A Consolation Prize of the Most Alluring Kind

 

Ashton handed the elderly dressmaker from the carriage with care, relieved to finally be free of the cantankerous woman. He pitied Ella for having to deal with the old biddy—but then, perhaps the old woman directed her ire solely toward men. For Ella’s sake, he could only hope.

“That’s quite a grip you have, lad.” Mrs. Pitt flexed her fingers as if he’d crushed them. She turned a censorious eye on the carriage and rubbed the base of her spine. “My aching bones. You really should replace your carriage wheels. Better yet, replace the carriage.”

Ashton smiled—as much to appease her as the fact he would soon be rid of her—and replied with a simple, “Aye.” During the short ride, he’d quickly learned a simple ‘aye’ was by far the best response.

From the corner of his eye, he saw Ella strolling around the corner of the castle, her cheeks and full lips rosy from the crisp winter air. Upon seeing them, she smiled.

Something about that smile summoned his possessiveness streak and, when she neared them, he allowed a note of pride to creep into his voice as he said, “Mrs. Pitt, allow me to introduce my bride, Lady Strachan.”

A soft light entered Ella’s eyes and his body tightened in response. He couldn’t stop his gaze from wandering over her figure as she joined them.

“I thank you for coming to my aid, Mrs. Pitt.” Ella nodded at her short hem with a rueful smile. “I am in dire need of clothes. With my height, it is so difficult to borrow dresses.”

The dressmaker eyed her up and down, then to Ashton’s surprise, her aged face broke into a smile. “Delighted, I’m sure. So very delighted, my lady.” The way she cackled reminded Ashton of the proverbial witch. “I’ve the perfect selection of fabrics, my lady, just perfect for your coloring.”

He watched as Mrs. Pitt grasped Ella’s arm and, ignoring him entirely, set off toward the castle. Did the old biddy treat all men with such gruff disdain? Or just him? Had she, perhaps, heard one too many tales about The Demon Earl?

He retreated to the library. He spent the better part of an hour perusing the shelves in search of a book, but none grabbed his attention. He returned to his father’s desk and pulled open the drawers. His gaze fell on his mother’s sketchbook. Ashton stared. He had thought the sketchbook lost long ago. Slowly, he withdrew it and began to flip through the pages.

She hadn’t been much of an artist. The sketches were largely unfinished images of women in fine dresses with men at their feet. This was how she saw herself, the life of the party, to be worshiped. He stopped on a sketch that stood out amongst the others, that of a young boy reading a book. He hadn’t remembered this sketch. He recognized the room, the very same library where he now sat.

Was the drawing of him? His chest constricted. The sketch was little more than a scribble, an afterthought… He’d sometimes wondered if he’d been an afterthought in his mother’s life. She had loved him, protected him against his father—when she’d seen the threat. But too often she’d been absorbed in parties or drinking, or even his father.

The mantle clock chimed. He started from thought and glanced at the clock. Seven, the dinner hour. He slammed the book shut. He would never fathom his mother’s mind. The older he became, his confusion over where he had stood in her affections only grew. He left the library and headed for his rooms.

Last night’s dinner had provided an unexpected pleasure. If only he could dine with Ella alone again tonight. Nae, his grandmother would never permit it. He reached his chambers, opened the door of his private sitting room and entered.

“This will look lovely with a delicate embroidery around the neckline.”

Ashton recognized Mrs. Pitt’s voice and looked left, toward the sound of her voice, then froze. Ella stood, arms outspread, her face transfixed in horror. She was practically naked. The translucent fabric draped over her slim body revealed more than the sheet ever had. He stood motionless, unable to tear his eyes from her dark areolas visible through the sheer fabric. His mouth went dry at sight of the dark patch at the juncture of her thighs.

“Hold still, my lady,” Mrs. Pitt grumbled.

“Mrs. Pitt,” Ella breathed. “Please.”

“One more pin,” the old woman snapped in disagreement. Then she followed the line of Ella’s gaze and snorted. “It’s just your husband. Certainly nothing he hasn’t seen before.”

