Chapter Ten
A scuffling sound interrupted and as Daisy turned she caught a whiff of the tobacco smoke settling in a wreath around Uncle Red’s head. She glowered, but before she could speak, the countess smacked Red’s arm, nearly causing him to drop the cigar he was enjoying.
“Hey—”
“How dare you!” The countess sprang to her feet and took Red by the ear, forcing him—protesting—to his feet.
“Damn it, woman—that hurts!” He jerked and twisted, trying to escape.
“Outside with you, this minute!” the countess snapped. “Of all the irresponsible—thoughtless—smoking that filthy thing around priceless historical documents!” She didn’t relent for an instant as she dragged him, howling, out of the hall.
Daisy’s shock became a chuckle that grew to a hearty laugh at the sight of the usually demure and decorous countess taking wild and woolly Uncle Red in hand. Seconds later she found herself looking up into Ashton Graham’s glowing face. He had been laughing, too, and traces of pleasure lingered in his gaze as it roamed her. He took a step that brought him against her skirts. A bolt of expectation shot through her, leaving scorch marks on every hungry and traitorous nerve in her body.
“Where were we?” His voice was thick as wild honey. “Ah, yes. Eighteen children, Daisy Bumgarten. In forty-two years of marriage, Lady Charlotte spent almost half of them pregnant.”
“I believe the proper term is ‘in a family way.’” She licked her lip.
“Eighteen years pregnant. No riding horses or hosting hunting parties or attending operas or balls—watched constantly—every bit of food inspected and measured, every exertion and diverting pastime prohibited, all contact with frivolous society disallowed. You see, a duchess’s pregnancy isn’t about a baby, it’s about an heir. And believe me, families take no chances that the heir to a title might be endangered by the whims of a mere mother.” She could feel him leaning, closing on her, watching her reaction. “That’s the lot of a woman lucky enough to snag a duke for a husband. I wonder what Lady Charlotte would counsel if she could talk to you across the years.” He moved still closer and she retreated another step, feeling his heat and determination crowding her. “Would she warn you against seeking attachment to a title—an elevated one at that?”
“Doesn’t much matter what she’d say. That was two hundred years ago. People don’t marry off their daughters at twelve anymore.” She took another step back, but the distance between them didn’t seem to widen. “And I’ve never been a meek little thing like Charlotte, not even when I was twelve. Just ask my mama.”
“Oh, I’ll take your word for that.” He advanced again and she backed into a bookcase that stopped her retreat. That look in his eye—that hungry coyote look—she couldn’t run from that and live with herself.
“Look, I’ve traveled and learned and read plenty of books. I know a few things about the world. I’ve talked to sea captains and lawyers and horse breeders and professors and a passel of noblemen from here to Rome, Italy.”
“I bet you have.” His mouth quirked up into a wicked smile that hit her pulse like a hammer. “And I bet every damned one of them wanted to do this—”
His lips came down on hers and her whole body caught fire. The heat welled from deep in her body to explode and spread quickly under her skin. She had no more chance of stopping it than she had of heading off a stampede of longhorns by waving a hankie. When she slid her arms up and around his neck and pressed her body against him, the rumble from his chest could have been a taunt of victory, but in her steam-filled head it sounded more like hungry approval.
His supple lips drew hers into luscious, ever-changing combinations that spread pleasure through every denied and long-suffering part of her. Her determination melted. Her skin came alive, tingling, yearning, needing exactly what she had sworn to abstain from until she was safely married.
The bookcase behind her began to creak and she could hear the slide and plop of books falling over as she was pressed back against the shelves. She ended the kiss to take a breath and glimpsed his arms braced wide on either side of her and his hands fiercely clasping the wooden shelves. It took a minute for her to realize he gripped the shelves to avoid touching her.
Surprised, she looked up into his face.
His eyes shone, but in them she saw no taunt or ridicule, no gloating at having aroused her. She saw only wanting. She’d heard it called a dozen things, most in nervous leering or self-righteous condemnation: the itch, desire, craving, lust, hunger, wanting, lechery, heat, the burning. All of that was in his eyes, but there was more, something deeper and more important than just physical pleasure. There was need.
