there haven’t been many females living near you at all.”
His laughter continued. It was a nice laugh, rumbling and genuine.
Ash gently tugged her closer, his hands full of the shawl. He was warmth in the darkness, strength against the sudden weakness in her knees.
He closed the few inches between them, and kissed her.
Their kiss in London had been urgent and fevered, unexpected. This one was slow, leisurely, private. Behind them, the laughter and music floated, faraway and small. In the garden, all was silence but for Ash’s breathing and the whisper of a breeze over autumn blossoms.
Helena rose into the kiss, her chest tight, hands finding Ash’s shoulders. He tasted of brandy, smelled of cheroot smoke and the night.
Just when she thought he’d push from her, Ash brought her closer, arms around her back. His stiffness fell away, as though Ash the duke had disappeared, and Ash the man took over.
Helena rather liked Ash the man. He held her securely, his body fluid grace, as it had been while they’d danced. His stumble had been an anomaly.
Ash’s mouth warmed, caressed. Helena parted her lips, letting him in, and she daringly tasted his tongue.
The flicker—brief, hot, intense—snapped Ash back to stiffness. He jerked his mouth away from hers but steadied Helena before she lost her footing.
They stared at each other for a long moment, things between them forever changed. Ash’s chest rose sharply, his exhalation fogging in the chill air.
“Helena.”
Her name was a faint whisper—Helena, not Mrs. Courtland.
Helena longed to respond—Ash. But her voice did not work, and her lips, burning from his kiss, would not move.
“You’re cold,” he announced.
Helena was hot all over, never noticing the sharp bite of the strengthening breeze. Ash adjusted her shawl, his movements quick, exact, but his hands were shaking.
“Thank you,” she managed to croak.
Ash said nothing. He gazed down at her a long moment, his eyes lost in shadow.
Then he put firm but polite fingers on her elbow. “You should be indoors, out of the weather.”
Without further word he led her back to the house. His pace was swift, and Helena scurried next to him, her beaded slippers landing in mud. They’d be a sad ruin, but Helena’s practical voice was a distant echo.
Ash halted when they reached the terrace. He turned to her, a look of vast anguish on his face.