Chapter Six
The morning of the twenty-seventh dawned unseasonably warm, as though spring had decided to arrive a full month early.
Henry stood at his study window, watching pale sunlight gild the lawn, and tried to shake the restlessness that had plagued him since Sophia had agreed to marry him.
He’d barely slept the night before. Every time he’d closed his eyes, he’d seen her face across the dinner table—the firelight catching in her hair, the way her eyes had filled with tears when he’d told her about Eleanor, the quiet strength in her voice when she’d confessed her own assault.
She haunted him, and he didn’t know what to make of it.
A sharp knock interrupted his brooding. “Come.”
Grimshaw entered, bearing a silver salver with a single letter. “From London, my lord. The Duke of Ashford’s seal.”
Henry’s heartbeat stuttered. He took the letter with hands that weren’t quite steady. “Thank you, Grimshaw. That will be all.”
When the butler withdrew, Henry broke the seal and unfolded the pages. Sebastian’s handwriting was bold and decisive.
Montrose Manor, Kent
24th February 1819
Lord Montrose,
Your letter arrived this morning and I confess my wife and I read it twice through, hardly believing our good fortune—or rather, Sophia’s.
When we asked our sister to come to London for her Season, we hoped she might find a gentleman worthy of her.
We did not dare hope she had already found him in Kent, caring for the child she clearly loves as her own.
I must confess to feeling guilty about insisting she have a Season, knowing how she felt about Amelia.
I hope you can understand why I wanted her to have her rightful place in society and do not think ill of me.
Though we have met only briefly at various society functions in London, I have always taken favorable note of your character and conduct.
My recent inquiries into your circumstances have only strengthened that impression.
More importantly, the evident sincerity of your feelings for my sister and your devotion to your niece recommend you as a man I would be proud to call brother.
My wife insists I convey that she wept with joy upon reading your letter.
Rose has long worried that Sophia’s tender heart would make it difficult for her to find a gentleman who truly appreciated her.
Sadly, too many men mistake gentleness for weakness.
That you have seen my sister’s strength, honored her devotion to Amelia, and had the good sense to fall in love with her speaks very well of your judgment indeed.
You have my blessing, enthusiastically given.
My brother James shares my sentiments, and his wife Georgiana has already begun planning how to best celebrate this happy news. We will all descend upon you within two days’ time, prepared to stand witness to what promises to be the beginning of a very happy union.
I am grateful you chose to write to me before the wedding rather than after.
It speaks to your respect for Sophia and for our family.
Be assured that the Ashford name will lend its full support to this marriage.
Should your parents prove… less than welcoming…
upon learning of your choice, you may rely upon me to make clear to any who question it that this match has our family’s complete approval and enthusiastic endorsement.
I look forward to welcoming you as my brother and to meeting the niece who has so thoroughly captured my sister’s heart.
Until we meet in Kent,
Sebastian Ashford
Duke of Ashford
P.S.—Rose asks me to warn you that she is already planning to spoil Amelia beyond all reason. Apparently she has been longing for a little girl to dote upon, and the prospect of a ready-made niece has quite transported her. You have been warned.
Henry let the pages fall to his lap and pressed both hands to his face.
His throat was tight. Sophia had written about Amelia—about her devotion, her tenderness, the depth of her attachment.
And now Sebastian believed Henry felt the same for Sophia.
Rose had wept with joy. Georgiana was already planning.
They all thought this was a love match, a fairy-tale ending for a sister who had suffered more than her share of hardship.
And it was all a carefully constructed fiction.
He forced himself to breathe, to settle. Then he drew fresh paper toward him and dipped his pen in ink.
Montrose Manor, Kent
28th February 1819
Your Grace,
I cannot adequately express my gratitude for your blessing and the warmth with which you have received news of my engagement to your sister. Your confidence in me is both humbling and deeply appreciated.
I give you my word that Sophia’s happiness and welfare will be my constant concern.
She has indeed endured more than her share of hardship, and it is my intention that her life here will be one of security, respect, and genuine affection.
I count myself extraordinarily fortunate that she has agreed to be my wife.