Ashton drew a breath and cleared his throat. “If you ladies will excuse me.” Quickly, he strode past them toward the bedroom door. “I will change for dinner.”

“It is early to be eating dinner,” Mrs. Pitt commented waspishly.

He shut the bedroom door between them slowly—slow enough to afford another look in Ella’s direction. From this angle, the curve of her breast caught his eye, along with a sinfully luscious nipple protruding beneath the cloth. Blood rushed to his groin. Heat rammed through his veins. He blew a frustrated breath and closed the door with a soft click. A man could only endure so much temptation.

He yanked clothing from the wardrobe and changed. His cock took longer than usual to deflate. Finally, he fastened the last button on his waistcoat and headed for the door once again. This time, he paused and listened for voices. Thankfully, he discerned only silence. Slowly, he turned the knob. To his relief, Ella stood before the fireplace, fully clothed in a gown of deep blue that emphasized the blue of her eyes.

She looked up. Pink tinged her cheeks. “Mrs. Pitt is a wonder with the needle.”

“As well as a conversational delight,” he added.

Ella laughed. “Then it isn’t only me she seems unhappy with?”

“Indeed, I thought she treated you kindly.” He smiled and joined her by the fire. “In the carriage, I heard nothing but complaints of the weather, the horses, the coachman, my shoes…indeed, my every article of clothing, as well as my looks and personality. Even the way I breathed.” He stood back and admired the dress—or at least pretended to. He admired the woman far more. “She does appear to have one redeeming quality. The dress is lovely, and she finished astonishingly quickly.”

“Oh, it’s a modification only,” Ella said. “Though, still, quick. At least now, while she works on my wardrobe, I’ll have something to wear that fits.”

He lifted a brow and lowered his voice, “I thought your other dress rather fetching.”

Ella’s eyes widened. “The dress was far too revealing, my lord.”

“Ah, yes. Shall we? I believe dinner is ready.” He held out his arm, mesmerized by the beauty of her answering smile.

Dinner dragged into a long, torturous affair, made even longer by Mrs. Pitt’s endless string of complaints. Angel spent his time snarling at every man in the room, including himself, Duncan, and even the male servant who brought the soup. Doubtless, the person responsible for the animal’s distrust had been a man. Still, Ashton couldn’t help but find it perversely amusing that Angel yipped at Duncan most of all. Perhaps, he had to give the animal more credit in discerning taste than he’d originally done.

 “Really, Grandmother, what do you see in that animal?” Duncan said when Angel snapped as he reached for the decanter.

“His nerves are just overwrought.” The dog licked her hand when she stroked his head.

“Angel seems so happy, Grandmother,” Ella said from her place at his grandmother’s left.

Ashton looked across the table, surprised.

“Doesn’t he, now?” Lady Leighton graced the pug with an indulgent smile and said to Ashton, “Did Ella tell you of our adventure?”

“Adventure?” Ashton repeated, then shook his head. “Nae.”

“She’s quite the brave one.” Lady Leighton gave Ella’s hand a fond pat.

“Hardly.” Ella laughed. “I was frightened the entire time.”

“Nonsense,” his grandmother said. “It was during a trip to Lord Pruitt’s country house. Ella graciously accepted my request for company. We stopped for tea at that dreadful inn—what was the name?”

“If it was dreadful, then why did you stop?” Duncan muttered.

Lady Leighton frowned.

“The White Swan, wasn’t it?” Ella said, and Ashton had the feeling she was tactfully diverting his grandmother’s attention.

“Ah, yes, The White Swan.” His grandmother smiled and tickled Angel’s ears. “We saw our poor Angel there. The poor, poor wee lad.”

“He’s hardly lacking now, Grandmother,” Ella teased.

The two women shared a private laugh. Ashton paused. The bond between his grandmother and Ella ran far deeper than he’d realized, and judging by Duncan’s deepening scowl, he’d noticed as well.

 “He was skin and bones and begging for scraps,” Lady Leighton resumed her tale. “When I asked Ella to fetch the wee lad, he slipped through her fingers. He led us a merry chase that day. We tracked him in the coach to an abandoned croft. It was so dark. I confess, I couldn’t bear to step foot in the place.” She shuddered. The diamonds about her neck and ears glittered in the candlelight. “The spiders.”

