His Grace’s study was on the second floor, above his private dining room. The duke’s bedchamber was the next floor up, she knew. He slept well above the street and exactly beneath the nursery.

Helena tapped on the door of the study and admitted herself when she heard Ash’s distracted, “Come.”

Helena entered a chamber lined with bookcases, books piled across the tops of those already filling the shelves. She’d always known the duke was a reader, though when he found the time, she could not imagine. He did read to his children, they had told her. Interesting books too—an admirable trait in an otherwise inflexible man.

Ashford did not look up from the papers he read at his desk, so Helena said brightly, “Good evening, Your Grace.”

Ashford jerked his head up then came to his feet with comical rapidness, his hard face turning as red as Henry’s. “What the devil? Madam, these are my private rooms and you have no appointment.”

He was struggling to remain civil and barely winning the fight. My, my—would he stoop to bodily pushing her out of his house?

And could Helena stop him? Not really. He’d be considered wholly justified in ejecting an intruder, and there were those who found Helena a bit forward for a woman.

She should fear him—she’d observed his strength—but she did not. Strange. Helena might be foolish in her courage, but so be it.

“I believe I told you I would call this evening,” she said. “We must discuss your children’s request. Not a bad thing, Your Grace, for you to find a wife. I grew up with only a father for many years, and it was a relief when he wedded again. Indeed, my stepmother and I have become great friends.”

“I know.” Ashford’s lips thinned. “The pair of you natter at the theatre. I hear you—your box is next to mine.”

“I only natter, as you call it, when the play is deplorable. When we have fine actors and excellent singing, we listen most attentively. Now.” Helena removed a paper from her reticule and bravely approached the desk. “I would not presume to push you into encounters with these ladies without your approval, so I have made a list for you to look over beforehand.”

“Mrs. Courtland.”

Helena looked up to find His Grace standing tall and stiff beside her. “Yes?”

“You will take your list and your good self and remove both from my house. My son had no business approaching you, and you will forget all about this foolishness. I will explain to him why he is wrong.”

Helena pictured young Lewis as his father sternly instructed him to stay out of his affairs. The lad would be humiliated, embarrassed, hurt. Her resolve increased.

“Perhaps you could listen for a fraction of a moment, Your Grace. Your son only wishes to see you happy. You cannot tell me that walking to and from Pall Mall every day with never a deviation—for years—can make a person happy. A walking corpse, you are, never looking from side to side. A winter snowstorm, a spring shower, a fine summer day are all the same to you. You never leave London—it isn’t healthy for children to stay here in the heat. You should be at your country house in the summer, where they can ride and run and play.”

Helena ran out of breath, knowing she’d gone too far, but she squared her shoulders. She’d only spoken the truth.

“Mayfair is a perfectly fine place,” Ashford countered. “In all seasons. But I do not need to justify my choices—it is my business, madam, and none of yours.”

“If only you were involved, I’d gladly leave you to walk yourself to death. You must have worn a groove in the pavement between here and St. James’s by now. But you force your children to live as you do, and they are miserable.”

“And they are my children.” Ashford took another step closer, his body tight. “They will not remain here forever—Lewis will be off to school and the girls will have a governess and be trained at my estate in Somerset before they enter their Seasons. All has been provided for, you needn’t worry.”

“So you will pack them off like unwanted parcels?”

Ashford’s usually cool voice rose. “Which do you want, madam? For them to stay here and be miserable in London, or off to the country? You are objecting to both.”

Helena waited impatiently until he finished. “Of course I am objecting to both. The children have no say in the matter, do they? Cooped up in London or shunted away, when all they want is to be with their father. If they had a mother, they wouldn’t have to be alone—or perhaps you are too stubborn to understand that.”

“Any woman I married wouldn’t be their mother. No one else can ever be.”

His voice cracked the tiniest bit, and Helena softened a fraction.

“Well, of course not. But she can be their friend, someone they can turn to. Like my stepmother and me. Not exactly like us, you understand, because my father married a lady but two years my senior, and Lily is only seven.” She touched her list. “Now then, Hannah Werner, the Honorable Miss. Her father is Viscount Cosgrove as you know. A bit of a stickler, but he could have no objection to his daughter marrying you. I hear she is very shy, but you already have an heir, so you wouldn’t need to bother with siring more. She could be more a companion than for strengthening the bloodline.”