His lips covered hers again, inundating that thought with waves of sensation that made her sigh against his mouth and mold eagerly against his body. This time his hands came, too. His touch was gentle as he traced her curves at first, but grew firmer, more possessive as he pulled her tighter against him. The quiet hum of his chest against hers relayed the pleasure he found in exploring her shape. She wanted more, needed him against her bare—
Approaching voices froze them lips to lips, bodies pressed hard together. She pushed him back, breathless with panic. Before she could manage a word, he grabbed her by the arm and pulled her around the bookcase and out of sight of Huxley, the countess, and whoever else had just entered the hall.
“Well,”—she heard the countess—“where did they go?”
“Ashton?” Huxley called out. “Where the devil are you?”
She clapped a hand over her kiss-swollen lips and stared at Ashton with wide eyes. He grabbed the biggest book he could find from the shelves around them and shoved it into her hands.
“Here, Huxley.” He stuck his head around the end of the row of bookcases. “Trying to find the latest Burke’s. Much of the stuff on the shelves is refuse . . . useless and inaccurate. . . schoolboy scribbling. Yet, they store your precious primary sources in a charwoman’s closet.”
“Well, I’ve brought the head librarian here to see and account for such shabby treatment,” the professor said with indignation.
“About time.” Ashton strolled out of the stacks with an open volume in his hand. “Inspect, if you will, the professor’s life’s work, sir. And explain, if you can, the carelessness with which such precious sources have been curated.”
The head librarian was a portly, well-starched fellow used to holding his own with the nobs and swells of his world. Daisy peered through a crack above the books as he stretched his portly neck past his starched collar and collected his dignity.
“I am certain the misplacement of Professor Huxley’s materials can be explained by our shortage of storage and display space. A regrettable situation, surely, but one that can be remedied.”
What followed was a loud and furious discussion of the importance of various documents and books and the manner in which they should be held.
Daisy pressed icy hands to her flushed cheeks and calmed her breathing, grateful for the chance to regain her composure. She spotted an opening at the far end of the rank of bookcases, slipped through it, and walked down the rank of farther bookcases toward the center aisle. She exited looking down, as if she were engrossed in the massive volume in her hands. The countess noticed her, but turned back to the confrontation, and she noticed Uncle Red standing not far away with his fists clinched in anticipation, itching to see fists fly.
Relieved to be spared their scrutiny, she closed the book and joined watching the conflict. The librarian finally had enough and stalked out with the professor close behind. The assistant librarian looked to Lord Ashton as if awaiting instructions, so Ashton gave him some.
“We need unbleached cotton vellum, and plenty of it.”
The man hurried out the rear of the hall, and Lord Ashton turned to look through the folios, selecting two that had suffered only minor damage.
“What are you doing?” she asked, putting a table between them as she watched.
“These folios hold a small portion of the letters the professor has collected and studied over the years.” He pointed to elegant numerals painted on the bottom of one packet. “These are all marked with the years your Lady Charlottes lived. Some bear the royal seal and others the mark of noble houses. Some are official correspondence and others are personal. We shall have to go through them one by one if you want to uncover any possible links to your ancestry.”
“We?” She propped hands on her waist. “You intend to search, too?”
He paused to study her irritable question, then produced one of those slow smiles that never failed to weaken her knees.
“I do.” He raised one eyebrow. “And believe me, that is the first time I have ever spoken those two words to a lady.”
A second later, Uncle Red guffawed and the countess hid a quiet laugh behind a hand.
Daisy sat down furiously at the table and reached for one of the folios of letters. He put a hand out to stop her from opening it until she’d heard his rules for the proper handling of such old and important documents. By the time he finished she was ready to chew saddle leather and spit tacks.
Whatever his game was, she would bet stacks of silver dollars it wasn’t to help her prove her royal ancestry. That meant she had to watch his every step, his every move. And that meant she was going to be tempted by those devilish eyes and that delicious mouth, again and again.
