Rescued by a Duke (23 page)

Sasha tipped her head as well. "Good day. I'm looking for his grace and was told he was last here, but I cannot find him."

"Good day, your grace. His grace headed up the hill several minutes ago. I haven't seen him come back, so I'm certain you'll find him there."

"Thank you." She and Douglas went past the stable, across a brief expanse of grass, and headed toward the small hill.

As she held her skirts up a bit so she wouldn't trip on her way up the shallow incline, the breeze picked up, blowing tendrils of hair out of the pins holding it in place. She drew her shawl tighter around her shoulders, wishing the sun would come out of its hiding place behind the clouds.

Once she reached the top of the hill, she glanced around, hoping for a glimpse of Garrett.
Where is he?

A movement beneath the branches of a large tree caught her eye. It was Ashe. And wherever Ashe was, there she would find his owner. Sasha hurried toward the horse, but Garrett wasn't there. But he had to be here, didn't he? Somewhere? She stopped, nearly to the horse.
Wait. Why
would
Garrett be way up here?
There wasn't anything to speak of around, just a large expanse of field and a few trees. What could be his possible purpose?

Ashe lifted his head, eyed her, and whinnied. Sasha grinned. "Yes, my friend, I remember you, too. You were a big part in my rescue from the well that day, weren't you?" She patted the large horse on the neck, his hair coarse beneath her fingers.

A rustling to her left startled her. Garrett stood. Why had he been kneeling on the ground?

"Sasha?" Garrett hurried toward her, his arms out, stopping just short of embracing her. He relaxed his arms to his sides and his previous joyful expression drooped. Would Sasha be able to restore his smile with her wonderful news?

Garrett tilted his head. "I'm surprised you're here." He angled a glance behind him and then back at her. "Is something amiss? You must be feeling better after Dr. Fremont's visit. Are you well?"

The weight of remorse crushed Sasha. Oh how she had treated him! This man meant her no harm. He loved her. It was obvious from the light in his eyes as he searched her face for answers. "I am well, Garrett."

Her husband's facial muscles relaxed, as if he could collapse with relief. "I'm so pleased to hear it. I was quite worried." He swallowed. "And… again, I'm sorry for—"

Sasha held up a hand. "No. You don't need to be sorry any longer. You apologized. I should have taken you at your word. I'm the one who's sorry."

Garrett stepped closer. He reached his hands toward hers, but didn't touch her. "May I?"

Sasha nodded. It reminded her of when he'd rescued her, when he'd come to the bedroom days later and requested to hold her hand. Memories of their time together rushed back, flooding her heart with joy. As his warm hands held hers, she sighed. It seemed so long, too long, since she'd been comforted by his touch.
Don't wait any longer. Tell him the news!
She glanced up, delighted at his smile. She opened her mouth, ready to say the words about to burst from her lips.

Garrett squeezed her hands, released one, and tugged lightly on the other, pulling her forward. "Come with me, Sasha. I have something to show you."

Garrett seemed so excited about whatever it was, she didn't have the heart to interrupt him. Hadn't she put him through enough? "All right." He led her a few yards away. They walked around the base of a large tree. There lay a large stone. She hadn't noticed it before from where she'd stood behind the tree trunk. Sasha studied the stone. It was a tombstone. But who—?

He tugged on her hand again, leading her around to the other side of the stone. Sasha gasped. An inscription on the stone read:

In memory of Samuel Douglas

Beloved brother of Her Grace Sasha Cantlebury, Duchess of Ravensworth

May he rest in peace with God's angels
.

Sasha touched her cheek to find tears. "Oh, Garrett." She dashed them away with her other hand. What her husband had given her was a precious gift. He truly did understand her love for her brother.

Garrett frowned. "Oh, I didn't mean for you to cry."

"I'm not upset. I just… it's just so… touching."

Garrett moved to stand behind her as they gazed at the tombstone. He drew her close against him and wrapped her in an embrace. "I'm so glad it pleases you, darling. I just wanted you to know that I do indeed understand what your brother meant to you. I realize he doesn't actually reside here…"

"Yes, I know. He's in a pauper's grave."

"I'm so sorry about that. I wish…"

"It's all right. You've given me quite a special gift. Now I have someplace where I can come and remember my brother and the love we shared." She twisted around until she faced him. Laying her head on his chest, she hugged him against her as tightly as she could manage. "Thank you."

His breath whispered across her hair, pushing a few strands around her eyes. Sasha burrowed in his arms. Safe. Protected. Loved.

"You're welcome. I love you so much."

She raised her head. "I love you, too. I'm so sorry for treating you so poorly. You didn't deserve it. I—"

He placed his finger on her lips. "Let us speak of it no more. We are together, as we should be. Now the two of us can move forward."

Sasha bit her lip, trying to hold back a grin. "Oh, I'm not sure it will be at all possible."

He pulled away. "But—"

She shrugged, trying to keep a serious expression on her face. "You see, Garrett, quite soon there will be not two of us, but three."

He shook his head. "I don't—"

Sasha glanced down pointedly toward her middle. "Remember when Dr. Freemont paid me a visit?"

Garrett's widened his eyes. "You mean you're…?"

She nodded. "Yes. You are going to be the best father there ever was or ever could be."

Garrett's whoop startled Ashe, who neighed.

Sasha laughed. "I'm glad the news pleases you." She drew him close. "It's the least I can do for you rescuing me."

