Page 87 of Falling Into Bed with a Duke
Sometimes, when the wind was quiet, Ashe would catch a glimpse of the man the marquess had been before he lost his wife in childbirth, before he stopped all the clocks at the precise moment of her death. To love a woman such as that—Ashe didn’t know if it would be a blessing or a curse.
The coach drew to a stop in front of the manor house that no longer seemed as large and foreboding as it had to his eight-year-old self. He knew the rooms, the hallways, the shadowed corners as well as he knew his own hand. No one emerged to greet him, but then he wasn’t a guest. He was family of sorts. Comfortable here, he bounded up the steps and through the front door. Silence greeted him. The clocks still didn’t tick, didn’t move forward, didn’t mark time.
Candles flickered to light the way. He strode down the familiar hall, glancing in through doorways as he went, not surprised that he didn’t find an occupied room until he reached the library. A single flame on a waxed taper set on the ebony desk revealed the bent head of Viscount Locksley as hemade notations in a ledger. He glanced up, smiled.
“Ashe, what the devil? You should have let me know you were coming.”
He shoved himself away from the desk and met Ashe halfway, shaking his hand, clapping him on the shoulder. “What brings you here?”
That discussion was for later. “How’s your father?”
“Mad as ever.” Turning away, Locke crossed over to the sideboard and splashed scotch into two glasses. He handed one to Ashe. “He’s sleeping now. He’ll enjoy seeing you tomorrow.” He sat in a chair before a lazy fire, stretched out his legs. “Bored with London already? Planning our next adventure?”
Ashe took the chair opposite him. “Planning mine at least. I’m thinking perhaps it’s time I married.”
“Good God. What’s brought this on?”
He wasn’t ready to confess. “We’re getting up in years.”
“We’re not even thirty.”
“I’m closer than you are.” By two years.
“But not there yet.” With a blunt-tipped finger, he tapped his tumbler, considering, his green eyes penetrating. Locke had always been the watcher of the group, taking his time, considering all angles, knocking down façades. Perhaps because he’d been cursed with having to witness his father’s gradual decline into madness.
Ashe supposed that was an advantage to not having his parents about. He didn’t have to witness their aging and infirmity. Although their sudden departure had very nearly destroyed him. While he didn’t want to trade places with Locke, he had no luck squelching that little spark of envy because Locke could at least still talk with his father.
“Who’s the woman?” Locke asked solemnly.
“Miss Minerva Dodger.”
Locke gave a low whistle. “You’ll live like a prince off the money she brings into the marriage.”
“She’s more than coin.”
A corner of Locke’s mouth hitched up. “Is she? I don’t recall you having much interest in her before. Has she suddenly transformed into a fetching skirt?”
“Why is everyone so consumed with looks? And why can they not see the beauty in her?”
Locke’s smile grew, until it almost resembled one of childish wonder. “You’re in love with her.”
“What? No. She intrigues me is all. She’s bold as brass and can stand toe to toe with any man. Shestates her mind. She doesn’t back down. It’s refreshing.”
“Refreshing for now, she might be, but she’ll grow stale over the years with her nag, nag, nagging. Bold women determined to speak their mind have a tendency to irritate after a while.”
“Is that based on your extensive experience with women? When have you ever stayed with one for more than a night?” Ashe downed the remainder of his scotch, then rose to refill his glass. “More?”
“No, I have to finish going over the books tonight.”
Ashe looked over his shoulder. “Everything all right?”
“With the estate? Absolutely. No troubles there.”
Ashe reclaimed his seat. “How do you keep your finances in such good order?”
“It’s not as though my father is a spendthrift. A butler, a cook, a housemaid, a footman to manage this monstrosity.”
“Not all of it is managed.”