Curse his hide.
The morning faded into afternoon and the documents piled up. Letters—who knew people wrote so much about so little? Exchanges of property, news of births and deaths and the occasional marriage, visits, and permissions asked and granted. Everything was made to sound important with fancy wording. Worse still, the writing itself was nearly impossible to decipher without help. His help. Ashton had obviously read and interpreted many such documents before—which began to undermine her distrust of his abilities. They took turns reading Huxley’s book regarding the Charlottes and verifying what he said with the letters and documents in the folios.
Late in the day, when lamps had been lit and Uncle Red and the countess both had begun to snore, Daisy looked up from the letter she was trying to decipher and caught him pouring over something with an official-looking seal. It had come from the same folio as the letter she was holding.
“What is that?” she asked, rising with her letter.
“Record of a Royal Navy promotion. Commodore Fitzroy Henry Lee.” He pointed to the name and frowned. “Promoted to vice admiral.”
“Who was he, again? I think he’s in the professor’s book.”
“Charlotte of Lichfield’s son. Her seventh, I believe.” He consulted Huxley’s book. “Yes. Appointed Commodore Governor of Newfoundland, Canada, in 1736.” Then he scowled. “Was removed from that post later,” he read, “accused of drunkenness and debauchery.” He looked back at the warrant of promotion with confusion. “Don’t know how that could be. He was promoted to vice admiral after his dismissal and return to England.”
“Look at this letter . . . from Lady Charlotte to an F-somebody. I can make out some of it. She’s writing about temperament or something. And ‘integrity and duty’ over something.”
Reluctantly, he dragged his attention from the warrant to the letter. She retreated to her chair, arching her back to relieve the strain, and watched him devour the script. He was truly interested in this search, she realized, or at least in the history it resurrected. He’d apparently spent a great deal of time at the university deciphering and studying old papers. It seemed out of character for a man with such a fast and loose reputation.
He was something of a puzzle, Ashton Graham. Only then did she recall Old Lady Sylvia’s confidence in his ability to discern the truth of her heritage. What was it she called him? For the life of her, she couldn’t recall.
“Good God.” His exclamation brought her back to the present. “It’s a letter from Lady Charlotte to her son ‘Fitz.’ And from the sound of things she wasn’t happy with him. She’s talking about his removal from the governorship in Newfoundland.”
He read slowly: “‘Intemperance has ever been your downfall. But if you will return to the true faith and change your ways, you may still recover your reputation. You still enjoy our uncle’s favor—if you would but seek to do the honorable thing, and in the matter of the child, do as integrity and duty require, you may yet be restored to the bosom of your family and country.’”
Daisy winced. “Child? Does she mean his child?”
“Huxley’s book lists him without any offspring.” He looked thoughtful. “But apparently he was something of a high-liver and a heavy drinker. Who knows what he got up to in the colonies?”
“So hard-drinkin’ Fitz got booted out of Canada in disgrace and went home, where his uncle got him promoted? Who was his uncle?”
“She said ‘our’ uncle,” Ashton replied, glancing at the warrant. “He was apparently Charlotte’s uncle as well. That can only be one person: James the Second, the king himself. Huxley says Charlotte was known to be his favorite niece among all of Charles’s children. He was very fond of her and her children, so perhaps he intervened to clear Fitz’s record and give him this promotion.”
“But there was something about a child. Was that in Canada? Did he have a child while he was in America?”
“Good question.” He began to look through the other letters and documents in the folio. She came around the table to look over his shoulder as he read aloud. Most of the letters were to Charlotte from her daughters and sons, but occasionally a letter from Charlotte to one of her children surfaced. At the very bottom of the folio was a small piece of paper written in masculine hand . . . the name of a church . . . with numbers and a date . . . attached to a name. Gemma Rose Howard.
“What could that be?” she asked, seeing nothing of value in it. But it had been included with family letters and preserved.
Ashton studied it, and then looked at her with an intensity that set her back a few inches.
