Page 8 of The Rum and The Fox

Ash felt his cheeks heat at that, and his own insecurities all surfaced at once as they always did when his incomparable grand-sire, the fifth duke, was mentioned. By all accounts, he'd been a mountain of a man, courageous, fierce, witty and clever. His own father had been made in a similar mould, but even with all the distinctions he'd gained in his short life, even he’d never outshone the gallant fifth duke. That Ash resembled neither of them, not a whit, was always a cause for misery.

Ash had taken after the female line, and whilst this had given him no cause for complaint as he had a good and handsome physic and carriage, he was too slender to ever be considered mountainous. He was also of average height, rather than towering well over six feet, and was in no way inclined towards such masculine sports as hunting and pugilism, all of which filled him with horror. His love of fine things, his particular interest in fashion and style, had likewise given his grandmother a disgust of him. In short, he was a disappointment to his family, and whilst he knew that he was loved in spite of these failings, it was a nonetheless a lowering discovery.

"I'll speak to mother," he said at length, once he had calmed himself sufficiently for speech. "Get her to see reason."

Lady Margaret snorted. "That, you'll never do," she said, scornful of the very idea. She shook her head, smoothing out the green silk of her gown with one, fastidious hand, a large emerald glinting on her finger as she did so. "She believes herself to be in love, if you can credit it. You need to go and see the viscount, tell the man that you'll never allow the marriage and so he's wasting his time. Stand up to him."

Ash swallowed as nausea swirled in his stomach at the idea. "Grandmama, it's said that the viscount has killed a man, he's ... he's dangerous ... I ... I ..."

His grandmother got to her feet, staring down at him with a contemptuous sneer. "Well, then, I suppose you'd best just go to bed. After all, it's only the family honour and fortune at stake," she said, stalking past him with a swish of angry skirts. "Not as if it's a matter of any import," she added before leaving the room with a majestic sweep and closing the door with rather more force than was necessary.

Ash sat back in his seat and gave a sigh of dejection. Being torn off a strip by his grandmother was hardly something he was unused to, but this time she did have a point. Something needed to be done. If only he could think of what could be done, preferably without getting him killed.

***

Keziah sat at her dressing table, brushing her hair with long, smooth strokes. The monotony of the act often served to sooth her nerves after a trying day, but this evening it wasn't working.

Her thoughts returned once again to the exquisite vision of the Duke of Chartley when he had presented himself to her earlier that evening. She had deliberately avoided asking any questions about the family to which her father was trying to tie them too. She didn't want to know if they were good, decent people, kind-hearted, stupid, or frivolous. She wanted to know nothing about them that would make them anything more than names. That way, perhaps, she could pretend that her father wasn't a monster who would likely ruin the Ashwickes, or at the very least be the cause of embarrassment and dishonour by association.

But then the wretched man had to turn up at her front door.

Her heart had sunk to her toes and not recovered since seeing him in the flesh. Dressed in what could only be called the height of style, he was certainly a pink of the ton. None but the scrupulous hand of Weston could have outfitted the fellow in the long-tailed coat of dark green superfine, or the perfectly dreadful green and gold waistcoat, which had been hard not to stare at, but had admittedly fitted him like a glove. He was young and handsome in a rather wholesome, sweet-natured manner, and clearly didn't have a thought in his head.

Her father would eat him up and spit out the pieces.

She was gripped by a surge of irritation as she wondered why she even cared. Why should she, after all? The Duke of Chartley was young and wealthy and powerful, and what did he do with his time? He bought ridiculous waistcoats and no doubt fretted himself to death if his boots got dusty.

Well, why should she care for his fate?

But there had been such an open and trusting look in his eyes that for a moment, she had almost confided in him. For one strange and debilitating - and thankfully fleeting - moment, she had been struck with the desire to tell him to pack his mother up and take her on a journey to parts unknown. Anywhere, as long as her father didn't know where it was.

But she hadn't.

Which was a good thing, she reminded herself, dragging the brush through her hair with rather more vigour now. If her father married Lady Ashwicke, Keziah would get her come out. She'd be able to marry and get far, far away from a man who had begun to frighten her more and more.

But then she would be condemning the Chartley family to endure his tempers and his violence.

Keziah put the brush down at last and stared at her reflection in the mirror before her. She was her father's daughter, she reminded herself. She was tainted, his devilish blood ran in her veins, and she had his insufferable temper, besides, so she'd best put her scruples aside and make the best of it. For it would be her that suffered if this venture failed. There would be nothing left for them to live on, nowhere for them to go. But looking back at her in the mirror were the eyes of a mother she'd never known, a woman she had long suspected had met an untimely end when her wicked husband had tired of her.

Keziah swallowed and put her head in her hands.

Whatever was she to do?