At the word ‘spiders,’ Ashton glanced across the table. Ella refused to meet his gaze, but pink tinged her cheeks.

“Ella bravely ventured inside,” his grandmother continued. “She secured his trust with roast chicken. We caught the rascal, bathed him, and that was that. Quite the day.”

Again, the two women exchanged smiles.

Ashton glanced at the pug snoozing comfortably on his grandmother’s lap, atop yards of luxurious silk. “He’s hardly a poor lad now.”

The dog’s eyes opened. He gave a tiny growl.

Ashton snorted. “I believe you’ve chosen the wrong name, Grandmother. He’s certainly no angel.”

To his surprise, Ella said, “I named him that, if you must know.”

Their gazes locked. “Whatever possessed you?” he queried.

“Angel suits him.” She lifted her chin. “Underneath that bravado, he is one.”

Christ. She licked her lips. He yanked his gaze away.

“I have an errand for you in the morning, Ashton.” Lady Leighton set aside her dessert spoon. “I’ve a letter that must be posted, straightway.”

“Then, while you’re out and about, you can drive me to ,” Mrs. Pitt said as she pushed her plate away with a frown. “Have a word with your cook, Lady Leighton. The pigeon was much too dry, and the parsnips tasted like leather, and I don’t believe there was more than one lemon in that entire cake.”

Ashton eyed the old dressmaker’s empty dessert plate. She’d polished each course plate to a shine.

His grandmother’s eyes twinkled in amusement.

Mrs. Pitt glared, but as her gaze fell on Ella, her harsh features softened. “Ella, dear, you must come, as well. We must find the perfect lace to match your eyes.”

“I would be more than happy to escort you both,” Duncan offered.

“That is unnecessary,” Ashton cut him short. He turned to his grandmother and nodded. “I am at your service.”

His grandmother held his gaze for a long moment. “Indeed.” Then, she nodded at Duncan. “Stay and assist me in the library.”

“We should purchase buttons, as well,” Mrs. Pitt added. A smile hovered on her lips as she fell into conversation with Ella over bits and bobs of the dressmaking trade.

Ashton leaned back in his chair and frowned. What magical quality did Ella possess that made bad-tempered creatures fall victim to her charms?

They adjourned to the drawing room, where Ashton heard more about the art of dressmaking than a man ever should before they each departed for their respective rooms. In silence, Ashton escorted Ella to their chamber and once inside, bowed at the bedchambers door.

“Sleep well, my lady.” He brushed his lips over her hand.

Her lips parted as if to speak, but he urged her inside and closed the door.

* * *

The following morning, Ashton waited in the foyer for the women in the breakfast room to join him. Ella arrived first, slim and elegant in a blue twill pelisse. She smiled, then directed her attention to a suit of armor standing in the corner. His gaze lingered on the sensuous curve of her neck.

They waited, the tick tock of the grandfather clock in the adjoining room counting off the seconds. Finally, Mrs. Pitt’s litany of complaints approached, long before the woman herself arrived.

“At this pace, we will arrive after supper,” the old woman grumbled as she stepped into the foyer and yanked on her gloves.

Ashton remained silent. Pointing out that she was the last to arrive served no peace-loving purpose. He opened the door.

The cloudless sky reminded him of a warm summer’s afternoon as he handed the ladies into the carriage. Mrs. Pitt first, of course. He let his fingers linger on Ella’s wrist as he handed her up. She noticed. He could tell by the hitch of her breath and the way her lashes fluttered. Her reaction made him feel more carefree than he had in years.

The carriage started down the drive.

“My, my, this rides more like a donkey cart than a carriage,” Mrs. Pitt said at the first dip in the road.

Ella exchanged a silent smile with Ashton then turned to the woman at her side. “I admit, I’m excited about this East Haven lace, Mrs. Pitt. Is the family well known?”

Mrs. Pitt launched into a long, detailed history of the Fromer Lacemakers. The tale so much easier on the ears than the endless wave of complaints. As Ella chatted and kept the conversation lively, Ashton watched her from under half-hooded eyes.

