Ashton: Lord of Truth (Lonely Lords Book 13) (15 page)

“We were still at war then,” Maggie said as they wandered toward the stairs. “And the military has its share of scandals. Poor old Mad
George was still nominally the sovereign, while Prinny engaged in unbridled foolishness.”

With Mad George’s death, the Regent—also named George—was on the throne, though he got little credit for what sense and wisdom he had.

“Fenwick said this scandal likely involved a woman, possibly a married woman.”

“He’s selected a bride, then, or the next thing to it. Better still, she’s from an appropriate strata of society.”

At the foot of the stairs, Benjamin stopped to regard his lady by the light of the sconces. “How can you know such a thing? Fenwick might be
indulging idle curiosity, chasing down a rumor at his family’s request, or gathering intelligence on a business associate.”

Maggie started up the steps, counting off on her fingers. “First, he came to London to find a bride and only to find a bride. He’s not looking
for investments, and his family doesn’t move in polite circles as their English counterparts might. Second, the scandal involves a lady, and Fenwick
has a protective streak that rivals the North Sea for width and depth. Third, only ladies—proper, genteel, sheltered ladies—get involved in
scandals. Laundresses, alewives, and fishmongers can do as they please. Fenwick might not even realize the extent to which his affections are
engaged.”

“Some of us resist engaging our affections,” Benjamin said, opening the door to their apartment, “because we’re stubborn and
foolish.”

“I wasn’t stubborn or foolish,” Maggie retorted, preceding him through the door. “I was cautious and slow to trust. We are married
now, are we not?”

“The signal blessing of my otherwise dull and unremarkable existence,” Benjamin said. “You’ve given me an idea.”

“I do so love when you get ideas, Benjamin.”

“With you for an inspiration, my love, ideas are inevitable. This idea concerns Fenwick.”

“We ought to call him Kilkenney,” Maggie said, locking the sitting room door. “He should use the title when referring to himself.”

“I’ll take him with me to the next court levee. Once he’s been through that ordeal, he’ll forget all about burned steak, neglected
donkeys, and old scandal. Even the Duke of Moreland’s ballroom will be no challenge for him after he’s been inspected by the king
himself.”

Maggie’s papa might own one of the finest ballrooms in the land, but the Duchess of Moreland ruled over that ballroom. Sooner or later, Fenwick would
have to make his bow to Benjamin’s in-laws, and then the matchmaking would begin in earnest.

When Maggie cuddled close, something else began in earnest behind Benjamin’s falls, and the problem of Ashton Fenwick, his unusual tiger, and his
interest in old gossip was forgotten until long after the moon had risen.

Bad luck had allowed Ashton Fenwick to catch a glimpse of Kitty, and worse luck yet had apparently informed him that Matilda would do anything to preserve
the child’s happiness.

“That little girl,” Matilda said, “is nobody you need to be concerned about. She’s thriving, content, and safe, for now.”

Ashton looped an arm around Matilda’s shoulders. “She’s your strength and your vulnerability. That’s how it is when you love
somebody. My sister-in-law has quite a temper. She’ll tear a strip off me most days of the week for singing in the library, wearing boots to dinner,
ruining my nieces’ supper. I love her scolds, because they mean she’s not truly upset.”

Ashton loved this sister-in-law, and he wasn’t ashamed of that sentiment. Didn’t mince past it as if sneaking an extra apple tart from the
larder.

“You love her for finding fault with you?”

“She’s no’ finding fault. She’s taking me in hand, for, as she says, somebody must. When Alyssa is quiet, when she won’t even
look at me, I can’t stand it. I’ll do anything to earn her forgiveness. The same malady in a more severe version plagues my brother, for Ewan
and Alyssa were and are a love match. She’s a grand woman and always a lady. She amazes me.”

This panegyric for a woman Matilda would never meet caused both heartache and wonder. She’d never heard a man wax so openly affectionate about a
female relation, and certainly nobody had ever spoken about Matilda with such affection.

“Are you in love with her?”

“In love—with Alyssa? She’d geld me for even speculating in that direction. Ewan would kill me straight out. If you saw them together,
you’d know that their union is inviolable, though they never dote or fawn on each other in public. Their disagreements are high drama, and then they
disappear into their apartment for twelve straight hours while I reassure my wee nieces they haven’t been orphaned.”