He placed a finger beneath her chin, lifting her face toward his. As he lowered his lips to hers, he whispered, "It is you who has rescued me, Sasha, for you have rescued my very heart."

About the Author

Ruth J. Hartman
spends her days cleaning teeth, and her nights spinning sweet romantic tales that make you giggle, laugh, and all-out guffaw. She, her husband, and their three cats, love to spend time curled up in their recliners watching old Cary Grant movies. Well, the cats, Maxwell, Roxy and Remmie, sit in the people's recliners. Not that the cats couldn't get their own furniture. They just choose to shed on someone else's. You know how selfish those little furry creatures can be.

Ruth, a left-handed, tooth-scraping, Jeep driving, farmhouse-dwelling romance writer uses her goofy sense of humor as she writes tales of lovable, klutzy women and the men who adore them. Ruth's husband and best friend, Garry, reads her manuscripts, rolls his eyes at her weird story ideas, and loves her in spite of her penchant for insisting all of her books have at least one cat in them. Or twelve. But hey, who's counting?

Also from Astraea Press:

Chapter One

Lady Clara Huckabee trembled. She felt it in her traitorous knees, which threatened to deposit her in an undignified heap on the Grecian Axminster carpet, and in her throat, tightened almost unbearably beneath her morning gown's simple velvet neckline. Disappointing her guardian was bad enough, but since he started this fiasco, surely he'd endeavor to bear it. Shocking her aunt, though — for shocking her response would be — was far worse, because it must necessarily cause a measure of pain and Aunt Helen's sweet soul outweighed her silly, old-fashioned notions. Clara steeled herself. It was their actions, their insistence, which forced her to this miserable necessity. If they refused to consider her wishes in the selection of a husband,
her
husband, then they must accept some of the blame for the contretemps that ensued.

Hopefully the housekeeper wasn't listening behind the closed drawing room door.

A deep breath, and Clara softened her clenched hands into gentler folds. Only then did she trust herself to meet the Viscount Maynard's black eyes, unblinking and glittering. No matter how many times she ordered herself to be meek and affable, he still looked like a possessive lizard.

"It distresses me to cause grief in anyone, particularly a gentleman as eminent as my Lord Maynard, and I find no pleasure in disappointing my esteemed aunt and uncle." She paused. Those reptilian eyes widened and bulged; perhaps she was the first person to dare cross the arrogant booby. Clara hurried on before she could be interrupted. "However, the selection of a lifetime partner is too delicate an operation to be entrusted to any third party, no matter how revered. Kingdoms will neither rise nor fall on my lineage and therefore I believe my own desires and tastes should be consulted. I am sorry, but I cannot accept my lord's offer of marriage."

Viscount Maynard's gaze drifted from her face, drifted lower. "The child has an opinion of her own." When he'd asked for her hand, his voice had been courteous and correct; now he drawled his words, taking twice as long to state a simple sentence. His lips curled as if he smelled something unspeakable. "How precocious."

Her skin crawled. His gaze boasted weight and mass, as if his hand explored her without permission. So much for meek and affable; the viscount was surely more interested in her inheritance, in Papa's money, than in her or her hand. "My lord, your anxiety to change my opinion must be unbounded." She dropped her most formal curtsey and escaped from the drawing room. Let him eat cake; just not hers.

After the drawing room's sun-drenched warmth, the cool Grecian elegance of the entryway made her face feel hot. If the housekeeper had bent her ear to the door, she'd run in time. With luck, Clara would escape, too, without additional arguments. But on the curved stairway's far side, the library door stood ajar. That would be Uncle David's temporary retreat and he'd be listening for the first sign of movement. Yes, there was his shadow, approaching the doorway. No time to spare.

Clara composed her expression as she ran up the white marble stairs, her slippers soundless, her pale muslin skirt gathered in one hand, the other trailing up the ebony banister. A few moments alone, hidden in the old schoolroom where Papa had taught her mathematics and the stars, and she'd compose herself. The little telescope was still there, beneath the heavy canvas covering they'd sewn for it, pointing as he'd left it, to the merchant shipping and men-of-war anchored in the Sound. If she held the canvas close to her face and breathed deeply, sometimes it seemed she could still smell his musky scent on the neat stitching, so much more even than her own. The memory cooled her temper, but did nothing for the hole he had left behind in her heart. She'd always miss him, always, and no man — certainly not that titled twaddle — could ever remove him from the foremost place in her heart.

Aunt Helen waited at the top of the stairs, almost dancing in place. The artless little brunette wisps fallen from her upturned hair framed her delighted smile, and she held out her hands as Clara paused, three steps below. Surely Aunt Helen, with her superb taste, hadn't presumed she'd accept that man?

"Our viscountess-to-be! My beautiful niece, I wish you joy."

Inexplicable. But horribly true. "In regard to my fortunate escape, I'm sure." The tart words tumbled forth without thought. But there was no recalling them and while it had been dreadful imagining Aunt Helen's shock, seeing it only added a cold edge of satisfaction to Clara's anger.

"You didn't — you didn't refuse him? Clara, how could you?"

"With relief and a smile, I assure you. Dear aunt, how could you imagine I'd agree to marry anyone so cold and arrogant?"

"But he is a viscount. The ways of the nobility are not like ours. Great wealth and vast landholdings, dating from generations long gone, give a titled man a sense of entitlement that you and I cannot understand. He would make an excellent husband for you."