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.

“Helena …”

“Never you mind,” Helena said, trying to sound matter-of-fact. “We won’t speak of it.”

“That’s not—”

“Ah, there you are, Ash.” Guy Lovell stepped through a doorway with his usual vivacity. “Thought you lost in the dark. Your aunt is hunting for you.” He caught sight of Helena and bowed. “Mrs. Courtland. Forgive me, I did not see you there.” He looked Helena up and down, eyes glittering with interest.

Ash scowled, but Helena began chattering before he could speak. “Of course, you must go to your aunt, Ashford. And mind what I said about the lanterns and too many sparks. The garden should resemble a paradise of fairies, not be forbidding, like in a novel from Minerva Press. Tell the footmen.”

She lifted her head and swept past Guy, giving him a little nod as she went. Helena felt Guy’s knowing gaze on her back, and the more intense one of Ash.

Somehow, she made it into the warmth of the house but she did not stop until she reached a withdrawing room. There she sank down and stuck out one damp foot, the beads on her slippers coated with mud.

“I knew it. Ruined.”

Then for some unaccountable reason, she burst into tears.

ASH DID NOT SEE Helena for the remainder of the night. She managed to elude him at every turn, and finally he stopped himself pursuing her. Guy already guessed something had happened between them, and Ash did not need to give his friend more fuel for gossip.

He moved through the rest of the ball in a haze, avoiding more dancing by securing himself in the card room. In his distracted state, he lost every game but paid over his losses without fuss.

When the interminable ball was over, and the final guests at last departed, Helena long gone, Ash threw himself into bed, but sleep eluded him. He did not so much relive the kiss as be submersed in it, feeling Helena’s warmth around him, her scent, the press of her body, the taste of her mouth. The sensations gripped him and would not let him go.

He rose early the next morning and groggily plunged into the business of the estate, taking himself to its far corners, inspecting cottages and farms. At one point Ash stripped off his coat to assist roofers hauling thatch into place.

His mind remained so full of Helena—the way her mouth softened to his kiss, her fingers pressing his shoulders, her body pliant in his arms—that he forgot the most basic things, like resuming his coat after the thatching, and riding off straight into the rain.

The result was, the next day, a very unromantic cold in the head that did not let him out of bed. Aunt Florence and Edwards, in great alarm, sent for a physician. The long-faced doctor examined him and proclaimed that the Duke of Ashford was very ill indeed and should make certain his affairs were in order.




CHAPTER 5




“DYING?” Helena stared at Millicent, her heart compressing into a cold knot of fear.

Millicent, her cap trimmed with so many ribbons they careened when she so much as breathed, nodded. “I had it from my lady’s maid, who had it from Ashford’s aunt’s maid, who says he’s flat in bed and cannot rise. A physician bled him and dosed him, and proclaimed there was nothing more to be done.”

Helena had been sipping tea with Millicent and fidgeting, unable to settle herself. Now she rose, hand on her throat.

“Nothing more to be done, my foot. I wager one of my concoctions will do the trick. I must go to him at once.”

Helena called for Evans and hurried to the kitchens and the old-fashioned still room, where herbs were dried and home remedies for everything from an annoying itch to croup were prepared.

She seized herbs, licorice, honey, and brandy willy-nilly, for a moment unable to remember what went into her mixtures and how much. Fortunately, Evans helped Helena shake together the correct ingredients and pour the results into clean bottles. All went into Helena’s basket, along with fresh baked bread and grapes—perfect foods for lightening the humors.

Helena bundled up against the cold that had engulfed Somerset and sent for Millicent’s landau to trundle her down the lane and across the park to Ashford’s mansion.

ASH PRIED OPEN HIS EYES, wincing as the darkness of his bed was pierced by sudden daylight.