Ashton: Lord of Truth by Grace Burrowes

Author:Grace Burrowes
Language: eng
Format: mobi
Publisher: Grace Burrowes Publishing
Published: 2016-09-19T21:00:00+00:00

Chapter Ten

“That is a damned kilt, Fenwick,” Hazelton snapped. “Don’t tell me you’ve been prancing around Mayfair doing your impersonation of William Wallace.”

Ashton smoothed a bare hand over the wool draped across his knee. The Hazelton conservatory was cool and shady, also private, and this conversation required discretion.

“You bloody English put Wallace to death as a traitor. His is the last example I’d follow. I’m the Earl of Kilkenney, and if I choose to dress in a manner appropriate to my station, you will contain your envy. When I paid a call on the Duke of Murdoch, I turned quite a few heads, most of them female.”

Hazelton left off trimming the stems of a bunch of daffodils. “Murdoch is the new Scottish duke?”

“Aye, and a fine man. Thought I’d show a fellow Scot some moral support. He was wearing a kilt as well, and I have it on the best authority that a duke’s fashion sense is above reproach.”

Murdoch’s whisky had been so far above reproach, Ashton had nearly begged for a second wee dram. His Grace had offered to send a bottle around to the Albany—the duke’s younger brother owned the family distillery—and Ashton had reciprocated with an invitation to attend an impromptu card party.

All very friendly, and also—mirabile dictu!—likely to be an enjoyable evening. Matilda would doubtless approve of such gentlemanly hospitality.

“Murdoch has a pair of unmarried sisters,” Hazelton said, dumping the flowers in a clear glass vase. “I’m told they’re comely.”

“Edana and Rhona MacHugh. My sister-in-law refers to them as independent spirits, which translates south of Hadrian’s Wall as right hellions. That vase is too small. You should trim up the stems to create a pleasing arrangement.”

“You do it,” Hazelton said, gesturing with his shears. “You’re the expert on turning women’s heads—now. Last week, you were determined to hide in the hedgerows for the duration of the Season. What’s changed?”

Everything had changed. “I put on my kilt. Daffodils don’t last well once cut. Who are these for?” They were for Hazelton’s countess, of course, else some footman would be messing about with damp stems and sharp shears.

“Yellow daffodils stand for chivalry. You’re cutting them too short.”

Ashton picked up another stem and trimmed two inches from it. “You gave me the shears, now be a good earl and let me work my magic. Don’t suppose you’d care to join Murdoch and me for a few hands of cards Monday night?”

“I’m telling you, you’re ruining those flowers.”

“Fetch me a stem or two of fern, about eight inches long, please. Make it three stems. Ferns symbolize fascination.”

Hazelton disappeared between an orange tree and a lemon tree. “You’re hosting a card party?”

“At the Albany. My first social gathering. Murdoch’s brother will likely attend, but we could add another foursome if you’d like to increase the guest list.”

Hazelton emerged from the greenery, fern fronds in his hand, one of them with dirt clinging to its roots.

“Hazelton, one cuts the ferns, one doesn’t yank them out like weeds. You seldom bring your lady flowers, I take it?”

He shook the hapless ferns, sending dirt everywhere.

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