“I believe it’s a parish registry citation.” He pointed a gloved finger at the line. “Temple Church . . . thirty-six is likely a volume number, ninety-one would indicate a page, and the date of entry is October third, 1747. There are two ‘Temple’ churches that I know of, one in London, and another, older one in Bristol. It would make more sense for it to reference Bristol, if it is tied to Fitz. The city is a major port for the Royal Navy, a place that Fitz would have spent time. And that ‘Temple’ is one of the oldest churches in England.”
“A registry for what?” she asked, sensing that this might prove more important than she realized.
“Marriages and deaths.” He paused, and then as he said the final word, she understood. “And births.”
“So someone named Gemma Rose Howard is registered there. Maybe that rascal Fitz married her there.”
He cracked a half smile. “If it were a marriage, I believe both parties would be listed in the citation. There is only one name, so I would be willing to bet it is a birth or a death.”
“Do you suppose they still have those records?”
“It’s a very old church, and such records are not always kept under the best of conditions. But it is possible they’re still available.”
“And how would I find out if they are?”
“You could write the dean of the parish or vicar to ask for answers. But even if they grant your request, which could take weeks or months, you can’t count on a thorough or verifiable search.” He studied her upturned face. “The only way to be certain you get the proper information is to go to Bristol and search the records yourself. And should you need reminding, you have a mere eleven days left to produce some proof of a noble connection.”
“Do you think . . . is it possible that we might find proof of a connection in this Gemma Rose Howard?”
“All of the other children of both Charlottes are accounted for in Burke’s or in the professor’s work. The errant admiral may be your best chance at a connection. But, who knows who Gemma Howard was or why she was included in this batch of documents?”
This close to him, her skin had begun to itch in alarming places and her gaze fixed on his mouth like a honeybee on a flower. She swallowed hard, trying to force her mind past this momentary distraction. He was sensual and wicked—an invitation to sin that she could not accept.
“Daisy, Daisy . . . you have no idea what you’re getting yourself into,” he said softly, running a knuckle down the side of her face.
“Why do you keep trying to talk me out of marrying your brother?” she said, trying for more irritation than she was able to muster.
“The title ‘duke’ is not just part of a man’s name or a pronouncement of his authority; it is a designation that defines his entire world. It’s land and estates and the people who work for and tend them. It’s a never-ending stream of obligations and duties to people both above and below your station. It’s a deluge of debts and taxes and legal requirements, contracts, and entailments. It’s a whole extended family—those long-since born and those yet to come—attached to and dependent on one man’s fortunes and decisions. Everything he has, everything he does, everything he is must serve his obligations, his heritage. And everyone in his life serves that blessed title as well.”
“Even his younger brother?” she asked, searching his face and finding there a raw bit of truth she hadn’t expected.
* * *
“Especially his younger brother,” Ashton answered, feeling those words resonating deep within him. “A younger son studies and trains and prepares for power . . . then spends his days marking time . . . waiting . . . hoping the time never comes that he must step into his brother’s shoes. That is the lot of the ‘spare’ to the title. Wanting it, but afraid of wanting it.” His eyes clouded. “I have spent my whole life serving my brother’s title as his second . . . a stand-in that has never been required, and one I pray is never needed.
“Arthur may be myopic, boring, and oblivious to most of humanity’s doings, but he has a good heart and a sound intellect, should he ever decide to use it for something besides bug classifications. He was trained to do his duty as the Duke of Meridian and will someday rise to that mantle. But it will take everything he has to fulfill a role he neither wants nor feels confident in.”
“What are you saying?” She stirred, on the edge of insight, searching. “You think you’d make a better duke than he would?”
The heaviness in Ashton’s chest slid deeper inside him. His lecture had brought up all-too-familiar feelings of being resigned to his fate and yet restless and miserable within it. He gave a rueful smile.
“I would never say that. I have no desire for my brother’s coronet.”
Was she standing closer? Were the blue eyes prying into his soul reaching for more than just—
“Then what do you desire, Ashton Graham?”