*
Hugh drove histown carriage east toward the rising sun. Departing London at cock’s crow, he planned to spend as little time as possible in Kent. He wasn’t sure his mother could handle Sarah, even supposing Sarah took her into her confidence. She might confide in Miss Kershaw, however. Could he trust Cardew? The man had narrowed his eyes when he looked at Luke, as if sizing him up as a rival. There was no misinterpreting his possessive manner toward Sarah. If he’d done what had been expected of him several years ago, he might have that right. But as it was, he must stand in line with other suitors who showed an interest in his sister. How he would handle that was something Hugh couldn’t guess at. But Cardew lacked maturity. He was spoiled and remained under his mother’s thumb. Nor was Hugh sure of Sarah. She was obviously still fond of the man. Hugh had hoped her attention might be drawn to Luke Beaufort, but so far, it hadn’t blossomed into a romance.
Hugh drove into the stable courtyard at Woodcroft in the afternoon. Entering the house, he greeted his butler and arranged to see his secretary, estate manager, and bailiff the following day, then went up to change.
He rode his horse, Chance, along the road to his neighbors’ estate. When he arrived, the day was drawing to a close, and as he’d skipped luncheon, he hoped to be invited to dinner. He had known the Ashton family since he’d been a boy. His father had been a staunch friend of Sir Phillip’s.
Hugh was shown into the drawing room. “Lord Dorchester, good to see you.” Sir Phillip, a very tall gentleman whose head almost brushed the door lintel, came to shake his hand. His stance was upright stance his jaw strong. “How is your mother?”
Lady Ashton remained seated.
“Good to see you, Sir Phillip, Lady Ashton. Mother is in need of rest. I hope to persuade her to come home soon, but as Sarah is enjoying the Season, it proves difficult.” Hugh shook his hand, thinking new lines of strain marked Isabel’s father’s face. Lady Ashton, a small, bird-like woman, was also in some distress, her eyes swollen and red from crying. Hugh crossed the carpet to greet her where she sat rigidly in an armchair. She offered her hand, a damp handkerchief clutched in the other. Her eyes were red, and she actually glowered at him. Hugh was taken aback. What was this?
“I came hoping to see Miss Ashton,” he said, feeling the need to explain.
“We have news,” Sir Phillip said, standing with legs apart in front of the fireplace. “Unpleasant as it is, you must be informed of it.”
“What is it?” Hugh asked, frowning slightly. Not an illness?
Her mother dabbed at her eyes with the lace-edged square. “Isabel is unwell.”
“She is not unwell,” Sir Phillip said. “Confound it, Marion. Isabel is with child.”
There was a stunned silence while Hugh struggled to find the appropriate response.
“The father is Benson, our vicar,” her father said plainly outraged. “The bloodyvicar!”
“Hush, Gerald,” Lady Ashton said in a faint tone. “The servants will hear. If only you hadn’t gone off to war, Lord Dorchester.” She continued to glare accusingly at him. “And left Isabel for years! You barely know each other.”
Hugh thought it remarkable that she expected him to have spent a good deal of his time with a girl not yet out, but she was so upset, he didn’t attempt to counter her argument. Lady Ashton put a hand to her pale cheek. “You might be married now.” She gazed at him hopefully. “Perhaps you might still…”
“No, Marian,” her husband thundered. “Allow him to deal with this as he sees fit.”
“What does Miss Ashton want to do?” Hugh asked.
Sir Phillip shrugged. “Who knows? She has some convoluted notion that makes no sense at all.”
“Miss Ashton is here? May I see her?”
“But of course, Lord Dorchester.” Lady Ashton straightened her back, sniffed and dried her eyes. “You’ll find Isabel in the conservatory.”
Hugh strode down the hall, wondering what Miss Ashton might say to him. Would she want him to marry her? Whatever her mother said, and despite her being in the schoolroom while he’d been at university, they had been friends. He’d taught her to fish for trout in the river. Miss Ashton had once unsuccessfully tried to teach him to crochet with a great deal of laughter. If she needed him, he would marry her and claim the child as his. But the thought made him bitter.
He found her examining a pot of pink cyclamens, a trowel in her hand. When she saw him, she gave a start and her face paled. “You’ve heard?”
“Yes.” He came to kiss her cool cheek.
She placed a hand lightly on his shoulder, holding herself stiffly.
“Do you wish to marry me, Miss Ashton… Isabel?”
She shook her head. “What sort of marriage would we have? Even if you are the generous man I think you are, I would make a terrible wife and the babe will not be yours. I won’t do that to you. No doubt Mama hopes we might still marry. But it will not happen.”
“What about Mr. Benson?” He frowned. “Why isn’t he here to support you?”
“Michael had to attend the village fete,” she said. “He has discussed our future with my parents.”
Hugh would have liked to hear that conversation. “So that makes this all right?”