It was fortunate they were not alone. He very much wanted to introduce her to the delights of a real kiss and the enjoyment of a man’s touch. The thought of running his hands over her breasts sent a rush of blood to his cock and he averted his gaze out the window.

Sooner than he’d thought possible, they arrived at the village of Kirton.

“I’ll be but a moment,” he informed the women as he left to post the letters.

To his surprise, after he gave the postmaster his letters, the man handed him a letter in turn. “This arrived for you just last night, my lord,” the postmaster said.

Ashton recognized the bold script at once. His solicitor. He offered the man a grim nod of thanks and returned to the carriage in a darker mood.

“Now, now, you’ve forgotten to post the letter, lad,” Mrs. Pitt said as he settled onto the leather seat.

“Nae, I received this letter, Mrs. Pitt,” he murmured, distracted.

Mrs. Pitt sniffed as if she didn’t believe him.

He slipped the envelope into his inside waistcoat pocket. He would read the letter later—when he could curse to his heart’s content.

Well before they reached East Haven, Mrs. Pitt fell asleep, and then began to snore. Ashton sighed and met Ella’s amused gaze. He returned her smile and wondered if she was amused by Mrs. Pitts’ snores or if the smile was more intimate.

At last, they entered East Haven, a quaint village perched on the edge of the sea.

Gulls cried overhead as the footman opened the carriage door.

“I will wait at the tavern,” Ashton said as he handed both women down.

“We’ll be quite some time,” Mrs. Pitt informed him primly. “Have a care.”

Was she insinuating he would overindulge? Ashton expelled a breath as she turned away, but all glowering thoughts fled the moment Ella touched his arm.

“I’ll do my best to keep her out of trouble,” she promised with a wink.

“I fear that is impossible, my lady.”

He caught her fingers and slowly, lifted them to his lips so he could slide his thumb between her wrist and glove and pull back the edge of her glove. He brushed his lips over the exposed, soft skin of her wrist in a feather-light touch. She stiffened and dropped her lashes but didn’t step away or remove her hand from his. He squeezed her hand and let it go.

“I will wait for you at the tavern,” he said.

“Very well, my lord.”

He watched her slip into the lace shop, aware of the pleasant tightening of his loins.

Then, he remembered his letter.

The haze of lust vanished.

He turned on his heel and headed for the tavern.

Ashton settled in a corner near the fire, and, after ordering a house ale, broke the wax seal and scanned the letter’s contents.

Moments later, he stared at the letter in shock. The stables, gone. The caretaker’s cottage, the storehouse filled with grain. The recently germinated peas and broad beans all gone in a fire. He couldn’t breathe. How? His steward estimated the damages at roughly five thousand pounds.

Five thousand pounds.

A fortune.

His banker had confirmed the rebuilding of the lost buildings alone would cost at least thirty-five hundred pounds. Anger lashed through him. Those damned bankers had been nipping at his heels the last two years. He had to return home and assess the damage. Maybe it wasn’t as bad as Muldoon thought. But he knew that was a lie. His steward wasn’t prone to exaggeration.

His grandmother would be displeased, but she was so pleased with his marriage to Ella that she might forgive his absence. He would beg two days, perhaps three, and if he didn’t return for four days, then she wouldn’t be too terribly angry—he hoped. She simply had to understand. But she wouldn’t. She’d never understood his attachment to Stanhope.

His chest constricted. He might have to sell part of the land in order to entice the bankers into a new loan. He’d vowed never to consider such an option, but now? Now he needed the inheritance more than ever. How could he take Ella to Stanhope when she very well might have to work as hard as she had washing clothes? With this development, he might not be able to fulfill his contract with her.

He shoved to his feet and strode out the door, leaving his ale untouched. Wind whipped his hair as he left the village and cut across the grass to a path between two rock outcroppings that led to the sandy beach beyond. He’d just emerged onto the beach when voices rose on the wind.

He glanced over his shoulder and paused.

Off to one side, a young child stood on the sand, shouting up to a woman perched on a shelf of rock with her skirts tied around her knees.

Good God, was the woman Ella?