Your family’s willingness to travel to Kent on such short notice is a gift beyond measure. Sophia should be surrounded by those who love her on our wedding day, and I am grateful you will all be present.
Please assure Lady Ashford that her determination to spoil Amelia is most welcome. My niece has known too little family in her short life. I suspect your wife’s attention and the presence of Sophia’s entire family will bring light to this house that has been too long absent.
I look forward to meeting you all and to becoming, in truth, a member of your family.
Henry Montrose
He sealed the letter and set it aside, his gaze lifting to Rebecca’s portrait above the mantel. Forever twenty-two, forever smiling, forever out of reach.
“I’m doing this for Amelia,” he said aloud. “As you would want me to.”
But the words rang hollow.
Was he? Truly? Or was there something else at work—something he wasn’t ready to examine?
The way his pulse had quickened when Sophia laughed at dinner. The protective fury that had seized him when she told him about her assault. The strange disappointment that had lodged in his chest when she’d reiterated that their marriage would be in name only.
He pushed up from the desk and moved to the window again. Below, he could see Sophia and Amelia in the garden, wandering among the early snowdrops. Sophia bent to show the child something, and even from this distance Henry could see Amelia’s delighted response.
In five days, Sophia would be his wife. In five days, she would become Lady Montrose, mistress of this house, mother to Amelia in name as well as practice.
And he would spend the rest of his life married to a woman who deserved far better than a marriage of convenience to a man still grieving his first love.
The thought filled him with something uncomfortably close to regret.
Henry turned from the window and rang for Grimshaw. The letter needed to be sent, the guest rooms needed to be prepared, and he needed to stop standing at windows watching Sophia like some lovesick fool. This was a practical arrangement. Nothing more.
No matter how much his treacherous heart whispered otherwise.
*
The next morning, Henry stepped into the courtyard, shrugging into his coat as Davies followed behind him with gloves and hat in hand.
“Unusually fine weather, my lord,” Davies said, his brown eyes gleaming with that perpetual hint of amusement. “Spring arriving early, it seems.”
“Or winter taking pity on us.” Henry tugged on his gloves. “Is John ready?”
“Waiting with the carriage.” Davies hesitated. “If you’ll forgive my saying so, you seem nervous.”
“I’m going to request a common license to marry my niece’s governess within the week. A certain amount of nervousness is warranted.”
“Your niece’s governess who happens to be a duke’s sister,” Davies corrected. “And whom you’re supposedly madly in love with.”
“Thank you for that reminder.”
Davies offered his hat with a maddeningly neutral expression. “The bishop will want to know why the rush.”
“I’m aware,” Henry muttered. “Which is why I must be convincing.”
“You’ll manage, my lord. You’re a terrible liar in general, but when it comes to Miss Ashford…” Davies tilted his head thoughtfully. “Well. Perhaps it won’t be as much of a lie as you think.”
Henry ignored that entirely. “Let’s go.”
John Marsh stood beside the carriage, face tipped toward the sun like a man starved for warmth. He straightened when Henry approached. “Fine day for a drive, my lord.”
“Indeed.” Henry climbed inside, Davies following. “To Bishop Thornton’s residence.”
The carriage lurched forward. Henry settled back as the countryside rolled past, the gardens showing the first signs of spring—green shoots pushing through the soil, buds swelling, early crocuses brave and bright beneath the sun.
Everything was awakening. Beginning again.
He wished his own heart felt half as orderly.
After several minutes of silence, Davies cleared his throat. “Might I ask what you plan to tell the bishop, my lord?”
“That I’ve fallen in love with Miss Ashford and wish to marry her as soon as possible.”
“And the haste?”
“Her brother has summoned her to London for a Season. If I don’t marry her before she leaves, I risk losing her to some charming London gentleman.”
Davies’s lips twitched. “You’re too modest, my lord. You’re perfectly presentable.”
“Presentable,” Henry echoed. “What glowing praise.”
“And charming enough when you choose to be.”
“Oh yes. I’ll tell the bishop that. ‘Fear not, Your Grace, I’m charming enough when I choose to be.’”
Davies laughed, warm and genuine, easing some of Henry’s tension.
“Miss Ashford certainly seems to think well of you,” Davies added.