Ashford went a peculiar shade of red. “For God’s sake—”

“Lady Megan Winter’s family is even more blue-blooded than yours, I believe. The Earls of Rutledge have been around since the Conquest, and they let no one forget it. Megan is sweet, however, and she’s fond of children.”

“You are not going to leave off, are you?” Ashford’s gray eyes were stormy. His morning shave had long worn off, his dark whiskers catching the lamplight.

“I was commissioned by his young lordship, and no, I am not. Next is Miss Lucy Howard. She is much younger than the others, but she’s got a good head on her shoulders, nothing of the flighty miss about her. A lady will need backbone to stand up to you.”

“Why would she have to stand up to me?” Ashford demanded. “A wife knows her duty to her husband and her place in the household—there is no reason to have an argument about it.”

Helena dropped the paper to the desk. “Oh dear. You haven’t had much experience of women, have you?”

“I was married, madam,” Ashford said, thin-lipped. “For seven years. My house was peaceful.”

“Yes …” Helena cocked her head. She had been acquainted with Olivia, Duchess of Ashford, who’d been rather in awe of her formidable husband. Losing Olivia had been painful for him, so Helena decided to keep her opinions of the lady’s timidity to herself. “Mmm.”

“And will be peaceful again once you are gone,” Ashford concluded. “Good night, Mrs. Courtland.”

Helena didn’t move. “Deadly silent is not the same thing as peaceful. You do know that your children worry about raising their voices when you are home? Apparently, you growl when your routine is disturbed.”

“Absolute nonsense.”

“You see? You are growling even now.” Helena touched a finger to her chin. “I knew it would be a challenging task when Lewis asked me, but I did not realize you would be quite so difficult. I see I will have to ease you into the subject.”

“No, indeed, the subject is closed.” Ashford straightened to his full height, his entire attention on her. Rather unnerving, that. “Return home, Mrs. Courtland. I will explain to Lewis that this idea is more than ridiculous.”

“More than ridiculous? Good heavens. That is quite a lot of ridiculousness, if you think it through. They are only worried for you, Your Grace, as you sit here alone night after night. I think of you, you know, on the other side of the wall from me, absorbed in your papers while life in all its colors flows past you, unnoticed.”

Anger flashed in Ash’s gray eyes. “What I do in my study is life, madam. I help run the nation.”

“The nation is full of people, laughing, talking, going to plays, helping each other, but of course you take no notice unless they are figures on a piece of paper.”

“You have no idea what you are talking about. This conversation is—”

“More than ridiculous?” Helena sent him a determined smile. “You will have to come up with another adjective. Let us think of some. Ludicrous, preposterous, absurd, farcical …”

“All of those,” Ashford said in a near shout. “I am finished with it. Good night, Mrs. Courtland.”

He loomed over her, eyes blazing, like a ghost in her favorite shivery novel. Ashford, however, was very much alive, with his tall frame, flushed face, and dark hair mussed by fingers absently pushing through it as he worked.

Goodness, it was warm in here.

Ashford could have rung for his manservant or a footman to eject her, but he did not. He only glared at her, leaving it up to Helena to depart instead of embarrassing her by tossing her out. He did have some manners.

Or perhaps he was simply too angry to think. Helena heaved a sigh.

“Very well. It is growing late. I will leave you to contemplate what I’ve said. Study the list tonight, and we can discuss it later.”

Ashford growled. An actual growl, an animal-like sound in his throat. He snatched the list from the desk, stalked to the fireplace, and thrust it into the flames.

He turned around and resumed his glare at Helena, like a lion both irritated and smug that he’d bested her.

Helena sent him a pitying look. “I did, of course, make a copy for myself. I will bring another tomorrow, and I suggest you read it. When you meet the ladies in question, it will be better for you to have consulted my notes.”

The lion finally roared. “I will not meet them, I will not consult your be-damned notes, and never again will we speak of this. Now, leave my house. At once!”