His nieces would believe him, when they’d have no such faith in their nurses and nannies.

“I can’t imagine that type of warmth between family members. Can’t grasp that it might exist.”

At one time, Matilda had hoped, if not for affection, then for at least cordial regard from her husband. That hope had lasted mere days after her wedding.
She’d conveniently forgotten it had ever plagued her.  

Ashton kissed her temple. “Such familial bonds exist, and they’re the only thing that makes life bearable sometimes. A bastard learns that
lesson. The rules, the proprieties, the legalities, they matter naught compared to the love.”

The sky held only the last vestiges of light. Even if somebody were spying over the garden wall, they’d not see Matilda stealing these moments with
her lodger.  

She kissed Ashton’s cheek, and he regarded her in the shadows. “Much more of that, and we’ll be discussing a different kind of warmth,
Matilda Bryce.”

How Matilda hated that name. She kissed Ashton again, at the corner of his mouth.

With him, the two kinds of love, familial and intimate, could exist in harmony. He would love his wife as he’d love a dear friend, and he’d
desire her as he yearned for a lover. Ashton Fenwick, whether because of his bastard upbringing, his maturity, or his inherent nature, had the courage to
love all at once, not in stingy pieces and reluctant morsels.

“I want—” Matilda managed before finding his mouth again.

He smiled against her lips. “You want me?”

She wanted so much. She wanted the sanctuary of his arms, the pleasure of his kisses, the joy of his passion.

“I shouldn’t,” Matilda said, her mouth a half inch from his. She could feel his heat, smell the combination of soap and horse that
characterized him at the end of a day.

“Why not?” he replied, kneading the muscles at the nape of her neck. “Why not have some pleasure, Matilda? I’ll be careful, and in
the morning nothing will have changed. The terms of my lease remain in full force and effect. Your ownership of the house isn’t jeopardized.”

Her heart would be jeopardized. “If I do this with you, I’ll regret it.”

This
. A euphemism for the biggest risk she’d taken in six years and the most mundane of human pleasures, shared by couples dwelling in shepherd’s
huts and palaces.

Ashton sat back, keeping his arm around her. “Will you regret it more if you don’t?”

His question landed in the middle of whirling thoughts, like a bucket of water tossed on a Catherine wheel. Whatever else was true, Matilda was a widow and
free to share her favors as she pleased. Even polite society accorded a discreet woman that much latitude.

“My hesitation has to do with hope,” Matilda said, closing her eyes and leaning her head back against Ashton’s arm. Hope that she could
not afford to nurture, though she didn’t examine too closely what that hope might entail.

A passing pleasure with Ashton Fenwick couldn’t amount to anything. If the past six years had taught Matilda anything, it was that hoping was a waste
of courage.

Ashton scooped her into his lap as easily as Matilda might have picked up Solomon when he was in a willing mood.

“Your hesitation, for which I esteem you, has to do with fear. If you find a space between duty and propriety to take a little pleasure for yourself,
will your self-respect remain intact? One doesn’t want to part with self-respect lightly. If it matters, I very much respect you, regardless of your
choice. I daresay Pippa and Helen share my opinion.”

But did Matilda have the courage to seize what she wanted without feeling ashamed and hesitant? For six years, she’d been vigilant, self-reliant, and
unceasingly careful.

And lonely.
So lonely, she’d begun to wonder what all her caution and tenacity was for. The voice of despair whispered that Kitty was well cared for, and even if
Matilda lasted the next 346 days, what could a woman in hiding do for a young girl dwelling in the household of an earl?

A relatively impoverished woman whose best hope was a life of quiet disgrace.

Ashton apparently didn’t expect Matilda to reply. He instead recommenced kissing her, on the mouth, the brow, the jaw. His kisses were sweet and
gentle, but Matilda was sitting in his lap, and she’d been married for three interminable years.  

He was growing aroused.

As was Matilda. She at first didn’t recognize what the restlessness and agitation were, but when Ashton settled a hand on her breast, her discontent
eased.

So this is desire.
Madness and pleasure in a perfect balance, blended with longing, joy, and a hint of anxiety.

“Relax, Matilda. You own this house.” Ashton spoke metaphorically, but the warmth of his breath on her neck was very real.

Matilda did own the house, and her body, and her future, at least until Drexel found her. She did not own Ashton Fenwick and would see the last of him in
mere days.

She scooted around until she was comfortable in his arms and kissed him back as if his departure were in the next hour, not the next week. He growled a
happy, soft growl and gathered her close, and for the first time in six years—for the first time
ever
—Matilda said yes to her own
pleasure.

“Uncle thinks I’m a fool,” Stephen said, tracing a fingernail around the inlay on a chased silver bottle of sand. By the candlelight in
Basingstoke’s office, the pattern in the metal appeared to shimmer and dance. “I want you to find the missing heiress, the sooner the better.
Step-mama would never go far from the girl, and Uncle ought to know that.”

Damon Basingstoke wasn’t like most other solicitors Stephen had come across. No prosperous paunch, no ostentatious side-whiskers, and what clerks he
had were kept mostly out of sight in a back room, not arrayed about in a front room for clients to count or send out for coffee.

Basingstoke was the youngest exponent of a firm that had served the Derrick family for generations, and in Stephen’s opinion, he was very much a
modern man, willing to meet even after hours if necessary to accommodate a client’s needs.  

Stephen did his best thinking after hours. Always had. Any who doubted that could ask his mistresses.

“What is the urgency of this search?” Basingstoke replied, steepling his fingers. “While your step-mother—possibly your late
step-mother—remains unaccounted for, you have the benefit of her portion of the inheritance as managed by your uncle. He’s not afraid to look
after his own funds, which too many of his ilk think beneath them, and you stand to come by a significant sum in less than a year.”

Basingstoke was a bit rough around the edges, and his sense of fashion missed elegant by a few details. He had the gold watch—a man who billed
clients for his time would need a reliable watch, after all. Nonetheless, his cuff links were onyx rather than gold, and he didn’t bother with a
cravat pin.

A mistake, that. A cravat pin could make a man’s ensemble. Brummel had declared it so years ago, and nobody had dared contradict him just because his
fashion sense had nearly landed him in debtors’ prison.

Basingstoke also lacked Stephen’s aristocratic Saxon coloring. The solicitor’s hair was dark, as were his eyes. He was on the tall side, an
inch or two taller than Stephen. A bit too tall, in other words.

“What is the urgency?” Stephen snapped. “There’s the girl, for one thing. She’s costing me money. Uncle claims he’s
using his own funds to look after her, but that’s a lie. He’s using Step-mama’s portion of the estate, and using it lavishly, which means
he’s using money I stand to inherit. I suspect that governess is simply an overworked mistress. No governess should be that pretty or that
happy.”

Basingstoke studied the chandelier above, which flickered in some stray night breeze.  

“I am a family solicitor, Mr. Derrick,” he said. “My role is to advance the best interests of the family within the guidelines
established by my father as owner of this firm. That means the earldom’s concerns take precedence over your own. Lord Drexel has instructed me to
remain alert for any sign of your step-mother and professes concern for her. I can be particularly vigilant in that regard without a conflict of interest.
If the family’s financial arrangements are not to your liking, you will have to take that up with your uncle.”

Stephen set the bottle of sand on the solicitor’s blotter and took a seat. The chairs lacked padding, another oversight a more genteel businessman
would have noticed.

“I’m not asking you to set yourself against my uncle.” That was exactly Stephen’s agenda. “I’m asking you to find a
well-born, wrongly accused, sheltered young lady who has been fending for herself for far too long. If she will accept the protection of her late
husband’s family, we can clear up all that nonsense about Papa’s death, divide his estate, and get on with our lives.”

Get on with spending all that lovely money.  

“I will continue to look diligently for your missing relation, Mr. Derrick. You do know that the law prohibits you from marrying your
step-mother?”

Step-mama had been pretty six years ago. Stephen had considered marrying her, but there would be settlements, and settlements often resulted in trusts, and
trustees. Uncle would circle like a vulture over a fresh carcass, and Stephen had had enough of Uncle’s interference.